thereceptioniststyles

[thereceptioniststyles]

Better Than Fiction

where y/n picks Harry up from the airport and reveals what she does when she’s alone.

word count: 5.1 k

content warning: cursing. SMUT. Probably the smuttiest thing I’ve ever done.

You tap the steering wheel with your thumb, eyes flicking between the road and the dashboard clock. The sky is a soft blue-gray, the kind that only happens right before sunset, and the air feels thick with the kind of quiet that only comes when something good is about to happen.

You haven’t seen him in two months. Eight weeks. Sixty-something days—not that you’ve been counting, except you absolutely have. Every time you dropped your phone on your face watching his interviews in bed. Every time he sent a blurry backstage photo with a caption like “thinking of you.” Every time you climbed into your empty sheets and curled your body around the pillow he left behind like that would make any kind of difference.

Your stomach flutters as you take the exit for the airport, the big green signs snapping you back to reality. His flight landed about fifteen minutes ago. You know it’ll take time to get through customs and baggage claim, but still. You’re suddenly nervous. You check your reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing your hand over your hair even though the curls won’t settle, then press your lips together to check for smudges. Natural. Low effort. Like you’re not buzzing in your seat just thinking about him.

You keep wondering what version of him you’ll get today. The soft one with sleepy eyes and heavy limbs who tucks his head into your neck and hums when he breathes you in. The quiet one who just wants to be close. Or maybe the cheeky one who teases you in the car the whole way home and can’t keep his hands to himself once the door clicks shut.

Either way, he’s here. Finally.

You pull into the short-term parking garage and kill the engine, heart thudding now. This is it. He’s just a few hundred feet away. Probably dragging his duffel bag behind him, scrolling his phone or yawning through his last wave of exhaustion. You sling your purse over your shoulder and head toward the terminal.

Your boots echo across the pavement. The air inside is warmer than you expected, and loud. Rolling suitcases, babies crying, someone’s name being paged overhead. You scan the arrivals board as if you don’t already know—Flight 202. London to New York. Landed.

He steps through the sliding doors like he’s walking into a scene that’s been waiting for him.

Loose brown trousers, soft white tee, sunglasses hanging from the collar. His hair’s shorter than when you last saw him, brushed back with that casually undone look that somehow makes it worse—makes your heart thud harder in your chest. There’s a little color to his skin, a post-tour flush like he’s been somewhere warm, somewhere you weren’t. His duffel hangs from one shoulder, hand gripping the strap, and he scans the crowd like he’s looking for something he lost.

Until his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile at first. Not really. His whole body just seems to pause, his gaze locked on yours like he forgot how loud the world is. You feel it like a pull—an ache that settles low in your belly, sharp and immediate. Because it’s not just recognition in his eyes. It’s hunger.

You don’t move. Neither does he. The space between you hums.

Then someone breaks it.

“Harry?” A man, maybe in his twenties, stepping hesitantly forward with a phone in hand. “Sorry, I know you just got in, but—could I get a quick photo?”

Harry blinks. Just once. Then turns to him with a practiced, polite smile.

“Yeah, of course.”

He poses without effort, one hand still gripping his bag. The smile doesn’t touch his eyes.

You watch him thank the guy, watch the fan beam as he walks away. And then Harry’s looking at you again, already moving toward you. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to stay calm. Like he knows he won’t be, not for long.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just lets the strap of his duffel fall to the floor with a quiet thud and steps into you, arms winding tight around your waist like it’s instinct. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pressing you close, his body all solid warmth and tension, chest rising fast against yours.

Then he leans in.

Not for a kiss—not yet. He presses his face into the side of your neck and just breathes. Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s been holding off for this exact moment, saving it, needing it more than he let on.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his exhale trembles just slightly, the way his fingers grip a little harder at the small of your back. Like maybe this hit him harder than he was ready for.

“God, I missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words thick and barely there.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, curling in the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. He’s here. He’s really here.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt where it meets your jeans. His eyes roam your face like he’s memorizing it again, slower this time, softer. His voice is a whisper, the accent heavy and real in a way you’ve only heard on the phone lately.

“Y’look so fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your heart trips. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

He tilts his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, and smiles like he’s already thinking ten steps ahead.

“Been thinkin’ about you non-stop. Every night. Every bloody city. Drove me mad.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and pull back just enough to see him clearly.

“I missed you too,” you say, grinning now, the weight in your chest finally loosening. “Even the dramatic part of you.”

He smiles like he’s proud of that, dimples deep and eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s thinking about kissing you again. But instead, he slips a hand into yours and starts walking, his duffel back over his shoulder, your fingers laced like they’ve never been apart.

Outside, the sky’s shifting to gold. The kind of light that softens everything, that makes moments feel like memories while they’re still happening.

As you make your way to the garage, you glance over at him. “D’you wanna stop for food before we head home?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

���Nah,” he says, voice low, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Only thing I wanna eat is you.”

You choke on a laugh, your whole face heating. “Harry.”

“What?” he says, eyes wide like he’s innocent, but his hand tightens around yours. “I’m starvin’, love.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile as your stomach flips. Two months apart, and of course this is how he comes back. Cocky. Gorgeous. Starving.

And apparently, not for takeout.

The elevator ride to the garage is quiet, but only because his hand won’t stop wandering—thumb tracing slow circles into your palm, pinky brushing your wrist like he’s trying to remember every inch of you without making a scene.

Once you reach the car, he tosses his bag in the back like it weighs nothing and slides into the passenger seat, reclined and smug. His legs spread a little wider than necessary. You try not to look, but he catches you anyway.

“Eyes on the road, sweetheart,” he murmurs as you pull out of the garage.

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one sitting like you’re in a Calvin Klein ad.”

He grins, slow and wicked. “Don’t act like you weren’t lookin’. Missed that face of yours when you get all flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are,” he says, tipping his head against the headrest. “Little pink right there.” He lifts his finger and brushes it under his own cheekbone to show you. “Cute.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and flick on your turn signal. “Do you want something quick? Like drive-thru? Or—”

“I meant what I said,” he interrupts, voice a little lower now. “Didn’t spend nine hours on a plane just to ruin my appetite with fries.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He hums like it’s a compliment. “Reckon I’ve had that dream at least five times. You. Couch. No clothes. Me starvin’.”

You grip the steering wheel tighter and do your best to keep your eyes on the road. It’s not going well.

“Harry,” you warn.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll wait till we get home.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Bold of you to assume you’re the one doing the eating.”

He turns his head slowly, that smug little smirk faltering as his eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

You shrug, eyes back on the road. “You’ve had dreams? Babe, I’ve had entire scenarios planned. You don’t even know.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and when you look over, he’s staring at you like you just flipped the game on its head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath, shifting in his seat. “I’ve been gone too long.”

You bite back your grin, suddenly enjoying how the air in the car feels thick now, humming with that delicious tension. Payback feels good.

He leans closer, voice like gravel against the warm press of sunset through the window. “Tell me one of ‘em. Just one.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“You can earn it.”

His head falls back with a groan, one hand dragging down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re desperate.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and turned on. “That I am.”

The car ride softens after that.

He reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh, fingers splayed warm against your jeans. Not moving, not teasing—just there. Grounding. You drive one-handed the rest of the way, stealing glances at him whenever the road lets you.

He looks more like himself now. Less performer, more person. His eyes are a little heavy, his curls ruffled from the headrest, his body sunk deeper into the seat like it’s finally catching up with him—how long he’s been gone, how much he missed this. Missed you.

You slow as you turn down your street. Familiar trees, familiar windows. The kind of quiet that tells you you’re nearly home.

He shifts beside you, eyes opening again as he recognizes the corner. “Flat’s still standing, yeah?”

You nod, lips tugging into a smile. “I only set it on fire twice.”

He grins, squeezing your leg gently. “Knew I could trust you.”

The car rolls to a stop outside your building. The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy in a different way this time.

Then, softer—

“You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, like he’s only half-joking. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

Your heart stutters, but your voice stays steady.

“Been ready since the day you left.”

The lobby is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the echo of your footsteps on the tile. You feel him behind you—close, so close—his presence brushing up your spine like static. Neither of you says much. There’s nothing left to say, not right now. It’s all waiting just under the surface.

You press the elevator button. The light flickers on, then nothing. You glance at him.

His eyes are dark.

The elevator arrives with a slow chime, and you both step inside. The doors slide shut and it’s just the two of you now, standing side by side in the warm silence.

You can feel the way his fingers flex at his sides. Can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing. There’s a twitch in your own hands—an urge to touch, to reach, to give in already—but you keep still. Barely.

The numbers tick up. Seven. Eight. Nine. It’s excruciating.

He leans in, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “This thing’s takin’ the piss.”

You bite your lip. “Almost there.”

When the doors finally open, you step out first. You don’t wait. Not this time.

You lead the way down the hall, heart pounding harder with every step. You reach the door, slide your key in with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The lock clicks.

Before you can even reach for the light switch, you hear the thud of his bag hitting the floor.

Then he’s on you.

His hands are on your hips, your back, your waist, pulling you into him as the door shuts hard behind you. His mouth finds your neck, warm and hungry, and your gasp fills the dark hallway. You don’t need the lights. You just need him—right here, right now.

He lifts your shirt slightly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw.

“Couldn’t wait another bloody second,” he mumbles against your skin.

And then he kisses you like he means to make up for every second he’s been gone.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, the wood cool through your shirt, but everything else is heat. His hands are everywhere—one at your waist, the other sliding up your side beneath the hem of your top, rough fingertips skimming bare skin like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, and all the air leaves your lungs at once.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s worse than that.

It’s slow. Intentional. Full of that maddening kind of restraint that only comes from someone who’s been imagining this in vivid detail for weeks. His lips move over yours like he’s tasting a memory—soft, then deep, then soft again. He kisses you like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

You melt into him without meaning to, hands sliding up under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the curve of his waist, the slope of his back. He shivers under your touch.

When you pull away just enough to breathe, his mouth doesn’t stop. He trails kisses across your cheek, down the curve of your jaw, to that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He knows it does. He lingers there, mouth warm and open, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he breathes, voice thick and rough, his accent slurring the edges of every word. “Missed you.”

You don’t even try to answer. You just kiss him again, harder this time, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He presses closer, slotting a leg between yours, the weight of him pressing into every line of your body. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds back, jaw tight like he’s clinging to control by a thread.

And God, it makes you want him more.

His thumb strokes the underside of your breast through your bra, slow and teasing, while his other hand cradles the back of your head like he can’t bear to be any further from your mouth.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Wetter. His tongue slides against yours and it’s all heat now, all need. You arch into him, breath catching in your throat.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers against your lips. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes locked on his, and he presses one last kiss to your mouth—soft, like a promise—before guiding you away from the door.

His hand stays at the small of your back as he walks you through the flat, steering you gently down the hallway. The air feels warmer here, more still, like even the rooms missed him. When you reach the bedroom, he nudges the door open with his foot and leads you in like it’s something sacred.

He stops at the edge of the bed and looks at you, eyes dark and steady.

“Sit down for me, love.”

You do, heart hammering as you settle on the edge of the mattress, legs just barely parted, your eyes tilted up to him. He steps between your knees, fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Then both hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up.”

You raise them without hesitation, and he peels your shirt off slow, knuckles grazing your skin as he lifts the fabric over your head. It drops to the floor behind him, forgotten.

He leans in again, mouth catching yours before you can speak. His kiss is deeper now, slower, hands resting just beneath your ribs as he presses into you. Every inch of him is warm. Grounded. Certain.

Between kisses, his fingers move to the button of your jeans.

You feel the faint pop of denim giving way, the soft drag of his knuckles as he works them open. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t break the kiss. Just keeps kissing you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s craved since he left.

You lift your hips for him and his hands slide around to your thighs, easing your jeans down, dragging the fabric slow over your skin. The kiss never falters. His lips move with yours like he’s drinking you in, like nothing—not time or distance or fabric—should’ve ever been between you to begin with.

When he finally pulls back, your jeans are on the floor, your chest is rising fast, and his mouth is pink from how long he’s kept it on yours.

His eyes rake over you, voice low and ragged.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at you.”

You laugh softly, a nervous little sound that slips out without warning. He catches it right away, eyes narrowing like he’s just found a crack in the wall.

“What’s that for?” he asks, voice low but amused. His hands rest on your bare thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin. “Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?”

You shrug, lips twitching like you’re trying to play it off, but he doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

He leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your ear. “Tell me somethin’,” he murmurs, breath warm on your skin. “What do you do when I’m not here? When you’re feelin’ like this. D’you take care of yourself?”

You go still. Not because you don’t know the answer. But because you do.

His lips curl against your cheek. “You get shy on me now?”

“I don’t—” you start, then falter. Your voice is soft when you finally speak. “I don’t really do that.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, one brow raised. “Liar.”

You flush.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been gone two months. Don’t tell me you haven’t done a single thing. That’s cruel.”

You hesitate.

Then, barely audible—

“I read.”

His brow furrows, amused. “You read?”

You nod, eyes flicking down to his collarbone. “Stuff online.”

There’s a pause.

And then, his voice drops, accent thick with curiosity and something darker.

“Fan fiction?”

You nod again, smaller this time.

He stares at you like he’s just been handed a gift he wasn’t expecting.

“No fuckin’ way,” he murmurs, smiling now, a little breathless. “You read fan fiction about me?”

Your face burns.

He leans in closer, one hand cradling your jaw.

“Gonna need you to walk me through that, baby.”

Your eyes dart away from his, and your fingers fidget with the hem of your underwear, suddenly very aware of how little you’re wearing—and how close he is.

He watches you carefully, waiting. Patient, but barely.

“It’s just…” you start, then trail off, chewing your bottom lip. “Stuff people write. About you. About… you and someone like me.”

His brow arches. “Someone like you?”

You nod, embarrassed. “Normal. Not famous. Not anyone special. Just… someone.”

You feel his hand tighten slightly on your thigh, and when you glance up, there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not laughing at you. He’s fascinated.

“And what happens in these stories?” he asks, voice soft, coaxing. “You get shy? Or do they make you do filthy little things?”

You press your lips together, face flaming, but he can see it. The answer written all over you.

He chuckles, low and warm in his chest, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve been sittin’ in our bed at night, readin’ about me fuckin’ you senseless?”

Your breath hitches.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes sweeping your face like he wants to see every flicker of reaction. His voice is husky now, rough with interest.

“That’s so dirty, love.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.

“And you just sit there with your little phone,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Readin’ things I haven’t even done to you yet.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking down before you can stop yourself—and there it is. The outline of him, straining against his trousers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he wants you.

Your breath catches. The sight makes your thighs press together involuntarily, a quiet ache growing where his hands haven’t touched yet.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His smirk deepens, dark and lazy. “Gettin’ worked up just from that, are you?” he teases, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

You exhale shakily, your voice soft. “I want you to.”

He stills for a beat—just one. Then his expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t vanish, but something darker, more focused, settles into his eyes.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You lettin’ me take over now, baby?”

You nod, already breathless. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in and kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like permission unlocked something in him. His hands are on your hips, your waist, your ribs, sliding up until they’re cupping your breasts through your bra. He palms you there, slow and firm, like he’s been missing the weight of you in his hands.

“You’ve got no idea what that does to me,” he mutters into your mouth. “You, sittin’ all pretty, readin’ about me fuckin’ you just like this…”

His fingers reach around to undo the clasp of your bra, taking his time, letting the tension pull tight as elastic. When it finally falls away, he breathes you in like he’s starving again.

Then, without a word, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you, lips brushing your stomach, hands gripping your thighs.

“Gonna take my fuckin’ time with you,” he says, voice a promise against your skin.

He drags his hands up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where they meet your hips as he settles between them. You’re already trembling under his touch, legs slightly parted on instinct, eyes locked on him as he looks up at you from the floor like you’re something sacred.

“Lie back for me, love,” he says, voice rough and low.

You shift back onto the bed, elbows catching you for a second before you sink into the pillows, legs still dangling over the edge. His hands follow you the whole way—never losing contact—until he’s got your thighs open just the way he wants them.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and looks up again.

“This what you pictured when you were readin’?” he asks, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me down here, beggin’ for a taste?”

You nod, breath shallow. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He pulls your underwear down slow, eyes following every inch of skin he reveals like he’s memorizing it, storing it away. Once they’re off, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then higher—trailing heat until your whole body’s drawn tight with anticipation.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue flicks over you gently at first, teasing, testing. Then he flattens it, licking a slow stripe up your center that makes your hips jerk and a soft cry spill from your lips. His hands slide under your thighs, keeping you open, anchored, at his mercy.

He groans when he tastes you fully, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Missed how sweet you are.”

He settles in deeper, his mouth working you in slow, steady movements—tongue swirling, lips sucking just enough to make your toes curl. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let up. Just builds it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got nowhere else to be but here, worshiping you.

Your hand slides into his hair, gripping when his tongue flicks just right, hips lifting into him as the tension coils hard in your belly.

“You’re gonna come for me, yeah?” he murmurs against you, breath hot. “Right on my fuckin’ tongue. Let me have it.”

You’re close—so close it almost hurts. The pressure’s built tight in your belly, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, his name falling from your lips in broken pieces. He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets hungrier, tongue working you with that slow, steady rhythm that undoes you completely.

Your back arches off the bed. Fingers tangle in his hair.

“Harry—fuck—Harry, I’m gonna—”

He groans against you like that’s exactly what he wants, like the sound of your voice wrecked and desperate is the only thing keeping him alive. And then you’re falling apart. The orgasm hits hard, flooding through you in waves, and he holds you right there, mouth never leaving you, like he wants every last bit of it.

You whimper as you come down, your body twitching from the aftershocks, chest heaving. He finally lifts his head, lips slick, eyes dark and blown.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

You’re still catching your breath when you reach for him, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Take your clothes off,” you whisper. “I need you to fuck me.”

That gets his attention.

He laughs softly, rising to his feet. “That desperate, hm?”

“Yes,” you say, no shame in your voice. “I need you.”

He leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his mouth ghosting just over yours. You can feel him, hard against your thigh, still fully clothed, and it’s maddening.

“Could keep you like this a while,” he says, teasing. “All needy and wrecked and beggin’ for it. Could make you wait.”

You whimper, hips shifting beneath him. “Don’t be cruel.”

He grins, dipping down to kiss you slow, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, voice low and hot—

“Then tell me how you want it.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already moving.

“Don’t need you to tell me,” he murmurs, straightening up with that look in his eyes—confident, dark, completely in control. “I know exactly what you need.”

You watch from the bed, breath shallow, as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one fluid motion. His chest is golden from the sun, stomach tight, the familiar trail of hair disappearing into his waistband making your mouth go dry.

Your thighs press together without thinking.

Then he unbuttons his trousers. Slow. Deliberate. He holds your gaze the entire time, like he knows what he’s doing to you—like he wants you to see exactly what you’ve been missing. He pushes them down along with his briefs, and the second they fall, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath catches.

Precum glistens at the tip, already leaking, and he wraps a hand around the base with a low sigh of relief, stroking once.

“Been hard since the bloody airport,” he mutters. “Soon as I saw you. Didn’t even make it through baggage claim without thinkin’ about bendin’ you over the nearest flat surface.”

You moan, hips shifting against the sheets.

He steps between your legs again, stroking himself lazily now, eyes raking over your body like he’s trying to decide exactly where to start.

“You ready for me, love?” he asks, voice thick, teasing. “You want this cock inside you?”

You nod, desperate. “Yes. Please, Harry.”

He leans over you, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Gonna fuck you slow,” he says, kissing your jaw, your neck, the space just beneath your ear. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ inch of you.”

Then he pushes in.

He pushes just the tip inside, then stops.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. “Harry—”

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing his nose along your neck. “Not yet.”

He pulls out slowly, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, your clit, everything but what you need.

“Wanna know somethin’ first,” he says, voice thick with amusement, but his hips stay steady, cruelly patient. “You never told me what your favorite part was.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“In those stories,” he murmurs, sucking gently at your throat. “The ones you read at night. About me. What’s your favorite part?”

You shake your head, breath catching as he presses in again—just barely—then pulls back.

“C’mon, love,” he says, his voice laced with a dark kind of sweetness. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You whimper. “I like when you talk.”

He stills, grinning against your jaw. “Yeah? When I’m filthy with you?”

You nod quickly, lips parting, breath uneven. “And when you—” You falter, heat blooming across your chest. “When you go down on her and don’t stop. When you say it’s yours.”

That breaks him.

“Jesus,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He shifts his hips again, just enough for the head of his cock to push inside once more.

“Say it now,” he breathes. “Say you’re mine.”

Your fingers curl around his biceps, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours, Harry. I’m yours.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and hungry, and he sinks into you all at once—slow but deep—his cock stretching you open inch by inch until you’re full of him, breath caught in your throat. The moan you let out is pure instinct, helpless and raw, and it makes him groan right back, low in his chest like it physically knocks the air out of him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, jaw tight, buried all the way to the hilt. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel so fuckin’ good.”

Your fingers grip his shoulders, your legs hooking around his waist, trying to draw him in deeper even though he’s already as close as he can get. He stays there for a second, not moving, just letting you feel it—letting himself feel it.

Then he pulls back slow, almost to the tip, before thrusting in again, harder this time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open with a gasp.

“There she is,” he growls, one hand sliding up your body to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold you there, eyes on him. “That the part you like, yeah? When I fuck you like I ownyou?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes—Harry—”

“God, I missed this pussy,” he says, hips snapping into you again. “Dreamt about it. Woke up hard on the fuckin’ tour bus thinkin’ about you spread out like this.”

He’s moving now, really moving, fucking you slow and deep but with purpose, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your body meets him with every roll of his hips, greedy, desperate, like it’s been waiting for him just as long as your heart has.

You moan again and his lips find your ear.

“That what you wanted, baby?” he pants. “Wanted my cock stretchin’ you out just like this? Bet none of those fanfics made you feel like this.”

“N-no,” you choke out, nails digging into his back. “Nothing like this.”

“Yeah?” His pace quickens slightly, his voice going rougher. “Tell me whose it is.”

“Yours,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Yours, Harry.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—yours.”

He leans down and kisses you hard, messy, full of tongue and teeth and heat, his hips relentless now. He’s grunting with every thrust, sweat beading at his temples, his whole body working to bring you right to the edge again.

“I can feel you squeezin’ me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes—don’t stop—don’t—”

He slips a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, wet strokes while he keeps fucking into you deep and fast.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice cracked and wild. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

And that’s all it takes.

You shatter around him with a cry, your whole body pulsing, shaking, coming hard on his cock. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on your face like he wants to remember everything.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He pulls out at the last second, hand stroking himself twice before he spills all over your stomach with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl. Thick, hot, and messy. He leans over you, breathing hard, eyes dark and wrecked, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again, slower now, sweeter. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath when he leans back on his heels, eyes dragging over your body—sweat-slicked, legs still trembling, his release glistening on your stomach. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not just cocky. It’s hungry. Like he’s already thinking about what comes next.

“Can’t believe I spent weeks in hotel beds with my hand wrapped ‘round my cock,” he mutters, one hand sliding up your thigh again. “When this was waitin’ for me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then he’s dipping down again, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your stomach. You jolt, a whimper escaping your lips as his tongue drags through his own mess.

“Harry—”

He hums, like it’s nothing. Like the taste of you—of both of you—doesn’t drive him mad.

His tongue swirls over your skin, not in a rush this time, just savoring. Teasing. His hands slide back up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he lowers his mouth again and sucks one nipple between his lips.

You gasp, arching into him.

“You still sensitive?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin. “That why you’re shakin’ like that?”

You nod, legs twitching around him. “Y-Yeah.”

He grins against your breast, mouth moving to the other. “Good.”

He slides a hand between your legs again, fingers pressing right where you’re still dripping, still open from him.

“‘Cause I’m not finished with you yet.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and wild, fingers circling your clit again in slow, deliberate strokes.

“You’re gonna come again, baby. Just like in those stories you read. Over and over ‘til you can’t even say my name.”

[thereceptioniststyles]

Masterlist

Updated 5/31/25

* indicates smut

One Shots

Boyfriends - Where Harry hasn’t been the most present boyfriend. Based around Boyfriends by Harry Styles

Chocolate Hearts *- Based off CVS by Winnetka Bowling League

Ceilings- Based off Ceilings by Lizzy McAlpine

Too Sweet*- Based off Too Sweet by Hozier

The Alchemy*- AU where Harry is the star quarterback at his college and y/n is an English major.

Chapters- Where Harry stumbles into a book store and finds more than just his next read.

Alone Together- On a chilly New Year’s Eve, Y/N, seeking an escape from loneliness, finds herself unexpectedly swept into a night of warmth, fireworks, and romance when longtime crush Harry shows up at her bar table.

My Boss's Son Part Two*- Y/N, an assistant to Anne Twist, forms an unexpected connection with her son, Harry, when he comes home for the holidays.

I Want to Kill Her* Part Two* -Au where Y/N and Harry are neighbors who find out their spouses are cheating with each other.

Meet Me in the Hallway*- where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.

One More Round (Then You)*- Where Y/N and Harry get bored, get drunk, and get each other.

Pillow Wall- Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.

You Found Me Here- Where Harry is a librarian who leaves notes poetry books.

Let's Call it Even- Where Y/N is an interviewer who pushes Harry Styles too far.

The Sound of My Voice- Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

White Lie*- Where Y/N tells Harry a lie and she gets in trouble.

For the Both of Us- Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.

Like Us- Where Y/N and Harry thought they had lost each other, fate gives them a second chance.

A Real Good Doctor, part 2- Where Y/N is running and hurts herself but there happens to be a doctor who can help.

It's You*, part 2- Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.

Series

Love Bites (Au Vamprry)- A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Honey & Venom* ,2,3- Where Harry, a serial killer, believes he’s found someone exactly like him.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Meet Me in the Hallway

where y/n and harry cross paths in Paris. a quiet hotel. a hallway. a second chance.

word count: 8.1k

content warnings: drinking, cursing, smut

The city hums outside her window like it’s dreaming. Paris, soft and gold, its light spilling over the edge of the balcony and pooling on the floor like something spilled. But the curtains are half-drawn, and she’s not looking.

She sits on the edge of the hotel bed, one hand resting in her lap, the other fidgeting with the edge of the comforter. The room is too quiet in the way all hotel rooms are—sanitized, still, pretending to be a home. Her heels are abandoned by the door, her feet bare and cold against the carpet. There’s a dull ache behind her eyes from too much noise and not enough sleep.

Her dress is creased from the way she folded herself into a chair backstage for hours. Simple black, nothing flashy. Just enough to not be invisible.

She lets her head fall forward for a moment, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees bursts of color. Her body is tired in a way that has nothing to do with muscles.

Downstairs, the fashion show had been louder than it needed to be. Fast cameras, flowing champagne, conversations that looped around her without ever settling. She smiled when she needed to. Nodded through directions. Focused her lens. The same way she always does.

She doesn’t remember most of it.

Now the room feels too large, too hollow. A small desk, untouched. The television mute. A single wine glass upside down on a paper doily like it’s part of the furniture. Her suitcase is still half-open on the bench, clothes folded in a way that looks more accidental than planned.

She exhales and reaches for her camera bag, dragging it into her lap. The strap is beginning to wear out—her thumb catches on a fray near the buckle. She unzips the front pocket, pulls the camera out with slow, practiced hands.

The images flip by beneath her fingers, backstage flashes, fabric in motion, half-caught expressions. A model laughing, her head thrown back. Someone adjusting an earring. A hand gripping a clutch too tight. Nothing wrong with any of them. Nothing remarkable either.

She scrolls until her eyes blur.

The battery flashes red. She plugs it in and sets it gently on the desk.

And then she just… sits.

She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. Sleep isn’t calling. She’s showered, changed into an old t-shirt, and still her body won’t settle. There’s something under her skin. Not loud. Just there. Like she forgot to do something and can’t remember what.

She glances toward the hallway.

Maybe a walk. Nothing long. Just down to the lobby, maybe out to the courtyard if it’s still open. She slides on her flats, grabs her keycard from the nightstand, and pulls the door shut behind her with a soft click.

The hallway is dim and quiet. She doesn’t check her phone. Doesn’t plan where she’s going.

Just walks.

The elevator hums as it lowers, the overhead lights casting a pale blue tint against the brushed metal walls. She watches the numbers tick down. Eighth. Sixth. Third. The lobby.

She steps out into a hush of polished marble and soft piano music playing somewhere out of sight. There’s no one at the front desk. A concierge scrolls through a tablet behind the counter. No one looks up.

Her feet carry her without thinking. Past the velvet chairs, past the enormous floral arrangement at the center of the room. The bar glows dimly in the corner like it knows something the rest of the hotel doesn’t. It’s half-empty. Just a couple at the far end, speaking in low, wine-softened French. A man in a suit tapping on his phone.

She chooses a stool near the middle. Drops her purse beside her feet. Leans her elbows against the dark wood.

The bartender turns toward her with a smile that looks practiced but not unkind.

“What can I get you?” he asks, his accent light. English, but softened by time in the city.

She glances at the bottles behind him. None of them stand out.

“Something dry,” she says. “Not too sweet.”

He nods, already reaching for a bottle. “Long night?”

She almost lies. Almost says she’s fine.

But something about the way he asks like it’s just conversation, not a demand for anything real makes her shrug and say, “Yeah. Just got back from work.”

He pours the drink, sets it down gently in front of her. “Let me guess. Fashion Week?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

“You’ve got the look,” he says with a faint smile. “Not model, though. Photographer, maybe?”

She blinks at him. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

He chuckles. “Lucky guess. You all come down here eventually. After the shows. Like you need to wash the glitter off.”

She picks up her drink and takes a sip. It burns, but only a little. “It’s not the glitter,” she says quietly.

He leans against the back wall, still drying a glass in his hand. “No?”

She shakes her head, eyes still on the bar. “It’s the pretending. The smiling. The noise.”

The bartender nods like he’s heard it before. “You’d be surprised how many people say that.”

She glances up. “And what do you say?”

He considers her for a moment, then shrugs. “I pour the drinks and let them talk.”

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Fair.”

A beat of silence passes. The piano music fades into a new song, something older, almost familiar.

The bartender gestures toward her glass. “You here alone?”

She hesitates. Not because it’s a strange question, but because it feels like the answer matters in a way it shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Just me.”

He nods again. “Well. Welcome to the safest place in the hotel for ghosts.”

She glances around. “That comforting?”

“Depends on the ghost,” he says, and moves to serve someone new.

She sips her drink, lets the warmth settle. Lets the quiet stay. There’s no rush.

At least not yet.

The glass is empty before she realizes it. The bartender catches her eye and raises an eyebrow. She nods. Just one more.

The second drink goes down smoother. Or maybe she just stops noticing the taste. The couple at the end of the bar is gone now, and the man in the suit has traded his phone for a scotch and a blank stare.

She taps her fingers against the side of the glass. Pulls her phone from her purse.

The lock screen lights up. No new messages.

She opens it anyway. Scrolls through photos she doesn’t remember taking. Snaps of velvet curtains, blurry silhouettes backstage, a shot of a cigarette still burning in an ashtray outside the venue.

She sighs. Sets the phone down. Picks it up again.

To Marcia

Why is it always around midnight that I start feeling pathetic?

Three dots. Then nothing.

She sets the phone down again. Pushes the glass away from her slightly, like putting distance between herself and the part of her that’s unraveling. The part that only gets loud when she’s alone. When the city outside keeps spinning but she feels stuck.

The bartender walks past and nods at the untouched third of her drink. She waves a hand; she’s fine.

The phone buzzes.

Marcia

Because that’s when the world gets quiet enough to hear your own brain being mean to you.

Another message follows a second later.

Want me to FaceTime you and aggressively compliment you until you go to bed?

A small laugh escapes her lips before she can stop it. She tucks a hand under her chin and replies.

To Marcia

Tempting. But I’m at the bar downstairs pretending I’m mysterious and French.

Marcia

You’re mysterious and hot. The French are jealous.

She smiles. But it doesn’t quite reach.

To Marcia

I just feel off. Can’t explain it. Something about tonight… I don’t know. Feels heavy.

She stares at the message. Debates deleting it. Sends it anyway.

The bar quiets further. A new song plays, this one is slower, sadder. Piano and something that sounds like rain.

The phone buzzes again.

Marcia

You need sleep. And carbs. And maybe a really good fuck. In that order.

To Marcia

If only.

She locks the phone. Leaves it face down on the bar. Stares into the last of her drink like it might tell her what she’s missing.

Outside, the city lights shift. Something flickers behind her ribs.

She nurses the last of her drink, letting it warm her mouth and chest like it’s trying to convince her she’s okay. The bar is nearly empty now. The man in the suit is gone. Even the music has faded into something slower, as if the speakers know it’s almost time to stop.

The bartender returns, wiping his hands on a folded cloth, a soft rhythm to his movements.

“Still holding strong,” he says, glancing at her glass.

She looks down at it, then back up at him with a faint smile. “Didn’t realize I was being watched.”

“Only a little,” he replies. “I get bored.”

She chuckles quietly. “Well. Hate to break it to you, but I’m not very exciting.”

“Maybe not tonight,” he says, resting his arms on the counter. “But you’ve got a story in you. I can tell.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You get that from two drinks and a bad mood?”

“I get that from the way you keep looking at the door. Like you’re not sure if someone’s coming or if you hope they never do.”

That soft smile falls from her face, just for a second. She picks up the glass and takes the last sip, letting it sit heavy on her tongue before swallowing.

“Maybe both,” she says.

He nods like he understands. Like he’s heard it before.

“Want me to put it on your room tab?” he asks, gently steering the moment somewhere lighter.

“Yeah. Room 1210.”

“Got it,” he says, scribbling something down. “Should I expect you again tomorrow night?”

She shrugs, standing slowly, her movements fluid but tired. “We’ll see if the pretending gets to me again.”

The bartender smiles. Not pitying, just warm. “Well. If it does—I’ll be here. Mysterious, and slightly overqualified.”

She gives him a small, genuine smile. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime,” he says, then watches as she slides her purse over her shoulder and steps away from the bar.

Her feet are heavier now. Or maybe the night is. The elevator takes its time again, humming low as it carries her back to the twelfth floor.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the doors open. She exhales.

The hallway is empty.

Of course it is.

She’s halfway to her door before she realizes her keycard is missing.

She stops, frowning, and pats down her coat pocket. Nothing. Checks her purse, front pouch first, then the main compartment: lip balm, receipts, her phone. No key.

A sigh slips through her lips. It’s not frustration, not yet. Just another thing. Another small, invisible weight added to the pile.

She turns around slowly, eyes scanning the hallway. Maybe she dropped it in the elevator. Maybe at the bar. Maybe it’s tucked between the chair cushions and she’s just—

And then she hears it.

A voice.

Low, warm, crackling faintly with a smile. A laugh, quick and under-breathed, like it’s not meant for anyone nearby. Like it’s caught in the space between sentences.

She freezes.

It’s not close—somewhere down the hall, around the corner maybe—but it’s familiar in a way that makes her throat tighten. Not from recognition at first. Just… instinct. The way her body responds before her mind catches up.

She listens.

There’s a pause. A shuffle of feet. Then the voice again, clearer this time.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong,” he says, and her heart jolts.

Harry.

She doesn’t mean to move. Doesn’t even decide to. But her body shifts slightly toward the sound, her eyes narrowing down the hall like they might find him without permission.

It’s not possible. He wasn’t supposed to be here. No one said anything. No texts. No whispers. Nothing.

Another laugh. Softer this time. It feels like it’s wrapped in memory.

She steps back from her door, slowly, silently, the breath caught high in her chest.

She still hasn’t found her key.

But suddenly, she’s not thinking about the room at all.

She stays frozen.

Not by fear. Not even surprise, really. It’s something else—an ache that tightens her ribs and stills her hands. Her breath catches somewhere between her throat and her chest, and she doesn’t know what she’s hoping for. Only that it’s too late to pretend she wasn’t standing there, listening.

His voice draws closer, low and lazy, almost amused. She hears him before she sees him.

And then—

He rounds the corner.

Harry.

He’s wearing a fitted black coat over a dark button-down, the collar slightly undone, just enough to show the curve of his throat. The sleeves are pushed to his forearms, revealing his tattoos in that casual way that never feels accidental. Slim trousers. Polished boots. A glint of a silver ring when he adjusts the phone against his cheek.

His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it all night, still damp near the ends. There’s a faint flush in his face from whatever wine or warmth came before. He looks—God, he looks good.

He’s smiling at whoever’s on the other end of the line, voice low and easy.

And then he sees her.

He stops, like someone hit pause.

The smile fades, not with coldness, but with weight. Like everything around him just dropped into silence.

His eyes lock with hers, and she feels the ground tilt.

“Hey—” he says into the phone, eyes never leaving her. His voice is softer now. “I’ve gotta go.”

A beat. A murmur from the other line.

“Yeah. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He lowers the phone slowly. Slips it into his coat pocket.

Neither of them move.

The air stretches thick between them, all quiet tension and history that doesn’t know where to go. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her purse. She doesn’t know what she looks like to him. Tired? Lost? The girl he knew or someone else entirely?

But he’s looking at her like nothing’s changed. Like too much has.

And still neither of them says a word.

The silence stretches too long.

She doesn’t know what she expects him to do. Say her name? Pretend this isn’t strange? Smile like they’re old friends instead of old wounds?

But he just watches her—like he’s waiting for something she can’t give.

So she clears her throat, eyes flicking toward her door. She straightens her bag on her shoulder, tries to summon the version of herself that knows how to talk to strangers.

“I, uh… I lost my room key,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the door behind her. Her voice sounds thinner than she means it to—too casual, too rehearsed. “I think I must’ve dropped it downstairs. Or… maybe at the bar. So.”

She takes a step sideways. “Anyway. Sorry—don’t mean to block the hall or anything.”

It’s pathetic, really. The way she tries to slide past him like she’s someone else. Like he didn’t used to know every version of her in the dark.

She’s almost to the edge of his shoulder when he speaks.

“You’re really gonna pretend I don’t know who you are?”

His voice is quiet, but not soft. Like he’s peeling back something gently, but deliberately. Like he’s giving her the chance to stop lying before it hurts more.

She stops.

Her pulse stutters.

And then slowly—like it costs her something—she turns to face him again.

He looks the same. He doesn’t.

And the way he’s looking at her now… it’s not angry. It’s not even surprised.

It’s something else entirely.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to. He already sees it—the way her mouth opens slightly, like she wants to respond but the words don’t form. The way her body stays turned toward him even though her eyes keep drifting toward the door, like she’s trying to find an exit that doesn’t exist.

He takes one slow step forward.

And then he reaches out—gently, like he’s afraid she might pull away—and places his hand on her shoulder.

His palm is warm through the fabric of her sweater, steady in a way she hasn’t felt in a long time. The kind of steady that once kept her upright in hotel rooms like this one. In cities where the only thing familiar was him.

His eyes search hers.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

The words land between them like something sacred. Not angry. Not bitter. Just true.

She swallows, but her throat’s too tight.

His hand stays where it is. Not demanding. Not pushing. Just there.

“I thought I imagined you once or twice,” he says, quieter now. “Crowded places. A laugh that sounded like yours. The back of someone’s head. I always told myself I was wrong.”

He pauses. Something in his voice dips lower.

“But this time, I’m not, am I?”

She looks up at him fully now. The air feels thinner. Her heart loud in her ears.

“No,” she says, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re not.”

His hand slips away from her shoulder, slow, like he doesn’t want to startle her. She still feels the shape of it there, the weight of memory pressed into skin.

“Come on,” he says, stepping back just enough to give her room to breathe. “Let me help you find your key.”

She hesitates, already halfway to no. “It’s fine. I’ll just go to the front desk—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, a soft smile tugging at his mouth, “but that’s boring.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but he tilts his head slightly, eyes warm, insistent.

“And we both look too good tonight to go straight to bed.”

That gets her. A reluctant smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.

“I’m not exactly dressed for anything.”

He gives her a slow once-over—not lingering, not leering, just a quiet kind of noticing. “Still. You wore that sweater like you were hoping someone would see you in it.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You always this confident?”

“Only when I mean it.”

She doesn’t say yes. But she doesn’t say no.

They ride the elevator down together in silence. The same soft blue lights. The same hum. But everything feels different now—charged and quiet, the air between them thick with what’s been left unsaid.

When they walk into the bar, the bartender looks up from polishing a glass and pauses. Then he grins.

“You again,” he says to her. Then to Harry, with a mock-serious nod, “And you brought a friend. Must be your lucky night.”

She flushes slightly, sliding onto the same stool she left earlier.

Harry sits beside her, body angled toward hers without crowding.

“We’re on a mission,” he says, tapping the bar lightly. “Lost key. Emotional damage. Maybe one more drink.”

The bartender snorts. “All the usuals, then.”

Harry glances at her. “You good with that?”

She hesitates. Then nods once.

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “One more.”

The bartender turns away to pour.

And for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t feel entirely alone in the quiet.

It’s not just one drink.

One turns into two. Then three. She loses count somewhere in the middle of a story he’s telling about a broken amp in Berlin and a show that nearly didn’t happen. Her laughter is quieter than it used to be, but it still curls the same way at the edges. And he watches her with something like disbelief, like he can’t believe she’s real and sitting beside him again.

The bar is nearly empty now. Chairs stacked in the far corner, the bartender wiping down the counter slower and slower like he’s giving them space.

Her cheeks are flushed, not just from the wine. It’s the warmth of being seen. Really seen. And not by strangers in passing, or by clients through a camera lens—but by someone who used to know the shape of her moods by the way she stirred her coffee.

“You still talk with your hands,” he says at one point, smiling into his glass.

She blinks, looking down at her fingers mid-story.

“You noticed that?”

“Always did.”

She smiles. Not because it’s a compliment, but because it feels like being remembered.

They talk about everything and nothing—work, mutual friends they’ve lost track of, cities they’ve both passed through but never at the same time. He tells her his sister got engaged. She tells him her favorite diner back home closed during the pandemic and she hasn’t quite forgiven the universe for it.

The conversation flows like it never stopped. Like it’s just picked up from a long pause.

At one point, she leans her cheek into her hand and watches him as he talks. Not just his words, but the way his mouth moves around them. The way his eyes flick between hers and the table and back again. Like he’s afraid if he looks too long, it’ll break the spell.

She doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there, quiet under her breath:

God, I missed you.

He finishes his drink and gently nudges her knee under the bar.

“What?” she asks, smiling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just… haven’t seen you laugh like that in a long time.”

Her smile falters. Not in a bad way—just a flicker of something real behind her eyes.

“Me either.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Comfortable. Familiar.

Outside, the city is fast asleep. But inside, it’s like time doesn’t matter. Like this is the night they were always going to find each other again.

They don’t move.

The glasses on the bar sit nearly empty, but neither of them reaches for another. The drinks were just an excuse anyway—something to hold, something to do with their hands while the rest of them tried to catch up to this.

The bartender is gone now, slipping into the back room with a nod, the lights a little dimmer than before. There’s only the hum of the city outside the windows and the occasional creak of the old building settling into the quiet.

Her hand rests near his on the bar. Not touching. Just close enough that she could, if she wanted to.

Harry leans back slightly in his stool, head tilted toward her, eyes soft and half-lidded like he’s memorizing her in pieces.

“You still carry that notebook?” he asks, voice low and warm.

She laughs, surprised. “God. No one remembers that.”

“I do,” he says. “You used to write in it when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I was writing about you.”

“I know.”

Her eyes flick to his, sharp and playful for just a second, then soften again. The weight between them isn’t heavy anymore. It’s quiet. Gentle. Like they’re sitting in the space where a question used to live, and neither of them is in a rush to answer it.

He watches her as she tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers slow, like she doesn’t want to break the moment either.

“You’re different,” he says eventually.

“So are you.”

“Better?”

She shrugs, then nods once. “Maybe. Sadder, too.”

Harry leans forward, elbows resting on the bar again. “Still beautiful.”

Her breath catches just slightly, but she recovers quickly. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re a little drunk.”

“Maybe,” he admits, lips twitching. “But I’d say it sober.”

The pause that follows is long—but not uncomfortable.

He looks down at her hand, still resting near his, and then back up.

“I don’t want this night to end.”

She swallows. Feels it in her chest. That familiar ache, blooming again.

“I don’t either.”

But neither of them moves.

Because sometimes, the best part of the night is the not-knowing. The lingering. The possibility that whatever happens next might be something they can’t undo.

They stumble out of the elevator in a quiet hush of laughter, her hand brushing his arm as she tries to keep from tripping over absolutely nothing.

“God,” she says, pressing a palm to her forehead, “I can’t feel my teeth.”

Harry laughs, deep and surprised. “Is that a medical emergency, or…?”

“I don’t know,” she says, swaying slightly. “You ever been drunk enough that your mouth just disappears?”

“Can’t say I have,” he says, biting back another grin. “But I’m honored to be here for the milestone.”

They reach her door. She stops in front of it, staring like it might open if she wills it hard enough. Then she looks over at him.

“We… never got my key.”

A beat. Then they both burst into laughter, muffled and ridiculous in the stillness of the hallway.

“I was so focused on impressing the bartender with my tragic mystery girl routine,” she says, leaning back against the wall, “I completely forgot.”

Harry leans beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “He was impressed.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. You had the whole ‘haunted but hot’ thing going. Very French.”

She laughs again, eyes crinkling. “God, what now? I can’t call the front desk like this. I’ll end up booking a flight to Switzerland by accident.”

Harry turns to face her fully. There’s something soft in the way he’s looking at her now—less amused, more… steady.

“Stay with me.”

She blinks. “What?”

He shrugs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “My room’s right down the hall. You’re already up here. I’ve got a toothbrush still in the plastic. You won’t die.”

She searches his face. “You sure?”

He nods once. “Yeah. I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Something in the way he says it makes her throat tighten. Not in a bad way. Just honest. Undeniable.

She hesitates for only a second. Then nods.

“Okay.”

He reaches out and gently takes her hand, warm and easy. “Come on, mystery girl. Let’s go ruin my minibar.”

His room is warm, dim, the city stretching out through tall windows in streaks of gold and navy. The curtains are half-drawn, the bed still made, though the pillows are a little messy—like he laid down earlier and got back up.

She toes off her shoes near the door and drops her bag on the armchair.

“You can sit wherever,” he says, pulling open the minibar. “Or collapse. That’s also allowed.”

She flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed. “I choose collapse.”

He grins over his shoulder. “Excellent choice.”

He crouches in front of the fridge and starts pulling out those tiny, overpriced bottles. Vodka. Rum. Some weird-looking liqueur neither of them will touch. He glances back.

“You like whiskey?”

“Do I look like I like whiskey?”

“You look like you’d lie about liking whiskey to impress someone, then drink it like a champ.”

She snorts. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

He hands her a bottle anyway and sits beside her on the bed. Their shoulders brush. Neither moves away.

She twists open the cap and holds up her drink. “To bad decisions and pretending we don’t feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Cheers to that,” he says, clinking his bottle lightly against hers.

They drink. It burns less than it should.

She leans back on her elbows, eyes on the ceiling. “I’m gonna hate myself in the morning.”

“You’re gonna hate yourself around 4 a.m. when the room starts spinning and your mouth feels like cotton.”

She groans dramatically. “Why are you so good at this?”

“Because I am the mistake people make when they’re drunk in hotels,” he says, very seriously.

She laughs, head tipping toward him. “Yeah, well. I don’t have rockstar money like you. This is gonna cost me half my paycheck.”

He leans back beside her, legs stretched out, still holding his tiny bottle. “I’ll write it off as emotional reparations.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Is that what this is?”

He glances over. “Isn’t it?”

For a second, it goes quiet again—not awkward, just full. Her fingers tap against the rim of her bottle. His knee presses lightly into hers.

“I forgot how easy this is,” she says quietly.

“What?”

“This. You and me. Talking like this.”

His voice softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

She takes another sip of whiskey, then winces and sets the bottle down on the nightstand like it personally offended her.

“Okay,” she says, pointing a finger at him. “Let’s not get sappy.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, grinning. “I wasn’t the one getting sappy.”

“You absolutely were. With your emotional reparations and your sad little rockstar eyes.”

He gasps. “You wound me.”

She grins. “Good.”

A beat passes, and then she says, “We need a game. Something stupid. Something to distract us from the fact that we’re definitely too drunk and definitely shouldn’t be making good decisions right now.”

“I like the sound of that,” he says, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “What are we thinking? Truth or dare? Twenty questions? Drunk Spotify shuffle and we cry to Bon Iver?”

She makes a face. “God, no. I’m too emotionally fragile for Bon Iver.”

“Fair.”

He scrolls for a second, then looks up, eyes glinting. “Okay. I have something. There’s this app—stupid little game called Who’s Most Likely To.”

She gives him a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Only if you’re honest.”

“I’m always honest.”

“You used to lie about liking whiskey.”

She throws a pillow at him. “Play the game, Styles.”

He opens the app. The first question pops up, and he reads it with a mischievous smirk.

“Who’s most likely to text their ex at 2 a.m.?”

They both freeze for a beat, then burst out laughing.

“Okay, rude,” she says, snatching the phone to look. “What kind of emotionally manipulative setup—”

“It’s the algorithm,” he says, holding up his hands. “I swear.”

She hands the phone back. “Fine. You. You’d do it.”

“I am the ex,” he says, mock offended. “What am I supposed to do, text myself?”

“You probably have.”

“I plead the fifth.”

The next question rolls in.

“Who’s most likely to fall in love on vacation?”

They pause again. But this time the silence is softer.

He looks at her, eyes dipping just a little lower.

“You,” he says quietly. “You fall hard.”

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Doesn’t mean I stay.”

He hums. Doesn’t push.

The next question appears.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

She raises her eyebrows, eyes locked on his.

Neither of them answers.

Not right away.

The question hangs in the air.

“Who’s most likely to initiate a kiss?”

Her eyes stay on the screen, like maybe if she keeps looking there, it won’t mean anything. Like maybe the weight of the moment won’t settle between them the way it already has.

But then—

“Me.”

His voice is low. Certain.

She turns her head toward him, and before she can respond—before she can even think—he leans in.

His hand finds her cheek, warm and steady, his fingers slipping into the hair just behind her ear. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. Just moves like it’s inevitable.

And then he kisses her.

It’s not tentative. Not searching.

It’s full. Familiar. A little messy from the whiskey. A little desperate from all the time lost.

He kisses her like he remembers exactly how she tastes, exactly how she fits against him, exactly how this always went—like there was never any space between now and the last time.

She exhales into it, her body catching up a half-second later, hand gripping the front of his shirt like she needs something to hold onto.

He deepens it with a low sound in his throat, thumb stroking across her jaw, and she feels herself fold toward him, her knees brushing his, their chests lined up like gravity decided for them.

It’s been years.

It doesn’t feel like it.

When he finally pulls back, barely, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests lightly against hers. His voice is soft. Breathless.

“I missed that.”

She swallows, lips still parted, her pulse loud in her ears.

“So did I.”

His hand doesn’t leave her face.

It slides down, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of her jaw, down the curve of her neck. She leans into it instinctively, her breath catching again as his thumb brushes just beneath her collarbone.

He kisses her a second time—deeper, needier, like he’s been holding back all night and doesn’t want to anymore. She shifts in closer, straddling one of his legs without even thinking, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thigh.

His hands find her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she feels the heat bloom between them—no hesitation now, just years of wanting compressed into this one moment, like they’re trying to make up for every second they wasted apart.

She tugs at his shirt, bunching the fabric in her fists, and he laughs into her mouth, breathless.

“Still impatient,” he murmurs against her lips.

“Still too slow,” she replies, her hands already working the hem of his shirt up and over his head.

It lands somewhere behind them, forgotten.

Her palms flatten against his chest—warm, solid, familiar in ways that make her chest ache. His skin hums beneath her touch, his eyes heavy-lidded, fixed on hers like she’s the only thing in the room that matters.

He leans forward, mouths at the base of her neck, and her head tips back, a soft noise slipping out before she can stop it. His hands move beneath her sweater, slow, teasing thumbs brushing along her ribs, dragging the fabric upward inch by inch.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, breath ghosting across her skin.

She looks down at him, eyes dark, heart thudding.

“If you stop now,” she says, “I’ll kill you.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses her again, rougher this time, and everything else blurs—clothes hit the floor, the air between them burns, and for the first time in what feels like forever, nothing else matters.

Not the years.

Not the distance.

Not the way things ended.

Just this.

His hands.

Her mouth.

The weight of him pressing her back into the mattress like maybe, just maybe, this time they’ll get it right.

The moment her sweater hits the floor, his hands are on her—broad, possessive palms sliding up the bare skin of her back, fingers splayed like he can’t stand to miss a single inch. He pulls her in tight, chest to chest, his breath warm against her neck as he mouths at her throat. Her bra unclasps with a flick of practiced fingers, and she lets it fall, unthinking, uncaring—already dizzy with the way he’s touching her like she’s something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He leans back just enough to look at her. And the way his eyes drag down her body makes her feel like she’s standing in the center of a storm. His mouth parts, his voice thick with something between reverence and disbelief. “You’re still…”

He doesn’t finish. Just breathes out, “God,” like it’s a prayer.

She doesn’t give him the chance to say more. Her mouth finds his, hungry and hot, and the kiss deepens in a heartbeat. Her fingers tangle in his curls, pulling him closer, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low in his throat. It’s instinct—the way their bodies fit, the way their hands map each other like they never forgot. But this time, it’s raw. Charged. Sharpened by absence and aching.

She pushes him down onto the mattress, straddling him with purpose. Her thighs lock tight around his hips, grounding herself in the pressure of him beneath her. His hands slide up her sides, slow and reverent, brushing under her breasts before cupping them fully, thumbs teasing across her nipples until she gasps and arches into him.

He leans up, lips finding the soft skin above her heart. “I dreamt of this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.

She bites her lip, rolling her hips against him, already feeling how hard he is through the fabric between them. Her voice is a whisper, thick with heat. “Is this how it went in the dream?”

He groans, his hands gripping her tighter. “Not even fucking close.”

She kisses along his jaw, down his throat, tongue flicking against his pulse as her hands move lower. She reaches for his belt, undoing it slowly, teasing him with the drag of her fingers along the waistband of his pants. He watches her, eyes heavy, jaw tight. His breath catches when she frees him, cock hard and flushed and already leaking.

Clothes disappear in a rush of desperate hands—her jeans, his shirt, underwear peeled away and tossed aside until nothing remains but heat and skin and everything they still haven’t said.

He flips her beneath him in one fluid motion, bracing himself above her with trembling arms. He pauses, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers.

“You’re sure?” he whispers, eyes searching hers.

She nods without hesitation. “Yes. Please.”

His kiss is soft this time, but the moment he lines up and pushes in, slow and steady, everything else vanishes. Her back arches, a shattered gasp slipping from her lips as he fills her—thick, deep, unrelenting. He curses under his breath, burying his face in her neck, anchoring himself with one hand gripping her hip and the other fisted in her hair.

They move like they’re trying to say everything with their bodies—no words, just heat and tension and need. She clings to him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. He fucks her slow at first, long strokes that make her tremble, dragging out every flicker of pleasure until her breath stutters and her nails dig into his back.

“Fuck, you feel—” he groans into her ear, “so fucking good. Missed this. Missed you.”

“Don’t stop,” she breathes, voice breaking on the edges of pleasure.

And he doesn’t.

He fucks her harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. Her moans spill freely, breathless and raw, and he catches them with his mouth, lips crushed to hers, tongues tangling. His hand slides between them, thumb circling her clit in tight, expert motions, until her whole body coils tight beneath him.

“Harry—” she gasps, teetering.

He slows just enough to draw it out, voice soft but wrecked. “I’ve got you, love. Come for me.”

She shatters—hips jerking, body clenching around him, her cry sharp and helpless. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning her name like it’s been trapped in his throat for years, hips trembling as he comes hard, every muscle tight with release.

They stay wrapped around each other, bodies slick with sweat, breath mingling in the stillness. The silence afterward is thick—sated and heavy—with the weight of everything they thought they’d lost.

He finally shifts, brushing her damp hair back from her face, pressing a kiss to her temple.

The sheets are warm and tangled around their legs, the air in the room thick with the scent of sweat and something sweeter—familiarity, maybe. Skin still slick in places. Her head rests against his chest, rising and falling with the slow rhythm of his breath. One of his hands is in her hair, fingers absently combing through the strands like he doesn’t want to stop touching her.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s full. Like a held breath. Like a moment that knows it shouldn’t be broken too soon.

She closes her eyes, fingers tracing lazy patterns across the tattoo on his ribs. She feels the way his chest moves under her palm when he laughs softly at nothing.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Are you still drunk?”

His chest rises, then falls.

“No.”

She’s quiet again. For a beat. Then—

“Will you regret it in the morning?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts a little, tilting his head so his mouth brushes the top of her head.

“No.”

His voice is steady. Sure.

Then he looks down at her, brushing a piece of hair off her cheek. “Will you?”

She meets his gaze—really meets it this time. There’s something unspoken in her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.

“No.”

It’s the truth. No hesitation.

She lays her head back down. His arms tighten around her just slightly, like he needed to hear it more than he realized.

They don’t say anything else for a long while.

And when they both finally start to drift, the last thing she feels is the press of his lips against her temple and the quiet way he exhales like maybe, just maybe, this time he can sleep.

Sunlight spills through the tall windows in quiet gold, painting soft shapes across the tangled sheets. The room smells like skin and sleep, the air heavy with warmth and the faintest scent of sex still clinging to the pillows.

She wakes slowly, eyes blinking open to a pale, quiet morning.

The space beside her is empty, but still warm. His pillow smells like him—like bergamot and something just a little darker underneath. Familiar. Grounding. Her hand brushes the sheets where his body had been, and for a moment she just breathes him in.

Then she hears it—the soft rush of water, muffled and steady.

The shower.

She pushes the sheets off her body and stretches, limbs sore in the best way. Her bare feet touch the floor, and she follows the sound, quiet and easy, like she’s done this before. Like her body knows the path.

The bathroom door is cracked open, steam curling out into the air like an invitation.

She slips inside.

The mirror is fogged, the tiles warm under her feet. She pauses just a moment, looking toward the glass shower door. His shape is hazy through the steam, broad shoulders, strong back, his head tilted slightly down as the water runs over him.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t call his name.

Just moves.

She pulls the shirt off over her head, lets it fall to the floor. Her underwear follows. And then she steps forward, fingers curling around the edge of the glass door, easing it open.

He turns at the sound, water streaking down his chest, his hair wet and pushed back from his forehead. His eyes widen slightly when he sees her—but he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.

She steps in and lets the water hit her skin—hot, soothing. Her hands find his chest first, splaying across the familiar planes of it, slick and warm beneath her fingers.

“You’re up early,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and surprise.

“Not really,” she says, eyes on his lips.

She presses closer.

The steam swirls around them, water pounding against the tile, and when she tilts her face up and kisses him, it’s slower this time. Not rushed. Not urgent. Just deep, deliberate, like she’s tasting him in pieces. Like she has time now.

His hands come to her waist, then slide down, gripping her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left. Their bodies press flush, heat meeting heat, skin slick between them. He groans into her mouth when her hand drags along the back of his neck, her fingers slipping into his wet curls.

The kiss deepens—messy, open, teeth clashing slightly as it grows more frantic. His hands grip tighter, guiding her backward until her spine meets the cool tile wall. She gasps at the contrast, and he takes the sound into his mouth, swallowing it like a secret.

His lips leave hers only to travel down her jaw, to the spot beneath her ear that always made her knees weak. He remembers. Of course he does.

Her hands roam his shoulders, his chest, down his stomach, slow and teasing. He shudders when her fingers graze his hipbones.

“You’re dangerous,” he mutters against her skin, kissing lower, over the slope of her collarbone, the curve of her breast.

She lets her head fall back, eyes fluttering shut. “You invited me in.”

“You weren’t supposed to actually come,” he says, voice low, strained.

“Liar.”

His mouth crashes back to hers, and this time there’s no space between kisses—just heat, just hands, just the rhythm of their bodies pressed together under the water like nothing else exists.

The steam wraps around them. Their movements are slow, hungry, but unhurried—like they’ve stopped pretending anything is casual. Like every kiss is an answer to a question they were both too scared to ask the night before.

And when he finally pulls back, just an inch, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers, he whispers

“Stay today.”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Okay.”

The water has stopped, the towels hang loose around their bodies, and the steam has begun to fade. The room is warm, filled with the low rustle of fabric and breath. Sunlight streams in through the curtains like it’s trying not to interrupt.

She sits on the edge of the bed, knees pulled up slightly, damp hair falling over one shoulder. He’s behind her, towel-drying his curls with lazy hands, still a little breathless, a little flushed from the shower.

She glances down at her hands resting in her lap, fingers twisting the edge of the towel. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks.

“Harry?”

He pauses. Lowers the towel from his head, eyes moving to her.

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t look at him. Not yet.

“I’m sorry.”

That gets him. The air shifts. He sits down beside her slowly, close but not crowding. Waiting.

“For what?” he asks gently.

She pulls in a breath. “For how I left. For walking away like I did. No warning. No reason.”

He’s quiet, but his gaze doesn’t waver. She feels the weight of it, even without looking up.

“I was going through something,” she says, the words slow and careful, like they’ve taken years to form. “And instead of… letting anyone in, I just shut everything out. Even you. Especially you.”

A long pause.

“It was easier,” she adds, barely audible. “I made it easier for me by making it harder for you.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Just watches her. She can feel the heat of him beside her, solid and steady, not pulling away.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks eventually, and his voice isn’t angry just soft. Tired. “Why not let me help?”

She finally turns to look at him.

“Because if I let you help, I’d have to admit I needed it. And I was tired of needing things. I wanted to be okay on my own. I thought if I could just get through it without anyone… I’d come out stronger.”

“And did you?”

She swallows. “No. I just came out lonelier.”

His jaw flexes slightly, and he nods like he understands. And maybe he does. Maybe too well.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, not accusing—just curious.

Her eyes meet his, steady and sure this time.

“Every day.”

His hand finds hers between them, warm and careful.

He squeezes it once.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Then let’s start from here.”

He holds her hand like he’s anchoring both of them. Thumb brushing slow circles across the back of hers, his gaze never drifting. The room feels still again. Not frozen—just calm. Like the storm has passed, but everything is still tender in its wake.

“I missed you,” Harry says, voice thick and low. “Every day.”

Her breath stumbles.

“You weren’t just someone I loved,” he continues. “You were my best friend. The one person I always wanted to tell things to. Stupid shit. Big stuff. All of it.”

She looks at him, eyes soft, throat tight.

“I kept thinking it would go away eventually,” he says. “That I’d stop checking places for you. Stop hearing a song and thinking about how you’d hum the guitar part like a weirdo.”

She smiles faintly, blinking quickly. “I still do that.”

“Good,” he says. “Someone has to.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment. It’s not heavy, just honest.

“If this is going to work,” he says gently, “we can’t go back to what we were. We’re not those people anymore.”

She nods slowly, feeling the truth of that settle deep in her chest.

“No more shutting each other out,” he says. “No more disappearing when it gets hard. We have to be honest. All the way through.”

Her voice is quiet, but firm. “Okay.”

He squeezes her hand again.

“And we take it slow,” he adds. “No pressure. No expectations. Just see where this goes.”

She smiles, this time with more light behind it. “Like two people starting over.”

“Like two people who already know how the other takes their coffee,” he says, tilting his head, “but are still willing to ask again.”

Her eyes sting a little. But she laughs. “I take it black now.”

He grins. “You liar.”

They both laugh, and for a second it feels light again—simple, even. Like maybe this could be something good. Something real.

He tugs her into him gently, and she leans her head on his shoulder.

They sit like that for a long while—quiet, close, steady.

Starting again.

[thereceptioniststyles]

It’s You: Part 2

Where Y/N never asked for anything, and Harry gave her something that meant everything.

Content Warning: Smut

Word Count: 13.9k

Part one

The gallery was still humming with conversation and the clinking of wine glasses, but Y/N couldn’t hear any of it. Not really. Her eyes kept drifting back to the painting—the painting of her. And Harry, who now stood a few feet away, speaking with a couple dressed in all black, barely looking her way since he’d shown it to her.

She felt unsteady, like something in her had shifted and she didn’t quite know how to hold it.

After a few more minutes, she made her way outside for air. The cool night air hit her skin like a wave. She leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed, mind spinning. She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel—flattered? Exposed? Seen in a way that scared her a little?

A few minutes passed before she heard footsteps behind her. She didn’t have to look to know it was him.

“You disappeared,” Harry said quietly, stopping beside her.

“I needed air,” she replied, not looking at him.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “Was it too much?”

Y/N’s heart twisted. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just… I didn’t know you saw me like that.”

Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Neither did I. Not at first.”

She finally turned to face him, her voice quieter now. “So why didn’t you say anything before tonight? Why show me that without a word for days?”

He looked at her, and for once, his expression wasn’t guarded. It was raw. Honest. “Because I didn’t know what this was. Or what you wanted it to be.”

Y/N blinked, throat tight. “And now?”

Harry held her gaze. “Now I want you to tell me if I crossed a line. If I went too far. Because if I did, I’ll take the painting down.”

She swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. “You didn’t cross a line. You just made me feel something I wasn’t ready for.”

The silence between them was heavy but full of meaning.

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

They stood like that for a long moment, not touching, not moving—just two people trying to make sense of the space between them.

Y/N slammed her apartment door behind her and kicked off her boots, her heart still thudding from everything that had unfolded just hours ago. The painting. Her painting. And Harry standing beside it like it was no big deal, like he hadn’t just peeled back a layer of her she didn’t even know was visible.

Harper and Lila hadn’t stopped staring when they saw it—she could still hear Lila whispering “Is that—? Oh my god, it’s YOU.” And she hadn’t even answered, just stood there, stunned, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in her chest.

Now, curled up on her couch still in her outfit of the night, she opened their group chat.

Y/N:

I still can’t believe he painted me.

Lila:

Girl. I can’t believe you didn’t faint.

That was some Jane Austen meets indie film moment.

Harper:

Honestly? I’m still a little breathless. He really captured you.

Like, not just how you look—but you. Your expression, your energy. It was… a lot.

Y/N:

Yeah. Tell me about it. It felt like standing there naked in front of a room full of strangers.

And he just stood there, watching me react to it.

Lila:

That man is OBSESSED with you.

That was not casual. That was “I’ve memorized your every expression” energy.

Harper:

And then the two of you outside? What happened? You vanished.

Y/N:

He followed me. Asked if it was too much. Said he’d take it down if I wanted him to.

Lila:

STOP.

So he’s hot, mysterious, talented, and emotionally responsible??

Harper:

You’ve pulled the full fictional love interest arc.

I hate you (lovingly).

Y/N:

It just… caught me off guard. We barely talk about feelings. We barely even talked after we had sex.

And now this painting exists. Like it means something more than we’ve admitted.

Lila:

Because it does mean something more. You don’t paint someone like that unless they’ve gotten under your skin. And you’ve definitely gotten under his.

Harper:

And maybe you needed to see yourself the way he sees you. That painting? That’s how he feels, even if he hasn’t said it yet.

Y/N stared at the screen, rereading Harper’s words twice.

Y/N:

I don’t know what to do with all of this.

Lila:

You don’t have to do anything. Just don’t run from it.

Let it unfold.

Y/N let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass.

They were right. But it didn’t make the feeling any less terrifying.

She sent one last message before setting her phone down:

Y/N:

I think I’m in trouble.

She sat on the couch barely moving. The thought of sleep was nonexistent to her, not when she felt like this. It was just after midnight when Y/N found herself standing in the hallway outside his door. No text, no warning—just a growing heaviness in her chest and an ache in her ribs that wouldn’t let her sleep.

The gallery, the painting, the way he looked at her when he said “I’ll take it down if it’s too much”—it had all been playing on a loop in her head for hours. She couldn’t sit with it anymore. She needed to see him. To say something. To figure out what this actually was.

She hesitated for a moment, then finally knocked.

A long few seconds passed before the door cracked open, Harry blinking at her with sleepy, surprised eyes. He was in gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, his hair mussed like he’d been half-asleep on the couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at her.

Y/N shifted on her feet. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Harry opened the door wider. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, the air between them already thick with tension—not angry or awkward, but heavy. Real.

He didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t try to find small talk. Instead, she turned to face him, arms crossed like she was bracing herself. “That painting… you said you didn’t know what this was.”

Harry nodded, watching her carefully. “I didn’t. Still don’t. Not exactly.”

“Well, I don’t either,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I know it meant something. You meant something when you painted it. So stop pretending like it didn’t.”

The honesty hit the air like a match against flint. Harry’s jaw flexed, and he stepped toward her slowly, stopping just close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I’m not pretending,” he said, voice low. “That painting—it’s the most honest thing I’ve done in a long time.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “Because I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Well,” she said, heart hammering, “I’m still here.”

Harry reached up, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made her chest ache. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

Neither of them moved for a second.

Then Y/N closed the gap, resting her forehead against his chest, exhaling like she’d finally allowed herself to let go.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he’d been waiting for this moment all week.

Whatever this was—undefined, complicated, intense—it was real. And it was just beginning.

Harry’s arms were still wrapped loosely around her when he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured, his voice like velvet.

She watched as he disappeared down the hall, the soft creak of a closet door opening in the background. When he returned, he held one of his shirts—a worn black tee that looked impossibly soft, sleeves slightly stretched, the kind that held onto a person’s scent. He stood in front of her, calm but unreadable.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Get undressed.”

Y/N’s breath caught—not from surprise, but from the sudden weight of the moment. There was no pressure in his tone, only quiet assurance. Like this wasn’t just about changing clothes—it was about trust. About letting herself be seen.

She nodded slowly and reached behind her to unzip the back of her jumpsuit, easing it off her shoulders and down her body. The room felt still, heavy with tension as she peeled the fabric down past her waist, letting it fall in a soft puddle around her feet. Her bra followed, slipping off with practiced ease, but she left her black panties on—something about the vulnerability already hung thick in the air.

Harry didn’t move, but his gaze swept over her like a slow tide, intense and quiet. He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t asking for anything more. He just… looked. And somehow, that made it more intimate than anything else could have.

She pulled his shirt over her head, letting it drape over her frame, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. The scent of him wrapped around her instantly—clean, musky, a little earthy.

His eyes lingered for one more second, then flicked toward the hallway. “Come on,” he said gently. “Get in my bed.”

Y/N nodded and padded past him, barefoot and warm all over, feeling the shift between them settle into something quiet but undeniable.

She slipped beneath his sheets, the cotton cool against her legs. And when she felt the mattress dip behind her moments later, she didn’t need to turn around to know—Harry wasn’t just letting her into his bed tonight.

He was letting her in.

Y/N nestled beneath the sheets, the warmth of Harry’s t-shirt and the residual buzz of everything they hadn’t said settling over her like a second blanket. The bed smelled like him—like cedar and laundry and something quietly masculine—and even though her heart was still racing, she felt her shoulders start to relax.

The mattress dipped as Harry climbed in behind her. He didn’t reach for her right away. For a few moments, they just lay there in the quiet, their breathing slowly syncing, the soft hush of the city outside muffled through the windows.

Then, gently, his hand found her waist beneath the covers. He didn’t pull, just rested it there, his thumb tracing slow circles against the fabric of her shirt. It was tentative, thoughtful—like he was making sure she was still with him, still okay.

Y/N rolled to face him, their noses nearly brushing in the dim light.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “The painting… it wasn’t just about you. It was what you made me feel.”

She blinked, throat tight. “Then why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Harry hesitated, eyes searching hers. “Because it’s easier to paint than talk. But you… you make me want to try.”

That—those eight words—hit her harder than anything else had. Her chest cracked open a little more.

She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, then resting lightly at the base of his neck. “You don’t have to try with everyone,” she whispered. “But you can with me.”

He nodded, just once, then leaned forward and kissed her—not hungry or fast, but slow. Like a confession.

His hand stayed on her waist, his other finding the small of her back as she pressed closer. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, but it never turned frantic. It was warm and unhurried, the kind that made everything else fade away.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, Y/N felt his fingers skim down her spine.

“Stay tonight,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving,” she murmured back.

And with that, Harry pulled her gently into his arms, wrapping himself around her like he was holding something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

They didn’t speak again. There were no more questions, no more walls.

Just them, tangled up in silence, in warmth, in whatever this was becoming.

Morning crept in softly, sunlight slipping through the sheer curtains and casting golden lines across the room. The air was still, warm, and quiet—except for the sound of Harry breathing beside her.

Y/N blinked awake slowly, her eyes adjusting to the soft light as she realized where she was. His bed. His shirt still on her body. His arm still draped lazily across her waist, his hand resting low on her stomach, as if he’d never stopped holding her.

For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, the weight of his presence so grounding it made her throat ache.

Everything from last night replayed in her mind—the quiet tension, the painting, the way he had looked at her like she was something sacred. She’d fallen asleep feeling seen. Still did.

Then she felt him shift behind her, his arm tightening just slightly, and his voice—still sleep-rough and low—cut through the silence.

“You’re still here.”

Y/N smiled faintly, keeping her eyes closed. “You sound surprised.”

“I kind of am,” he admitted, his lips brushing the back of her shoulder. “Didn’t think you’d still want to be here this morning.”

“I didn’t think I would either,” she said honestly, turning slowly to face him.

His green eyes were barely open, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks. He looked softer in the daylight—hair a mess, features relaxed. Real. Human.

“You look different,” she murmured, studying him.

“Better or worse?” he asked, eyes flicking up to hers.

“Less grumpy,” she teased, fingers gently brushing over his collarbone.

He smirked, pulling her closer by the waist. “Give me a few minutes. I’m sure I’ll ruin that.”

Y/N laughed quietly, burying her face in his chest for a second. Then she pulled back enough to meet his gaze. “What happens now?”

Harry was quiet for a moment, then said simply, “We don’t have to define it right now. But if you want to stay… I want you to.”

She nodded, heart thudding. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

He pressed a slow kiss to her forehead, his hand still drawing lazy patterns against her hip. “Good.”

They didn’t rush to get up. They didn’t need to

Sunlight had fully stretched across the room by the time Harry finally untangled himself from the sheets, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s shoulder before sitting up.

“Hungry?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Y/N, still curled in the warmth of his bed, stretched her arms above her head with a sleepy smile. “Starving.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “I make a mean breakfast. Stay here, I’ll bring you something.”

But she was already sliding out of bed, tugging his shirt down a bit and padding barefoot into the apartment. “No way. I’m not letting you do all the work while I lounge around in your bed like some spoiled mystery muse.”

Harry gave her a smirk over his shoulder. “Mystery muse, huh? That’s a new one.”

He moved into the kitchen, starting to pull out eggs and a skillet while she wandered through the open living space. In the daylight, it all felt different—less broody, more lived-in. The walls were still moody gray, the shelves cluttered with art books and paintbrushes in chipped mugs, but there was life here. She could see it in the textures, the controlled chaos, the way every object felt chosen.

Her eyes landed on a small canvas leaning against the wall by a bookshelf. It wasn’t framed, and it looked unfinished, like something he’d tucked away and never meant to display. But it pulled at her immediately.

It was bold—brushed in deep, haunting colors that twisted and layered in on themselves, like smoke caught underwater. In the center, barely visible through the paint, was a figure curled in on itself, more emotion than detail. It felt heavier than anything else she’d seen of his.

Y/N crouched down to get a closer look. “Harry?” she called, her voice soft. “What’s this one?”

He paused, mid-chop, and glanced toward her. The moment he saw which piece she was pointing at, something in his expression shifted. Not closed off—but cautious.

“That one’s old,” he said after a pause, setting the knife down. “I never finished it.”

She ran her fingers along the edge of the canvas, careful not to touch the surface. “It’s… intense. It feels like grief.”

Harry wiped his hands on a towel and walked over slowly, standing behind her. “It is,” he said quietly. “I started it after my mom passed. It was the only thing I could make for months. Couldn’t bring myself to show it to anyone.”

Y/N looked up at him, surprised by the openness in his voice. “It’s stunning,” she said, meaning it. “Raw. It doesn’t feel incomplete to me.”

Harry let out a breath, crouching beside her. “It was never about finishing it. It just needed to… exist.”

They sat there for a moment, side by side on the floor, the skillet forgotten for now.

And for the first time, Y/N realized that while Harry may have been painting her into his life… he was also starting to let her in.

Y/N stayed quiet for a beat, her eyes lingering on the canvas, on the emotion poured into every brushstroke. She didn’t need to ask what it had cost him to make it—it was all right there in the paint. And sitting beside him now, in his t-shirt, barefoot and raw in the morning light, she felt something settle between them. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just real.

“You don’t show this side of yourself often,” she said softly, glancing at him.

Harry was quiet, his gaze on the floor. “No. Most people don’t want it.”

“I do,” she said, before she could second-guess the honesty. “I want to see all of it.”

He looked at her then, really looked, like he was weighing whether to believe her. Whatever he found in her eyes must’ve been enough, because he gave a quiet nod.

“I didn’t think I could let someone in again,” he admitted. “But then you showed up. Loud. Messy. Making everything feel… alive again.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to crash into your life, you know.”

Harry tilted his head, that faint smirk returning. “I think you did. And I think I needed it.”

A pause hung between them, thick with something unspoken.

Then he stood, reaching down to pull her up with him. “Come on,” he said. “Before I burn breakfast and give you a real reason to leave.”

She let him pull her to her feet, laughing softly. “You really think bad eggs would scare me off now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “They’d scare me off.”

They walked back to the kitchen, shoulders bumping, hands brushing. Harry went back to the stove, and this time, Y/N stayed close—leaning against the counter, watching him move, quietly wondering how this man who once barely looked her way had ended up here, in a space that already felt different just by having her in it.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because even in the soft glow of morning, after all the walls had come down, she wasn’t sure if they were still just figuring this out—or if they were already halfway in.

After breakfast—surprisingly not burnt, though Harry insisted on calling the eggs “aggressively rustic”—Y/N lingered for a while in the calm warmth of his apartment. They washed the dishes together in a sleepy rhythm, brushing shoulders, trading quiet glances. It felt domestic in a way that was almost too comfortable, too soon.

Eventually, she pulled her jacket on over his t-shirt, still wearing it beneath as she stood by the door.

“I should head back,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “I’ve got laundry, meal prep… all the thrilling realities of being an adult.”

Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You could leave the shirt, you know.”

She smirked as she opened the door. “You could try taking it off me.”

He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tempt me.”

She lingered for a beat, then stepped out into the hallway. “Thanks for breakfast,” she said, looking over her shoulder.

“Thanks for staying,” he replied, voice lower now.

When she reached her own apartment, the silence was immediate—no music, no conversation, no lingering scent of coffee and warm cinnamon toast. Just her. And the soft thud of her heart still pacing to the rhythm of the night before.

She tossed her keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off her jacket, and exhaled.

Back to reality.

The next hour was spent in a quiet whirlwind of laundry, jotting down her weekly to-do list, and tossing together a grocery plan she’d probably ignore. She moved through her small space with purpose, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the gallery, the painting, his hands on her waist, the way he looked at her like she was something he didn’t quite know how to hold, but wanted to anyway.

There was something grounding about being home. But it also made the whole thing with Harry feel almost unreal, like a fever dream that had followed her back from a night she couldn’t quite define.

Still wearing his shirt, now paired with a pair of old sweatpants, Y/N paused by her window, sipping lukewarm coffee. The city moved on outside, people living their ordinary lives.

And here she was, standing in the middle of hers, wondering what came next.

Because Harry Styles—the grumpy, guarded, unexpectedly tender art gallery owner—was no longer just the neighbor she teased or passed in the mailroom.

He was something else now.

Something more.

It was Tuesday morning when her phone buzzed—right as she was standing in her kitchen, hair in a messy bun, staring blankly at the fridge and wondering if coffee could count as breakfast again.

The text was from Harry.

Harry:

You busy tonight?

Y/N blinked at the screen, warmth blooming in her chest before she could talk herself down. It had been a couple days since she’d left his apartment—quiet ones, normal ones. She hadn’t seen him around the building, and aside from a few playful Instagram likes and a “you made it home alive?” text, he’d been giving her space.

Which, weirdly, she appreciated. But she hadn’t stopped thinking about him either.

She typed back quickly.

Y/N:

Define “busy.” If it involves real pants, probably yes.

He replied a second later.

Harry:

No pants required. Might even encourage that.

But mostly I was wondering if you’d want to help me start organizing the next show at the gallery.

She smirked, chewing her lip.

Y/N:

Are you inviting me to work or inviting me to flirt while pretending to work?

Harry:

Yes.

She laughed out loud and leaned against the counter, thumbs flying.

Y/N:

Fine. I’m in. What’s the dress code? And don’t say “grungy creative chic,” I don’t own anything with paint stains on purpose.

Harry:

Wear something you can move in. There’s lifting. And maybe pizza.

And I’ll owe you one.

Y/N:

I like the sound of pizza and emotional debt. Text me the time.

Harry:

7. Front door. Don’t be late. Unless it’s a dramatic entrance.

Y/N:

With me, is there any other kind?

She set her phone down, heart buzzing a little too fast for 9 a.m.

It wasn’t a date.

It was just helping him.

But still, she caught herself opening her closet a few hours later and thinking, What do you wear when you’re about to hang art with the guy who painted your soul into a canvas?

At exactly 7:03 p.m., Y/N pushed open the glass door of the gallery, the bell above chiming softly as the early evening light filtered in behind her. The space looked different without the crowd—quiet, a little messy, and full of possibility. Framed canvases leaned against walls, packing materials and tools scattered across the floor.

And standing in the middle of it all, clipboard in one hand and sleeves rolled up, was Harry.

He looked up as she walked in, and the corner of his mouth immediately twitched into a smirk.

“Well,” he said, eyeing her slowly from head to toe, “you look like you should be harvesting peaches in Georgia.”

Y/N glanced down at her outfit—a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls over a fitted black tank top, her hair twisted up in a clip, and paint-splattered Converse on her feet. She raised an eyebrow, smirking right back.

“Excuse me, but this is high fashion in the functional art world,” she replied, tossing her bag onto a nearby bench. “And don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Harry said, stepping toward her. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you in something with actual pockets.”

“Pockets and emotional stability,” she quipped, patting her front pouch. “I’m a new woman.”

Harry chuckled, his gaze softening slightly. “You look good.”

The compliment hit her like a quiet note in a still room. Simple. Warm. Unexpectedly sincere.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice a little quieter now. “You ready to put me to work?”

He handed her a roll of painter’s tape and nodded toward a stack of bubble-wrapped frames near the far wall. “Always.”

As she walked past him to get started, he reached out and tugged gently at the strap of her overalls.

“You sure you’re not here to flirt while pretending to work?” he murmured low against her ear.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

A few hours passed in a blur of laughter, rearranging artwork, measuring tape arguments, and the occasional accidental graze of fingers as they passed tools back and forth. Music played softly from an old speaker in the corner—Fleetwood Mac giving way to Miley Cyrus, then something ambient and wordless that matched the growing stillness of the gallery as night set in.

Y/N had just finished helping Harry hang one of the larger canvases when she wandered toward the back of the studio space, brushing dust off her hands. That’s when she saw it—half tucked near a supply shelf, a pottery wheel. The base was covered in dried clay, clearly used but currently dormant.

She turned to him, eyes lighting up. “No way. You have a wheel?”

Harry looked up from where he was sketching a quick layout note. “Yeah. I don’t just paint, you know.”

She crouched down beside it, brushing her fingers along the edge of the basin. “I’ve always wanted to try this. Like, really try it. The messy, ‘Ghost’ movie kind of way.”

He set his pencil down and smirked. “I’m not recreating Ghost with you.”

She laughed. “Relax, Swayze. I didn’t say I needed a soundtrack and a tragic love story. I just think it looks… kind of meditative.”

Harry walked over slowly, wiping his hands on a rag as he approached. “You want to try it?”

Y/N looked up at him, almost surprised. “Can I?”

He nodded once, then pulled up a nearby stool, spinning it around to face the wheel. “Sit.”

She hesitated for a second, then settled onto the stool. He moved behind her, not hovering but close enough that she could feel the shift in the air between them. He reached around to the small shelf beside the wheel and grabbed a lump of clay, placing it in the center.

“Okay,” he said, voice quieter now. “Let your hands rest here.” He reached for her wrists gently, guiding them forward until her fingers hovered over the clay.

His touch lingered—light, steady, grounding.

“You have to center it first,” he continued, flipping the switch to start the wheel. It began to spin slowly. “Keep your hands firm. Don’t fight it, just stay with the movement.”

Y/N swallowed, watching the clay blur beneath her palms. Harry moved behind her, sliding in closer until his chest brushed lightly against her back. His hands ghosted over hers, adjusting her grip. His breath was warm near her neck, and the wheel wasn’t the only thing spinning now.

“You’re too stiff,” he murmured. “Relax your arms.”

“Hard to relax when someone’s breathing down my neck,” she muttered with a dry laugh.

“You’re doing great,” he said, ignoring her deflection.

And maybe it was the weight of his voice, or the heat of his chest behind her, but Y/N felt something ease inside her. The clay began to shift under her fingers, rising slightly as she moved with the spin.

Harry’s hands stayed over hers, guiding, never forcing.

“This part,” he said, his voice softer now, almost in her ear, “you let it take shape on its own. You don’t force the form. You feel it.”

Y/N blinked, heart hammering, clay slipping through her fingers like water and tension. “That sounds… familiar.”

He smiled against her hair, just barely. “Yeah. Thought you might notice that.”

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, her hands clay-covered, his presence all around her. When she finally pulled her hands away, her breath was shaky—not from the wheel, but from the way he was still looking at her like he wanted to mold her into something he could hold on to.

She turned on the stool to face him. “Okay,” she said, voice hushed. “That was… kind of amazing.”

Harry’s eyes searched hers. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”

Y/N’s fingers were still streaked with clay, her chest rising and falling a little too fast as she sat facing him on the stool. The wheel had stopped spinning, but something else between them hadn’t.

Harry stood just inches from her now, hands in his back pockets like he was holding himself there on purpose—like if he moved even slightly forward, he wouldn’t stop.

“You really never tried that before?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “Nope. First time.”

“You were a natural,” he said.

Y/N smiled softly, eyes dropping to his chest for a beat before flicking back up to his face. “Pretty good teacher.”

He hummed in response, watching her for a moment that stretched a little longer than it should have. Her breath caught—just slightly—as the air between them thickened again.

“You’ve got clay on your cheek,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward.

Before she could react, he reached up and brushed his thumb gently across her skin, wiping it away. His hand didn’t fall immediately. It lingered near her jaw, knuckles grazing lightly beneath her ear.

She didn’t pull away.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You always like teaching people like that?”

His lips twitched at the corner. “No.”

“So I’m special?”

Harry leaned in just a fraction—not enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the restraint.

“You always have been,” he said.

Her throat tightened, and she didn’t know whether to close the distance or stay perfectly still. His hand dropped slowly from her face, and the loss of it sent a pulse through her.

“I should wash my hands,” she said, more to break the silence than anything else.

He nodded, but didn’t step away. “Bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, nodding toward the back hallway.

Y/N slid off the stool, brushing past him gently, and headed toward the sink. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her cheek, his breath near her collarbone.

She turned the faucet on and let the cold water rush over her hands, watching the clay swirl away down the drain like everything she was trying not to say.

Behind her, she could feel him still watching.

And though neither of them had said it aloud—not yet—it was clear now:

Whatever this was becoming, it wasn’t casual.

It was careful.

It was slow.

The moment passed like smoke—lingering but untouchable. Y/N returned to the main space, hands clean, heart still pacing a little too fast. She didn’t say anything as she rejoined Harry, and he didn’t comment on it either. Instead, he handed her a wrapped canvas without a word, and they quietly picked up where they left off.

The soft hum of a playlist filled the space again, the two of them working in easy rhythm—measuring, hanging, stepping back, adjusting. The gallery took shape little by little as the night stretched on, until finally, Harry set down his level, dusted his palms on his jeans, and said, “That’s it. We’re done.”

Y/N stepped back from the wall where she’d just hung the final piece and let out a breath. “Really?”

He nodded. “Show’s built. You’re officially hired.”

She laughed, letting her shoulders drop. “Do I get paid in sarcastic commentary and wine again?”

Harry pulled his phone from his back pocket, already typing something out. “Tonight? You get pizza.”

Her eyes lit up. “God, marry me.”

He gave her a side glance, smirking. “Let me feed you first. Then we’ll negotiate.”

She watched as he tapped a few times on the screen, then slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“It’ll be here in twenty,” he said.

“Is that a promise?”

“Better,” he replied. “It’s a delivery tracker.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. She sank onto one of the low benches near the wall and stretched out her legs, exhaling. “I forgot how good this kind of tired feels. Like the creative kind. Not the soul-sucking email-at-9-p.m. kind.”

Harry grabbed two bottles of water from a small mini fridge tucked in the corner and handed her one. “Welcome to the artist’s high,” he said, sitting beside her. “It’s real.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, their shoulders just barely brushing. The gallery, once chaotic, now looked purposeful. Curated. Ready.

And yet, somehow, it felt more intimate now that it was finished. Like they’d built something together—something more than just a show.

Y/N glanced over at him, watching the way his gaze roamed the space with quiet pride.

“Hey,” she said, nudging him slightly. “You did something really incredible here.”

He looked at her, his expression softer in the warm, low light.

“So did you,” he said.

And there it was again—that feeling.

They stayed side by side on the bench, their knees barely touching, the hum of the gallery soft around them. It felt like a liminal space—finished work behind them, warm pizza on the way, and something unspoken simmering between them.

Y/N took a long sip of her water, tilting her head toward him. “Okay, be honest,” she said. “What would you have done if I’d dropped that massive piece earlier while hanging it?”

Harry looked at her, straight-faced. “I would’ve told you to get out and never speak to me again.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Harsh.”

Then he smirked. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Y/N nudged him with her elbow. “You know you would’ve forgiven me the second I brought you a cappuccino and an apology playlist.”

“Only if the playlist was good,” he said, turning toward her. “I don’t suffer through sad girl acoustic nonsense just because you feel guilty.”

She grinned. “Noted. I’ll keep the moody indie to a minimum.”

Harry stretched his legs out, glancing up at the ceiling. “You’re not what I expected,” he said suddenly, voice a little quieter now.

“Yeah?” she asked, tone light. “What did you expect?”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable again. “I thought you were going to be loud, nosy, annoying.”

“Accurate,” she said, nodding. “And yet…”

“And yet,” he repeated, giving her a sideways glance. “You make the place feel different.”

Before she could answer, the door buzzed.

Harry stood and headed for the front, muttering over his shoulder, “Saved by the pizza guy.”

Y/N smiled, heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

She watched him open the door and exchange a few words with the delivery guy, the smell of garlic and melted cheese wafting in seconds later. He carried the box in triumphantly, holding it out like an offering.

“Feast, my muse.”

She rolled her eyes but took the box, setting it on the small table nearby. “Flattery will get you extra slices.”

He handed her a stack of napkins and two paper plates. “Flattery is all I’ve got.”

She caught his eye, a little too long, a little too openly.

“Not all,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t answer, just gave her the smallest smile, and sat back down beside her as they opened the box.

They each grabbed a slice, steam curling up as they folded the greasy crust in half and leaned over their plates. For a few minutes, it was just quiet chewing and occasional muffled groans of approval.

“Oh my god,” Y/N mumbled, mouth half full. “This is criminally good. Are you sure you’re not secretly a pizza snob?”

Harry wiped his hand on a napkin and leaned back, watching her with a smirk. “I’ve lived many lives.”

She laughed, taking another bite. “Yeah, I bet. You’ve got that vibe.”

“What vibe?”

“That whole ‘I’ve done mysterious things and don’t talk about them’ vibe,” she said with mock drama. “Like maybe you studied sculpture in Italy and had a love affair with a woman named Alessandra who broke your heart and turned you into a brooding creative.”

Harry gave her a long, unimpressed look. “You have a very vivid imagination.”

“I have to,” she said with a shrug. “You’re so quiet I have to fill in the blanks somehow.”

He reached for another slice. “For the record, I’ve never dated anyone named Alessandra.”

“Mm,” she said, licking tomato sauce off her thumb. “But you didn’t deny the brooding part.”

“Hard to deny when you keep calling me out like this.”

She grinned and leaned in slightly, eyes dancing. “Don’t worry. I like it. Makes me feel like I’m in a slow-burn romance novel.”

Harry raised a brow. “You think this is slow?”

She blinked, caught off guard by his tone. He didn’t sound defensive—just intrigued. Amused.

“A little,” she said carefully. “But in a good way.”

He set his plate down and leaned toward her, elbows on his knees, his voice lower now. “That night at my place… you didn’t seem like you wanted slow.”

Her breath caught, but she kept her eyes on him. “That was different.”

“Was it?”

The question hung there, heavier than she expected.

She set her own plate down, brushing a stray crumb from her lap. “Okay,” she said softly, “maybe not.”

Harry leaned in just a little more, close enough now that she could feel his breath when he spoke. “You gonna keep teasing me,” he murmured, “or are you finally gonna kiss me again?”

Y/N smiled, heart fluttering. “Oh, I’m definitely still teasing you.”

Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

It started slow, just a brush of lips—soft, easy, unhurried. But when Harry’s hand slid around the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, it deepened—growing warmer, closer, fuller. He tasted faintly of pepperoni and red pepper flakes, and somehow it just made it better.

She shifted on the bench, her knees bumping into his, and he tugged her closer, the pizza forgotten entirely now.

When they finally broke apart, just barely, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’ve got marinara on your lip.”

She grinned. “You gonna wipe it off?”

Harry kissed her again instead—slow and deliberate, and just a little smug.

The kiss lingered, slow and teasing, until Y/N pulled back just slightly—her lips still tingling, her breath shallow. She looked at him, eyes bright, smile hovering on the edge of something deeper.

“I think you like the teasing,” she murmured, voice low.

Harry’s fingers were still resting at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing gently along her jawline. “You’re not wrong,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “But don’t get cocky.”

“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head, her knees now angled toward his. “That sounds like a challenge.”

His eyes flicked to her mouth again, but he didn’t lean in this time. Instead, he let the space stretch—just enough to make her breath hitch. Just enough to make her ache.

“You always like pushing?” he asked softly.

“Only when I know someone’s going to push back.”

He gave a quiet laugh, eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah,” he murmured. “You’ve got that look. Like you want to see how far you can get before someone snaps.”

She leaned in closer, lips hovering just a whisper from his, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

“And are you close to snapping, Harry?”

The silence that followed was heavy. He didn’t answer, not right away. He just studied her—really studied her—as if he were deciding something. Like he was measuring the air between them, the weight of what would happen if he gave in.

Then he leaned in so close his lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath warm and slow.

“You don’t want me to snap.”

A chill ran down her spine, her entire body suddenly still—stilled by the tension in his voice, by the way he hadn’t touched her any further, by the unbearable pause he left behind.

Y/N pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again. Her voice was steady, but low, tight with anticipation. “I think I do.”

Harry exhaled hard through his nose, like he was grounding himself. His jaw clenched once before he stood up abruptly, backing away and dragging a hand through his hair.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, half to himself, pacing toward the center of the gallery.

Y/N watched him—heart pounding, lips parted.

“And you like it,” she said, not as a question.

He turned toward her, his expression unreadable now. Controlled. But his eyes… they were anything but calm.

“I really, really do,” he said.

Y/N stood slowly, her body buzzing with the kind of electricity that made her skin feel too tight. Her eyes never left Harry as he stood across the room, his hands braced on the edge of a display table, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady himself.

She took a step toward him. Then another.

“You keep walking toward me like that,” he said without looking up, “and I’m not going to be able to keep pretending I don’t want to touch you again.”

She didn’t stop.

“I’m not pretending anything,” she said softly.

That made him look up. His gaze locked with hers, sharp and unguarded now, like all the tension he’d tried to smother was right there at the surface, barely contained.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, voice lower now, like it cost him something to say it.

Y/N reached him, closing the space until she was standing just in front of him. Not touching—not yet—but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

“I think I do,” she said. “And I think you’ve been waiting for me to ask.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, a slow drag of breath like he was still holding onto some kind of self-control. His fingers flexed against the table, knuckles white.

“You want me to lose control?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Y/N looked up at him, her voice calm, certain. “Only if you’re going to do it with me.”

That was all it took.

He moved fast, but not rough. One hand slipped to her jaw, the other to her waist, pulling her against him as his mouth met hers again—this time deeper, hungrier, like the weeks of tension between them had finally cracked open.

She gasped into the kiss, hands finding the front of his shirt, clutching the fabric as he backed her gently into the wall behind them. His body pressed into hers, his hips aligning with hers in a way that made her head spin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, his lips grazing down her neck.

She shook her head, breathless. “I’m not going to.”

His hands gripped her hips tighter, his touch hot and grounding. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Y/N’s fingers slid up his chest, curling around the back of his neck. “Then show me.”

Harry groaned quietly, his restraint thinning with every second. But even in the heat of it, his movements were careful—intentional—as if the tension wasn’t just about lust, but about all the unsaid things still hanging between them.

And maybe that was what made it burn hotter.

Harry’s mouth was back on hers, but this time there was no hesitation—just fire. The kind that came from restraint snapping, from knowing exactly who you wanted and finally being allowed to have them.

His hands roamed her body like he was memorizing it—over her hips, her waist, her back—pulling her tighter against him with a hunger that made her knees weak. She gasped into his mouth, and he caught it, deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers in a slow, devastating rhythm.

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping underneath to find skin—hot, firm, tense beneath her touch. He hissed softly when her nails dragged up his stomach, his hips pressing into hers in return. Every movement was deliberate, every shift of weight, every brush of breath.

“Say it,” he murmured against her mouth, voice rough and low. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she whispered, already breathless. “I want you.”

That was all he needed.

Harry reached behind her thighs and lifted her effortlessly, her back pressing against the cool wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. She clutched his shoulders, dizzy from how easily he handled her, from how right it felt to be held like this.

He kissed her harder now—his lips demanding, his grip tightening—like he was unraveling everything they’d both been holding back.

Y/N moaned into the kiss, her body arching into his, and he growled softly at the sound, grinding into her just enough to make her gasp again.

The world shrank to the heat between them—the friction of denim and cotton, the electric drag of his mouth on her throat, the low groan he let out when she bit gently at his jaw.

“Not here,” he said against her skin, voice barely controlled. “I need you somewhere I can take my time.”

Her answer was a desperate nod as he carried her down the gallery hallway, their mouths finding each other again between whispered curses and stifled laughter.

And when he set her down inside the dim back room, closing the door behind them, there was no space left for questions.

Only touch.

Only them.

Harry set her down carefully, his hands not leaving her body for a second. The back room was dark except for a small amber-toned lamp glowing in the corner, casting everything in soft, golden warmth. It was quiet here. Removed. Like the rest of the world had been left out in the gallery.

They stood chest to chest, breathing heavily, their foreheads brushing as if neither one of them wanted to break the closeness.

He cupped her face gently, the same hands that had moved with such certainty just moments before now holding her like something fragile. His thumb swept across her cheek as his eyes searched hers.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough but steady. “I need you to say it again.”

“I’m sure,” she whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again—slower now, deeper—his hands sliding under her overalls, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin at her hips. She tugged at his shirt and he let her lift it over his head, revealing his chest, his inked skin glowing faintly in the soft light.

She ran her hands across his stomach, up his chest, over his shoulders. Every inch of him was warm and firm and real—no longer the guarded neighbor, but him, here, undone in front of her.

He made quick work of her straps, dragging the overalls down her arms and letting them fall to her waist. His mouth followed the path of bare skin he uncovered—pressing soft, heated kisses along her collarbone, then lower.

His fingers dipped beneath the band of her underwear, hesitating just once—giving her one last chance to stop him. She kissed him instead, hungry and breathless, her hand finding the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

He groaned against her lips and pressed her back gently onto the cushioned bench in the corner, kneeling between her legs. His hands were everywhere—gripping, exploring, guiding—his touch reverent and firm, like he’d dreamed of this too many times to rush it now.

Y/N arched into him, her breath catching as he dragged his mouth down her neck again, whispering things she couldn’t quite hear but felt—in the way he moved, in the way he looked at her, like this wasn’t just want.

It was need.

It was craving.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Harry eased her down onto the bench, his hands hot and certain as they swept across her body. His touch was deliberate—fingers dragging slowly over her curves like he was memorizing every inch of her, tracing the places that made her breath catch, the spots that made her hips shift beneath him.

He hovered above her, his body a perfect weight between control and temptation. One arm braced beside her head, the other slid along her waist before dipping under the hem of her shirt—his shirt, oversized and thin, clinging to her in all the right ways. When his fingers brushed bare skin, she lifted her arms, wordlessly offering herself up as he pulled it over her head and tossed it aside.

He stared for a beat—like she was sacred. Like stripping her down didn’t make her smaller but somehow more powerful, more captivating. His gaze was reverent. Worshipful. Like he’d been starving for this, for her.

“You’re killing me,” he breathed, voice low, lips grazing hers.

“Then don’t stop,” she whispered, tugging him closer.

Their mouths met again, deeper this time. His kiss wasn’t just hungry—it was consuming. Tongue sliding against hers, his hand fisting in her hair. Her legs parted around him, thighs cradling his hips, inviting more. Wanting more.

His hands explored her—palming her breasts, brushing his thumbs over hardened nipples, coaxing soft sounds from her throat that only made him groan in response. His mouth followed soon after, dragging down her neck, then lower, slow and sure, until she was squirming beneath him.

“Harry,” she gasped, hips lifting instinctively.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against her skin, his breath hot as he pressed kisses along her stomach, then lower still. “If you want me to.”

“I don’t,” she breathed. “Please don’t.”

He peeled her underwear down, eyes never leaving hers. She felt bared to him, open in every way—and yet she wasn’t nervous. His touch was gentle even as it was firm, teasing even as it made her ache.

When his mouth found her, she cried out, fingers threading into his curls. He worked her slowly, deliberately, taking his time like he wanted to ruin her for anyone else. She couldn’t think—only feel. Wave after wave built and crashed inside her as he drew it out, licking, sucking, moaning into her until she shattered.

And still, he didn’t rush.

When he moved back up her body, she caught his face in her hands, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and relief. Her fingers fumbled with his belt, and he let her, pushing his jeans down just enough to free himself. He was hard, hot, and heavy against her thigh, and when he pressed forward, she arched up to meet him, bodies aligning like they were made for this.

“Are you sure?” he murmured, voice almost ragged.

“Yes,” she said. “God, yes.”

He slid into her slowly, both of them gasping at the contact—how right it felt. He held still for a second, buried deep, forehead resting against hers, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even closer.

They moved together, rhythm building from a slow, grounding pulse into something deeper, hotter. He fucked her like he needed her—like this wasn’t just about lust but something more primal, more profound. Her name fell from his lips in a broken whisper, and she clung to him like she didn’t want to let go. Like she couldn’t.

When they finally collapsed together, chests heaving, limbs tangled, neither of them spoke right away. The silence was thick with everything that hadn’t been said—everything that had been felt.

Harry brushed the hair from her face, thumb grazing her cheekbone. “You okay?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, smiling faintly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

The stillness after was thick—not uncomfortable, but not exactly easy either. Y/N lay quietly for a moment, curled into the crook of Harry’s arm, listening to the low hum of the city outside the gallery’s back room window. The weight of what had just happened settled in her chest like warm gravity.

But reality crept back in slowly. The dim light. The distant sound of a car passing. The fact that they were tangled up, half dressed, on a bench in the back of his gallery with a few half-eaten slices of pizza growing cold in the front room.

She shifted slightly, glancing up at him. “We’re really going to pretend this bench was comfortable?”

Harry gave a soft huff of a laugh, his hand brushing over her bare arm. “It was a terrible idea.”

“But effective,” she said under her breath, lips tugging into a crooked smile.

He smirked faintly, but the moment that followed felt… fragile.

Y/N sat up slowly, reaching for her shirt and slipping it over her head, suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. The intimacy between them still hung in the air, but now it was layered with something new—uncertainty, maybe. Or the weight of unspoken thoughts.

Harry stood and pulled his shirt back on, running a hand through his hair before reaching for a roll of paper towels on a nearby shelf. He handed one to her without meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” she muttered, taking it.

He nodded, then rubbed the back of his neck. “We should probably… finish cleaning up. Lock up soon.”

There it was.

The shift.

Y/N nodded, swallowing the knot that rose in her throat. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

They dressed in silence, save for the occasional shuffle or zip. The room that had felt like a world of its own an hour ago now felt too quiet, too small.

Harry grabbed the empty pizza box and the napkins from earlier. “I’ll toss this,” he said, already heading toward the door.

Y/N lingered a second, tugging on her boots, trying to decide what to do with the tension coiling under her ribs. Part of her wanted to ask what this meant. Another part didn’t want to risk hearing the answer.

When she walked back out into the gallery, Harry was stacking chairs near the wall, calm and methodical, like he needed the routine to ground him.

“Do you want help?” she asked.

He paused, glanced at her, then gave a soft shrug. “Sure.”

And so they moved in quiet tandem—rearranging furniture, switching off lights, pretending like their bodies hadn’t just been wrapped around each other in the dark.

Pretending like they weren’t both waiting for someone to say something.

They finished the last of the cleanup in near silence, the clatter of chair legs and the soft creak of wood against tile filling the space where words wouldn’t go. Y/N tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket as Harry flipped the gallery’s lights off one by one, casting the room into gentle shadow.

By the time they reached the front door, the air outside had cooled. The streets were quiet, the buzz of the city dimming down to the low hum of night.

Harry locked the door behind them, the metallic click echoing in the stillness. Y/N stood beside him on the sidewalk, arms folded over her chest—not cold, just unsure what to do with them.

He turned to her, the gallery now behind him, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“I’ve got a few more things to finish up in the back,” he said. “Paperwork. Inventory stuff.”

She nodded, looking up at him. “Right. Of course.”

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to hers for half a second before drifting away again. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you around the building.”

The words hit her like a soft thud—gentle, but impossible to miss.

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a small smile. “See you around.”

They stood there for one more breath of stillness before she turned and walked toward her car, her shoes quiet against the pavement. She didn’t look back, didn’t ask if this was the part where things were supposed to change—or if they already had.

Harry stayed at the door, watching her go. Not calling out. Not explaining.

And maybe that was the most honest part of it.

Because some things weren’t defined in the moment—they just were.

Unspoken. Lingering.

And still unfinished.

It had been four days.

Four days since the gallery.

Four days since the kiss, the heat, the quiet shift that followed.

Four days of silence from Harry.

Y/N hadn’t texted him. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to be the first to break the tension—but really, it was because she didn’t know what she’d say if she did.

Now, juggling a grocery bag and her keys, she stepped off the elevator onto their floor and turned down the hall toward her apartment. She didn’t expect to see anyone—definitely not him—but as she rounded the corner, there he was.

Harry stood in front of his door, fiddling with his lock, one hand holding a canvas bag. He looked up the second he heard her, and for a moment, they both froze.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey,” she echoed, shifting the weight of the groceries on her hip. “Trouble with the lock?”

He held up the keys. “It hates me.”

Y/N gave a small smile, the awkwardness thick between them but not unbearable.

They stood there for a second too long—neither making a move to keep walking.

Harry broke the silence first. “You been good?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Busy. You?”

He gave a small shrug. “Same.”

The silence stretched again. Not heavy—but loaded.

Y/N shifted, finally moving toward her door. “Well… see you around, then.”

Harry nodded, but didn’t move to unlock his door. “Y/N,” he called quietly before she reached hers.

She turned back.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

She stared at him for a beat. “You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wanted to. I still do.”

She tilted her head slightly, curious. “Then say it.”

Harry hesitated, then took a small step toward her. “Can we… not pretend it didn’t mean something?”

Y/N’s lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across her face—but underneath that, something softer. Relief. Warmth. Something that had been waiting.

“I wasn’t pretending,” she said. “I was just waiting for you to mean it out loud.”

He nodded slowly. “I do.”

There it was. Simple. Uneasy. True.

And maybe still uncertain—but not silent anymore.

Y/N hesitated by her door, keys still in hand, groceries forgotten. Harry stood just a few steps away, his words still echoing quietly between them.

“I do.”

That should’ve been the end of the conversation—awkward hallway moment, followed by days of thinking about it again. But instead, she found herself speaking before she could overthink it.

“You want to come in?” she asked, tilting her head toward her door. “I bought too much pasta. You can help me feel less like I have a carb problem.”

Harry looked at her for a second—like he wasn’t sure if she was serious, like he was still caught in his own head. But then he gave a small, crooked smile.

“Only if I get to judge your sauce,” he said.

“Deal.”

They stepped into her apartment a few minutes later, the soft click of the door behind them oddly grounding. Y/N set the groceries down and flicked on the lights, trying not to overthink the fact that he was here, in her space, again—but this time without the haze of heat or distraction.

She unpacked silently while he leaned against the counter, watching her. The weight of whatever had been lingering between them still hung in the air, but softer now. Like it was ready to be unwrapped, not pushed away.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said again after a moment. “I just… felt weird. Not about you, but about me.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Weird how?”

“I’ve never let something happen that fast,” he said, eyes focused on the corner of the countertop. “And I didn’t want you to think it was just…” He trailed off.

“A one-time thing?” she finished.

He nodded once.

She set the pasta down, crossing her arms. “Did you want it to be?”

His eyes met hers immediately. “No.”

Silence fell again—but this time, it felt like the right kind. The kind where something important was settling.

“I didn’t either,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t sure where you were. And I wasn’t going to chase you through the hallway if you didn’t want to talk.”

“I did want to talk,” he said. “I just didn’t know how to say any of it without messing it up.”

She smiled gently, stepping closer. “Then just say it badly. Say it honestly. Say it however. But don’t say nothing.”

Harry let out a soft breath, then nodded. “Okay.”

They stood in the quiet for a few seconds more, the kind of quiet that felt okay now—like they could breathe in it.

Then Y/N bumped her shoulder into his gently. “Now sit down and be quiet while I cook, or I’ll burn the garlic on purpose.”

He gave a soft laugh and leaned against the counter beside her. “See? Already making threats. We’re back to normal.”

She glanced at him, smirking. “Not normal. Just… honest.”

And maybe that was the most intimate thing they’d done all week.

Y/N stirred the sauce slowly, the scent of garlic and basil filling the small kitchen. The moment between them had settled into something quieter—light jokes, soft glances, the kind of closeness that came from shared silence more than shared words.

Harry leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her. Not in the casual way someone watches a friend cook, but with that same low-burning intensity he always carried, like he was holding back something far more dangerous than a comment about seasoning.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah,” he said simply.

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why?”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then dragged slowly back up to meet her gaze. “Because you look good like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, voice softer now.

Harry pushed off the counter and crossed the small space between them until he was just behind her. Not touching. Just there.

“Like you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low in her ear. “Like I could wrap my hand around your throat and leave marks only I get to see.”

Her breath caught, sauce forgotten.

“And I’d ruin you,” he added, even lower now, “if you’d let me.”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his, heart thudding. “You think I wouldn’t let you?”

Harry stepped closer, the heat of his body against her back now, his hand brushing her hip. “I think you’d let me pretend I’m in control,” he said, “right until you decided to take it from me.”

Y/N let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her fingers tightening around the wooden spoon. “And what if I like the idea of being ruined a little?”

His hand slid from her hip to her waist, gripping firmly, grounding her.

“Then tell me to ruin you.”

She turned fully to face him now, back against the counter, eyes locked with his. “You already are.”

There was no kiss. Not yet. Just heat. Just space charged with every word, every breath between them—closer than they had any right to be, and still not close enough.

“Harry,” she said, her voice almost trembling now.

But he didn’t move.

He just looked at her like he was memorizing her all over again. Like the next time he touched her, it wouldn’t be soft.

It would be deliberate.

And she’d beg for it.

Y/N didn’t say anything at first—she just looked at him. Her lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling faster now, like her body already knew what was coming even if her mind hadn’t caught up.

Then, slowly, she reached up and slid her fingers along the collar of his shirt, curling them just enough to pull him closer.

Harry didn’t resist.

Their mouths met in a rush—nothing soft about it. This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t slow. It was hungry. Like the silence between them had been a dam, and now it had finally cracked open, spilling out all the want they’d swallowed for days.

His hands gripped her waist, then her back, then her hips—like he couldn’t decide where to hold her because he wanted everywhere. She moaned into his mouth, the sound desperate and low, and he groaned in return, deep in his throat like it was pulled from somewhere primal.

He walked her backward blindly until her thighs hit the edge of the kitchen table, scattering a box of pasta and a wooden spoon. Neither of them cared.

“I’ve been trying to be patient,” he said, voice strained, his lips brushing hers between breaths. “But you—”

“You don’t have to be,” she whispered, fingers already tugging his shirt from his jeans.

He kissed her again—deeper this time, with a groan that vibrated through her bones—and then his hands were everywhere. Under her shirt. Against her ribs. Sliding up her back. He lifted her onto the table like she weighed nothing, stepping between her legs as she wrapped them around his hips, pulling him impossibly close.

The table creaked beneath them, but neither of them moved to stop it. Her hands tangled in his hair, holding him there as his mouth traveled along her neck, her shoulder, biting down just enough to make her gasp.

She arched into him, her voice raw in his ear. “Touch me.”

His breath stuttered. His hand slid between them, slow, sure. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispered, almost trembling. “All of you. Like you said. Ruin me.”

Something in him broke at that.

He pulled her against him so tightly it felt like there was no line between where she ended and he began. His mouth found hers again, and this time it was rougher, deeper. Like he was trying to consume her. And she let him.

Because this wasn’t just heat.

It was everything they hadn’t said.

Everything they felt.

And in that moment—pressed against the table, hands frantic, lips bruised and searching—they weren’t neighbors. They weren’t taking it slow. They weren’t teasing.

They were coming undone.

The room had fallen still again, the air heavy with heat and something unspoken—something tender beneath the wreckage of what just happened.

The pasta sat forgotten on the counter. A spoon had rolled onto the floor. Her shirt was somewhere behind her. And Harry was breathing hard, standing between her legs, one hand still wrapped around her thigh, the other braced against the table like he needed it to stay upright.

Y/N leaned into him, her forehead against his shoulder, her fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Not after that.

He rested his chin against the top of her head. Neither of them spoke.

Her heart was still racing, and not just from the physical high—it was the weight of what had just passed between them. Because that wasn’t casual. That wasn’t just lust. That was raw, and real, and terrifying in the way that made her want to both run and stay at the same time.

Harry finally spoke, his voice low and rough. “Y/N.”

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

He looked at her like he wanted to say something important. But all that came out was, “That was…”

She nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

They stared at each other for a moment, silent, stripped of the tension that had once built everything between them.

He ran his thumb slowly along her knee, grounding himself in the feel of her skin. “I meant it,” he said. “When I said it wasn’t just that night. Or this.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I know,” she said softly. “Me too.”

He exhaled, brushing his hand along her cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His voice softened even more. “You scare the hell out of me.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “Good. You should be scared. I bite.”

He smiled, barely, then leaned in and kissed her forehead.

Not her lips. Not again.

Then he stepped back just enough to help her down from the table, their hands still laced for a moment too long before she bent to grab her shirt from the floor.

They dressed in silence again, but it wasn’t awkward this time—it was full. Full of something new and heavy and bright all at once. Something that didn’t need defining just yet.

When she handed him a towel to wipe down the table, he took it with a smirk. “So… pasta?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Definitely ruined the sauce.”

“You ruined me,” he muttered under his breath, and she caught it.

She didn’t respond.

She just walked past him, fingers brushing his as she said, “Let’s eat anyway.”

And he followed—quiet, wrecked, and maybe already a little bit hers.

The days blurred together, soft and hazy and full of quiet moments that felt like stolen time.

Harry would show up at her door with a bottle of wine and a crooked smile. Sometimes she’d end up at his place, curled on his couch in one of his hoodies, her legs draped over his lap. And almost always, one of them would end up pressed against a wall or tangled in the sheets—breathless, hands gripping, lips searching like they couldn’t not touch.

It was easy. Familiar. Addictive.

But never once had either of them said the word “relationship.” Or “dating.” Or even “us.”

Which is exactly why Y/N found herself pacing her living room on a Tuesday night, staring at her phone with a furrowed brow and a nervous pit in her stomach.

Finally, she opened her group chat.

Y/N:

Okay. So. Please tell me it’s not crazy that I still have no idea what’s going on with Harry.

Lila:

Omg HERE we go.

Are we finally addressing the hot sex haze you’ve been floating in?

Harper:

I’ve been waiting for this moment.

Drop the details. Are we in too-deep territory?

Y/N:

We’ve been… seeing each other. Not just once. Not just a hookup.

It’s like we hang out, we sleep together, he stays over sometimes…

but we’ve never talked about what this is. Or what we want it to be.

Lila:

Y/N. Babe. That’s not nothing.

If he’s coming back, staying over, showing up for more than sex—it means something.

Harper:

Have you thought about asking him directly?

Y/N:

Yes. Constantly.

But what if I ask and ruin it? What if he doesn’t want what I do?

Lila:

But isn’t not knowing already ruining it?

Harper:

You’re not asking for a proposal. You’re asking for clarity.

And you deserve that.

Y/N read their replies twice, then sat down slowly, her thumbs hovering above her screen. She knew they were right. She knew she couldn’t keep riding this line between casual and committed without knowing where he stood.

But the truth was… she was scared.

Scared of what would happen if she asked.

The laundry basket dug into her hip as Y/N walked barefoot down the hallway, still warm from the dryer. Her oversized tee clung slightly to her side from the heat of the clothes inside. It was late—close to midnight—and the building was quiet, lights dimmed, the kind of hush that made everything feel softer.

As she turned the corner to her apartment, she nearly walked straight into him.

Harry.

He stood outside his door, barefoot, holding a half-finished glass of red wine, his black hoodie hanging loose over his frame. His eyes flicked up from the phone in his hand—and when he saw her, something in his face changed. Warmer. Softer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little rough from the quiet.

“Hey,” she replied, slightly breathless. “Didn’t expect to see you.”

He looked her over once, slow and easy. “Laundry night?”

She held up the basket. “As glamorous as it gets.”

Harry chuckled under his breath and stepped aside slightly, nodding toward his door. “You want to come in? I’ve got wine. The good kind. The kind you pretend you only drink one glass of and then accidentally finish the bottle.”

Y/N hesitated for only half a second, then gave a crooked smile. “Twist my arm.”

He opened the door and let her in. The lights were low—just one lamp on in the corner, casting the apartment in that familiar golden glow. A half-empty bottle of wine sat on the coffee table, two glasses, a record playing something soft and instrumental in the background.

It felt intimate. But not planned.

She set her laundry basket down near the door and slid onto the couch. He poured her a glass and handed it over before settling beside her, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers just barely brushing her shoulder.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded, sipping the wine. “Long week.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the tension not uncomfortable—but present. Lingering like it always did with them now. Like the question neither of them had asked was sitting there between the glasses and the silence, waiting to be said aloud.

The wine made everything feel warmer. Softer. Y/N sat curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath her, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She wasn’t drunk, not really—just loose enough that her thoughts were slipping closer to her mouth.

Harry was beside her, one arm still resting along the back of the couch. Every now and then, his fingers brushed her shoulder, absentminded. Familiar. Like they’d done this a hundred times.

But she was quieter than usual. No teasing, no casual sarcasm. Just silence.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. “You’ve barely said anything since we sat down.”

She hesitated, staring into her glass like the right answer might be floating somewhere in the swirl of merlot.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, after a beat: “I’m just tired.”

Harry turned slightly, studying her. “You sure?”

Y/N gave him a small smile. “You’re not even grumpy right now. I don’t want to be the one to ruin it.”

That made his brow furrow. “Ruin what?”

She looked at him, finally meeting his eyes. “Us.”

The word hung there—bare, trembling.

“I mean, not us us,” she rushed to add, fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “Just… whatever this is. I don’t want to mess it up. But I’m also kind of losing my mind trying to figure out what it actually is.”

Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I keep thinking maybe I should just ask,” she continued, voice softer now, “but then I picture you getting that broody, quiet look and pulling away, and I just… don’t. Because I don’t want to ruin something that’s good.”

A silence stretched out between them—thick with vulnerability and that fragile hum of maybe-something-more.

Harry set his glass down carefully, then reached for hers and did the same. When he turned to her again, he was closer—his knee brushing hers, his voice low and steady.

“You’re not going to ruin anything,” he said. “And I’m not pulling away.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“I know I haven’t said much,” he went on, “and I’ve probably made this more confusing than it needed to be. But I’m not here for casual.”

Y/N’s eyes searched his, her heart in her throat.

“I don’t always know how to say what I want,” he admitted, “but I know I want you. Not just late at night. Not just when it’s convenient.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve wanted to say something for a while,” he added. “I just didn’t want to say it wrong.”

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

He gave a faint smile. “You kind of said it for both of us.”

Then, quieter still, he added, “Is that okay?”

Y/N nodded, something in her chest loosening. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s really okay.”

He reached for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers with the kind of ease that only comes when you know it’s more.

And in that moment, she didn’t feel confused.

She just felt chosen.

Harry’s thumb traced soft circles over her knuckles as the quiet stretched, comfortable now—no longer heavy with what wasn’t said, but filled with the warmth of everything that finally had been.

Then he pulled his hand away gently and stood up.

“I want to give you something,” he said, voice almost shy.

Y/N watched him walk across the room, barefoot and a little flushed, as he opened one of the wooden cabinets near his kitchen counter. He rifled through for a moment before turning around with something in his hands—small, rounded, and painted in muted tones of deep green and soft blue, like sea glass.

A vase. Delicate, imperfect in the most beautiful way. Swirled with color, thumbprints still subtly visible in the shape of its curve. It looked like it had been loved.

Harry brought it over and placed it gently in her hands.

She blinked down at it, smiling. “Harry… it’s really beautiful. What is it?”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time all night. “You remember that night at the gallery? When you were messing around with the pottery wheel?”

She glanced up, heart flipping.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I remember.”

It hit her all at once—a flash of memory: her hands caked in clay, his arms around her, guiding her movements, his voice low in her ear as he taught her how to shape something from nothing.

“I kept it,” he said. “The piece you made. After you left, I fixed it up a little. Smoothed the shape, made sure it didn’t collapse in the kiln. Painted it. Fired it properly.”

Y/N stared down at the vase in her hands, something tightening behind her ribs.

“You saved it?” she asked, looking up at him, her voice catching slightly.

Harry shrugged, eyes softer now. “You said you’d never done it before. I figured you should get to keep your first piece.”

Her throat tightened. She ran her fingers over the glaze, touched by how intentional it felt—not just the object, but the gesture. The way he’d taken something she hadn’t even thought twice about and turned it into this.

Into something permanent.

“You’re kind of ruining your whole ‘emotionally unavailable’ vibe,” she whispered, smiling up at him.

He laughed under his breath, then sat beside her again. “Yeah, well. You’re ruining my ‘grumpy loner’ brand, so I guess we’re even.”

Y/N looked at the vase once more before setting it carefully on the table and curling back into his side, her head against his shoulder.

“I love it,” she said.

And she meant the vase.

But maybe… she meant more.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Pillow Wall

Where Harry wants to blame the cold or the mattress or her gravity, but the truth is, he just sleeps better wrapped up in her.

Word count: 1,357

Every night, they start the same way.

Harry climbs into bed first, flops onto his side with a groan like it’s been the longest day in the world—even if it hasn’t. Y/N follows a minute later, switching off the lamp, the room going soft and quiet.

He shifts to the far edge of his side. She mirrors him on hers. A whole country between them.

“G’night, love,” he says, muffled into his pillow.

“’Night,” she replies, already halfway to sleep.

Sometimes he’ll add something dumb, like “Don’t steal the covers,” even though she never does. Or, “Don’t kick me,” even though it’s his foot that always ends up on her side.

They face away from each other. No touching. No cuddling. No crossing the invisible line.

It’s not a cold thing—it’s just how it is. She likes her space. He says he sleeps better without limbs on him. It works.

At least until morning.

Because every single day, without fail, Y/N wakes up with Harry practically glued to her.

This morning, it’s worse than usual. He’s managed to wedge himself between her arm and chest, face smushed against her collarbone, one leg thrown across her hips like he’s trying to claim territory. His breath is warm and slow against her skin. Peaceful. Way too comfortable for someone who swears he needs “distance to function.”

She blinks at the ceiling for a second, lips twitching.

“Again?” she mumbles, mostly to herself.

Harry stirs, groaning like someone’s just disturbed his royal slumber.

“You dragged me in,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “Every time. Like a bloody magnet.”

She snorts. “Sure I did.”

His arms tighten just slightly around her, and then he goes still again, already drifting back off.

Liar, she thinks.

It keeps happening.

The next morning, she wakes up with his nose buried in her neck and his hand resting casually under her shirt, palm flat against her stomach like he belongs there. He’s snoring lightly, and his leg is hooked around hers in a way that makes it physically impossible to move without waking him.

She lies there for a minute, not quite annoyed, not quite amused—just… baffled. Again.

“Harry,” she whispers, shifting just enough to make a point.

“Mm?” His voice is rough, still half in a dream. “Cold. You pulled me in.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did too.”

She sighs. He’s not even trying anymore.

Morning three, she wakes up practically spooning him. His back is to her, but her arm is slung around his waist, his fingers lazily twined with hers, like they fell asleep mid-conversation. Like this is just what they do.

She pulls her hand back slowly, like she’s dealing with a wild animal, and rolls onto her side. He follows her instinctively, still asleep, reaching for her even as she escapes.

By the time she gets up to brush her teeth, he’s taken over her pillow and curled into the spot where she was like a cat chasing warmth.

“Menace,” she mutters under her breath.

The next day, she wakes up nose-to-nose with him. Full frontal cuddle. His knee between her thighs, his arms around her like they’ve been in the middle of some intense, slow-motion hug all night. His lips are slightly parted, curls a mess, breath hitting her chin in soft little waves.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try.

“You okay down there?” she whispers.

His eyes barely crack open. “Would be better if you’d stop yanking me in like a sleep-deprived octopus.”

She just stares at him. “You seriously think I’m the one doing this?”

“Babe,” he says, voice low and hoarse, “I’m a victim.”

Then he presses his face back into her neck and falls asleep again.

A smug, snoring victim.

It happens again on a Thursday.

She wakes up with his entire body sprawled on top of hers. His head is tucked beneath her chin, his arms wrapped under her back, and somehow, he’s managed to get one of his feet under her calf like he’s trying to anchor her in place.

She’s had enough.

“Harry,” she says, sharp this time.

“Mmmph.”

“Get off me.”

He groans, buries his face deeper into her chest like that’ll help. “Why’re you so loud?”

“Because you are a liar,” she says, untangling her arm and smacking his shoulder with it. “You keep blaming me for this. Every morning. Like I’m the one dragging your six-foot ass across the bed in my sleep.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just exhales, long and dramatic.

“Look at this,” she gestures, even though his eyes are still shut. “You’re fully on top of me. There is no way I pulled you into this.”

He cracks one eye open. “You’re warm.”

“Oh my god.”

“You’re warm,” he repeats, like that explains everything. “And you smell nice. And sometimes I wake up a little and think, ‘Cuddles would be good,’ and then I just… do it.”

She gapes at him. “So you admit it.”

“I’m only human, Y/N.”

She smacks him with a pillow.

He grins into her shirt. Doesn’t even pretend to move.

Later that night, she makes a big production out of it.

“I’m putting a pillow wall between us,” she announces, tossing one of the big decorative ones from the couch onto the bed and propping it upright between them. “You stay on your side. No trespassing. I mean it.”

Harry watches her from his side, already under the covers, biting back a smile.

“Alright,” he says, hands up in surrender. “Message received. No cuddles. Ever again.”

“Exactly,” she says, climbing in. “Cuddle embargo. Effective immediately.”

“Harsh but fair.”

“Thank you.”

She clicks off the lamp. Silence falls.

For two minutes.

Then—

“I just think,” he says quietly, “you’re being a bit dramatic about how much you love me.”

She groans into her pillow. “Harry.”

“Can’t help that you’re clingy in your sleep. I’m the victim here, remember?”

She tosses a hand over the pillow wall and hits him in the face without looking.

He laughs. “That’s assault.”

She stays silent. Firm. Unmoving. She’s serious this time.

Until morning.

Because, of course, when she wakes up, the pillow wall is gone—mysteriously vanished—and Harry is back where he always ends up: wrapped around her like he belongs there, like it’s instinct. Like neither of them ever meant the distance in the first place.

She doesn’t bother waking him. Just lies there, hand idly brushing through his hair.

She’ll rebuild the wall tonight. Maybe.

Probably not.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Honey & Venom: III

Where a quiet life is shattered by a single look, and Y/N learns there’s no such thing as innocence when you choose to stay.

Part 1 & 2

Word Count: 10.9K

Content Warning: Murder, Blood, Cursing, Smut.

The apartment was small and suffocating. Dingy carpet, water-stained ceilings, a radiator that  groaned all night like it was in pain. The walls were a tired yellow, and everything smelled faintly  of bleach and something older beneath it. 

But they had privacy and for now, that was enough. 

Y/N stood by the stove, stirring a pot of soup that was mostly broth. The flame was uneven  and low, but it worked. She’d found it at a pawn shop two blocks over. She’d bartered with a  guy who couldn’t stop staring at her chest. Harry hadn’t come in with her—he never did anymore. 

Behind her, he sat at the table. One leg bouncing. Fingers tapping rhythm on the warped wood. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was watching her. 

She could feel it. 

He was always watching. 

“What?” she asked, not looking up from the pot. 

A beat of silence. Then— 

“You left the door unlocked earlier.” 

She paused, her hand tightening slightly around the spoon. 

“Did I?” 

He didn’t answer. 

She turned to glance at him. He sat back, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. The  same look he always wore when he was trying not to look like he cared. 

“I must’ve been distracted,” she said, setting the spoon down. 

Still nothing. 

She brought the pot over anyway, set it on the table between them, and sat. They didn’t bother  with bowls. One spoon each. Take turns. 

She took the first bite. Salty. Barely food. 

“It’s not terrible,” she said. 

He took the spoon from her hand and dug in. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. “It’s fine.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out beneath the table until they bumped into  his. He didn’t move away. 

It was quiet again. 

But the kind that pressed against your ribs. The kind that said something’s coming. 

She stayed leaned back, legs stretched beneath the table, her bare toes brushing against his  ankle. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just took another spoonful, slow and silent, gaze fixed  somewhere over her shoulder. 

The tension wasn’t sharp. Not yet. 

But it was there—settling in like dust, subtle and familiar. 

“How long you think we’ll stay here?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. Harry shrugged. “Long as we can.” 

That meant until someone noticed something. Until he did something. Until she did. 

Y/N glanced around the room. One window faced a brick wall. The other, a narrow alley where  garbage piled up and cats screamed all night. The bed behind them was just a mattress on the  floor with a stack of folded blankets. There was no TV. No décor. Nothing to make it feel like  home. 

Still, they’d made a routine. 

She cooked. He came home. She didn’t ask where he’d been. He didn’t ask what she thought  about during the hours he was gone. 

But sometimes—like now—he watched her like he knew. 

Like he could see it all written on her face. 

Y/N tapped her nails against the edge of the table. “We should get a lamp,” she said. “The  overhead makes it feel like an interrogation room.” 

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. Barely there. But real. 

“You miss cozy lighting?” 

“I miss lamps that don’t flicker when you blink too hard.” 

He passed the spoon back to her, their fingers brushing. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. “You miss anything else?” he asked. 

The question was quiet. Almost too quiet. 

Y/N blinked. She looked at him—really looked. 

And for a second, he wasn’t just Harry, the man she’d followed into hell.

He was just a man. Sitting in front of her. Asking what was left. 

She could’ve said a dozen things. Her apartment. Her mother. Mornings that didn’t feel like  walking on glass. 

But instead she said, “No.” 

Harry looked at her a beat longer, like he was trying to decide if she meant it. Then he leaned back in his chair and said nothing more. 

The silence that followed didn’t press quite as hard. 

Not yet. 

The soup between them had gone cold, but neither of them cared. 

Y/N’s hand lingered against the back of his. She didn’t pull away, and Harry didn’t move. He  just sat there, letting her touch him—letting the silence sit without crowding it. 

His gaze was steady, calm in a way that made her stomach twist. Not because he was cold,  but because he wasn’t. 

Not with her. 

And for all the chaos, the running, the blood—this was what made her stay. She slid her hand up slowly, her fingers curling around his. 

“Say it again,” she said softly. 

Harry tilted his head. “Say what?” 

“What you said. About your mum, ya know. That one night.” 

He exhaled slowly, like the admission cost him. But he didn’t hesitate. 

“She would’ve loved you.” 

Y/N stood. Walked the two slow steps around the table. Stopped in front of him. He didn’t look away. Didn’t ask what she was doing. 

She slid onto his lap, careful, steady, straddling his legs with hers. One hand on his shoulder.  The other curling into his shirt. 

His hands settled at her waist, like instinct. 

She leaned in, so close her breath touched his mouth. 

“You don’t say shit like that,” she whispered, “and expect me not to kiss you.”

Harry smirked, just barely. “So kiss me.” 

She did. 

Slow at first—just a press of mouths, a quiet exchange. Then deeper. Warmer. Her fingers  curling tighter in the fabric at his chest. His grip firming at her hips. 

He kissed like he had nothing to prove. Like he already knew he owned her. But there was softness there, too. A kind of hunger that wasn’t just about power. When she pulled back, her lips swollen, breath caught in her throat, he didn’t let go. He just rested his forehead against hers, eyes still closed, voice low. 

“I don’t love many things,” he murmured. “But I love you.” 

Y/N’s heart stuttered. 

He kept going. 

“She would’ve loved you too.” 

Her throat tightened. She let her hands slide up into his hair, curling there, holding him close.  She loved hearing those words as if they were her own power over him.  

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. 

He didn’t answer. 

Just held her tighter. 

Because he didn’t have to say it. 

He wasn’t going anywhere. 

Not now. Not ever. 

They didn’t move for a while. 

Her knees on either side of his hips, his hands resting on her back, her head tucked into the  crook of his neck. The world outside the apartment didn’t exist—not the cracked sidewalks,  not the alley full of garbage, not the ghosts they both carried. 

Just this. 

Just the weight of her on him, his heartbeat steady against her chest, the hum of the radiator  filling the silence. 

Eventually, Y/N slid off his lap. He didn’t stop her. Just watched as she pulled the blanket from  the bed and draped it over his shoulders like she was tucking in something fragile. 

“Still hungry?” she asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’m good.” 

She kissed his temple, then wandered back to the stove, flicking it off and rinsing the pot  without a word. He stayed at the table, eyes following her the whole time. 

This was the rhythm. 

Soft touches in between storms. Little silences that didn’t feel like distance. But it never lasted. 

And part of her knew that. 

The next day started like any other. 

Gray skies, the buzz of traffic outside, cold floors under bare feet. 

She threw on an old sweater and jeans. Told Harry she was walking to the corner store. He  grunted something from the bed, half-asleep, arm thrown over his eyes. 

It was normal. 

It was nothing. 

She didn’t know he’d follow her. 

The corner store was a six-minute walk from their apartment. 

Seven, if she cut through the alley. 

It was the kind of place where the floor tiles curled at the corners and the overhead lights  flickered just enough to make your head throb. The bell above the door let out a weak jingle  when she stepped in, her hands shoved in the front pocket of her hoodie. 

There was only one person behind the counter. 

Young. Late twenties, maybe. 

Dark hair. A decent smile. Clean, with forearms inked in a way that felt like a choice, not a  warning. 

Y/N gave him a small nod as she passed by. He gave one back. 

She wasn’t there for long. Just bread, bottled water, and a pack of aspirin. The cashier  watched her move through the aisles—not in a threatening way. Just curious. 

She was used to being stared at. 

But this one felt different. 

Softer. 

He leaned slightly over the counter when she came up to pay. “I don’t think I’ve seen you  around before.”

She forced a small smile. “We just moved in. Down the block.” 

“We?” 

She froze for half a second, then recovered. “Me and my boyfriend.” 

He nodded like he’d expected it. “Lucky guy.” 

She didn’t answer. Just pulled a few wrinkled bills from her pocket and handed them over. “You from around here?” he asked, punching the numbers into the old register. “No.” 

He handed her the bag. Their fingers brushed, and she didn’t like the way he looked at her  then. Not because it was inappropriate. 

Because it was kind. 

The kind of look she used to want. 

The kind of look Harry never gave her—not like that. 

She muttered a thank you and turned to leave, heart tapping a little too fast. The bell jingled weakly behind her. 

She didn’t see Harry until she was halfway down the block. 

He was across the street, leaned against the bus stop shelter like he’d been there for hours. Watching. 

She stopped. 

Their eyes met. 

His face was blank, unreadable, but she knew that look. Knew it in her spine. He didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just waited. 

She crossed the street slowly, her throat suddenly dry. 

“How long were you standing there?” she asked when she reached him. He shrugged. “Long enough.” 

Y/N tightened her grip on the plastic bag. “You followed me?”

“You said it yourself. You left the door unlocked the other day. Thought maybe you’d forget  something else.” 

“Like what?” 

Harry’s gaze darkened. “Like you have a boyfriend.” 

She stared at him. 

“That guy wasn’t a threat,” she said carefully. 

“I know.” 

“Then what is this?” 

He leaned in, just enough so only she could hear. His voice was low. Measured. “He looked at you like you were his. And you let him.” 

Her stomach turned. “I didn’t—” 

“I saw the way you smiled.” 

“It was polite.” 

“It was too polite.” 

Y/N took a step back. Not out of fear—just space. Just air. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said quietly. 

Harry tilted his head, studying her. “Am I?” 

She didn’t respond. 

Didn’t trust herself to. 

He nodded once, like he’d made up his mind about something. 

And then he turned and started walking. 

She didn’t follow. 

Not right away. 

Because something in the way he moved—calm, quiet, deliberate—told her this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. 

Not the kind of silence that came easy—the kind they were used to, the kind that filled the  spaces between them without causing damage.

This was different. 

This was a silence that pushed against her. Pressed in on all sides. 

Harry didn’t speak the entire way. Just walked a few paces ahead of her, shoulders tight, hands  in his pockets, jaw set hard. 

When they reached the building, he didn’t wait for her. Didn’t hold the door like he usually did.  He let it slam behind him, the sound echoing up the stairwell. 

Y/N followed slowly, heart heavy in her chest. 

By the time she stepped inside the apartment, Harry had already dropped onto the mattress,  elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor like he was trying to burn a hole through it. 

She closed the door gently. Set the bag on the counter. 

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” she asked softly. 

Nothing. 

“Harry.” 

Still nothing. 

She crossed the room, slowly, cautiously, and crouched in front of him. 

“Look at me.” 

He didn’t. 

“Please.” 

He finally lifted his gaze, and what she saw there made her breath catch. Not anger. Not exactly. 

Something tighter. Meaner. 

Hurt. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice low. 

She blinked. “What am I supposed to get?” 

He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. “You smiled at him.” 

“It was nothing—” 

“It wasn’t nothing to him.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you let it happen. You let him think he had a chance. You gave him a piece of something  that’s mine.” 

Her chest squeezed. “I didn’t—” 

“You did.” 

She sat back on her heels. “So what, you’re punishing me now?” 

Harry stood suddenly, pacing across the room. 

“I’ve done everything to keep us safe,” he muttered. “Everything. I’ve stayed low. I’ve kept my  head down. I’ve let you breathe. I’ve let you feel normal.” 

“I never asked for normal.” 

He turned on her then. “No. But you liked it. And maybe you liked it too much.” Y/N stood, jaw tight. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

He scoffed. “For now.” 

That hit somewhere deep. 

She crossed her arms, standing firm even as her stomach twisted. 

“You really think I’d leave you for some guy behind a counter?” 

“I think you miss who you used to be. I think sometimes you forget who I am.” She stared at him. “I never forget.” 

Harry stepped close, too close, his voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Then act like it.” 

Y/N’s breath shook. 

“I’m yours,” she said. “You know that.” 

His jaw twitched. 

“I just hate the idea of someone else thinking you’re not.” 

She nodded slowly. “Okay. Then tell me what you want from me.” 

He didn’t answer. 

Not right away. 

The day passed in pieces. 

They didn’t talk after the fight.

Y/N moved quietly around the apartment—folded clothes, reheated soup, filled the silence with  anything she could touch. Harry stayed still. Sat in the same chair for hours, barely moved,  eyes following her like he didn’t trust her anymore. 

Like he didn’t know if she was still his. 

When the sun went down, she climbed into bed without a word. 

He followed, eventually. 

The mattress sagged under his weight. He lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, face  turned toward the ceiling. 

Y/N curled onto her side, back to him. 

They didn’t touch. 

Didn’t speak. 

The radiator hissed in the corner. A dog barked down the block. Pipes groaned in the wall. And Harry didn’t sleep. 

She could feel it. 

His breathing was too even. Too controlled. 

Still. 

Wide awake. 

His foot shifted under the blanket. Then stilled again. 

She almost turned to him. Almost whispered something—an apology, a reassurance, anything  that might pull him out of whatever place he’d disappeared into. 

But she didn’t. 

Because she knew. 

He was replaying it. 

That smile. That look. That moment in the store he couldn’t forget. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself to sleep, but the silence between them had  weight. It pinned her in place. 

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. 

Then—he moved. 

Slow. Controlled.

The way he always did when his mind was made up. 

He slid the blanket off. Sat up. 

Y/N’s eyes opened, but she didn’t turn. She held her breath. 

Listened. 

Waited. 

Harry stood, bare feet soft against the floorboards. 

He moved across the room, grabbed the hoodie off the back of the chair. Then his boots. His  coat. 

Keys. 

No sound except the rustle of fabric and the creak of the door as he cracked it open. Y/N still didn’t move. 

But her stomach twisted. 

Because she knew where he was going. 

Or maybe not the exact place. Not the street. Not the time. Not the weapon. But the intent. 

And that was enough. 

He didn’t say a word. 

Didn’t even glance back. 

Just stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him. 

Y/N lay in bed, eyes open, staring into the dark. 

Her fingers curled around the blanket. 

And she waited. 

For the sound of sirens. 

For blood. 

For him. 

To come back different. Or not at all. 

The room felt colder after he left.

Y/N stayed exactly where she was—on her side, facing the wall, the blanket pulled up to her  chest like it could do anything to protect her from the quiet. 

She didn’t cry. 

She didn’t sleep. 

She just laid there, blinking into the dark, heart beating slow and heavy under her ribs. Because this wasn’t the first time. 

Not really. 

A memory surfaced. Uninvited.  

A different town. A different name. A different motel. 

She had gone out for something small—coffee, maybe, or a box of matches. She couldn’t  remember. 

But she remembered the man who held the door open for her on the way out. Older. Maybe in his forties. Polite, smiling, nothing more. 

He’d said, “You look too pretty to be walking alone,” and she’d smiled back, because it was  easier than starting a fight. 

Harry had been across the street. Leaning against a wall like a shadow with no patience. She hadn’t even seen him until later—back at the motel. 

He hadn’t said anything right away. 

He just shut the door behind them. Locked it. Watched her from across the room like she’d  brought something back on her skin. 

“What?” she’d asked, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“You smiled at him.” 

She’d frowned. “It wasn’t like that.” 

His stare didn’t break. “You smiled like you wanted him to say more.” 

“Harry—” 

He crossed the room in two strides. Not violent, not cruel. Just close. Close enough that she’d  had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. 

“You want someone else to look at you like that?” he asked, voice low. 

She’d shaken her head. “No.”

He’d watched her another second, then kissed her hard. Pulled her into him like he needed to  remind her who she belonged to. 

And she’d let him. 

Because the truth was— 

Something in her had liked it.  

The jealousy. The possessiveness. The fact that he needed her to be his.

Back in the apartment now, the memory settled over her like a second skin. She pressed her forehead to the pillow, breathing slowly. 

The silence was heavier than before. 

Not peaceful. Not calm. 

It was the kind of silence you sit in before the truth shows up at your door. 

He was out there. 

Doing something she couldn’t take back. 

And somehow, deep down, she knew— 

This time, it was for her.  

Not for survival. 

Not for safety. 

Not even for the thrill. 

This time, it was about ownership. 

And she couldn’t decide if that made her feel sick— 

Or seen. 

She lay still, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, the room unbearably quiet except  for the faint drip of the bathroom sink and the tick of the old wall clock. 

Time passed slowly. Each minute dragged like it wanted her to feel every second of the space  between him leaving and whatever version of him would come back. 

She should’ve been panicking. 

Should’ve been planning how to run. 

Or how to fix it. 

Or how to stop him. 

But she wasn’t. 

She just kept staring at the wall.

And somewhere deep inside her chest, in the part she didn’t let herself speak from, she could  feel it—a low, pulsing heat. 

Something she didn’t want to name. 

Something worse than fear. 

Worse than guilt. 

She liked it. 

Not the death. Not the idea of blood in the street or bones breaking in an alley. But the reason behind it. 

The quiet, brutal truth that a man like him—someone violent, capable, unhinged— had seen her smile at someone else and snapped. 

Because he couldn’t stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else. Because she was his. 

And he was willing to ruin himself to make sure she stayed that way. 

Her stomach twisted, not with dread, but with a dull ache she couldn’t shake. Because wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? 

Not the killing. 

But the devotion. 

The totality of it. 

Someone willing to burn the world down just because someone else looked at her for too long. It was sick. 

It was wrong. 

And it made her feel wanted in a way that terrified her. 

Harry didn’t just love her. 

He’d kill for her. 

And some broken part of her— 

the part that stopped being innocent the second she followed him the first time— was okay with that.  

More than okay. 

She shifted onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling now, throat tight.

She wondered if he’d come back different. 

Worse. 

Better. 

She wondered if he’d expect her to ask what he did. 

Or if he’d just expect her to help. 

And she wondered— 

if he did ask her to help clean it up, 

to hide the body, 

to make it disappear like it never happened— 

Would she say yes?  

Her heart beat steady in her chest. 

And she already knew the answer. 

The lock turned just past five a.m.  

Y/N sat up before the door even opened. 

She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even tried. She’d just laid there, eyes wide in the dark, rehearsing  every version of how this could go. 

And none of them came close to the reality of him walking through the door like this. Quiet. 

Calm. 

Blood on his sleeves.  

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped inside, shutting the door behind him like he was trying  not to wake anyone—even though the only person who could hear was her. 

He peeled off his jacket. Laid it over the chair. 

Then looked at her. 

Not guilty. Not proud. 

Just steady. 

Waiting to see what she would do. 

She didn’t ask if it was done. 

She could see it on him.

There was blood on his hands. A smudge across his neck. Something darker at the cuff of his  shirt. 

Y/N swung her legs over the side of the bed. Stood slowly. 

They stared at each other in the dim motel light. 

No panic. 

No screaming. 

Just that electric, pulsing tension between them that never quite disappeared. She crossed the room. Stopped a foot in front of him. 

“Did he say anything?” she asked quietly. 

Harry’s mouth curved. The barest flicker of a smirk. 

“Not much.” 

She nodded once. 

“You want to tell me where he is?” 

A pause. 

Then: “Trunk of an old car off Lexington. Building’s empty. No cameras.” She held his gaze, throat dry, heart hammering behind her ribs. 

“Do we need to move him?” 

Harry stepped closer. Lifted his hand—bloody, rough—and tucked a strand of hair behind her  ear. 

“You tell me.” 

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. 

Her answer was steady. 

“Then let’s go.” 

And that was it. 

No questions. 

No moral line. 

Just two people, standing in a shitty apartment, with a secret between them and blood drying  on his skin.

Harry looked at her like she was the only real thing left in the world. 

And she looked back like she already knew— 

She’d follow him anywhere.  

Even now. 

Even deeper. 

Even if there was no way out. 

The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine and the rush of wind outside the  cracked window. 

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under her, her hand resting on her thigh, eyes  fixed ahead. 

Harry drove like he always did—one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift,  tension rolling off him in quiet waves. His jaw was clenched, his neck rigid, like the violence  hadn’t left his body yet. 

It hung in the air between them. 

Heavy. Unspoken. 

And charged. 

She could feel it. In the way he gripped the wheel. In the way his foot pressed harder on the  gas with every block they passed. 

In the way he kept glancing at her. Like he was trying to read her reaction. But she didn’t look shaken. 

She didn’t look scared. 

She looked ready. 

And maybe that was what finally made him break. 

“You’re not gonna ask me why?” he said, voice low, rough. 

She turned to him. Calm. Still. 

“I already know why.” 

Harry glanced at her again, this time longer. “You should hate me for it.” She didn’t flinch. “I don’t.” 

A bitter laugh slipped out of him. “You’re fucking insane.” 

Y/N leaned forward slightly, her voice even. “So are you.”

And then—he pulled the car over. 

Tires hissed against the curb, the engine still running. 

Before she could speak, Harry leaned across the console, grabbed her by the back of the  neck, and kissed her hard. 

Not soft. 

Not careful. 

Desperate. 

His fingers curled into her hair, his breath hot and uneven against her mouth, and she didn’t  hesitate. 

She kissed him back with the same fury. 

The same guilt. 

The same dark, twisted need. 

His hand slipped under her sweatshirt, palm dragging up her side like he was reminding  himself that she was here, that she was real, that this was the one thing he still had control  over. 

She climbed halfway over the console, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, nails digging  into his chest like she needed to hurt something, and it might as well be him. 

“Tell me you liked it,” he growled against her mouth. “Tell me you liked knowing I did it for you.” She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her lips were swollen, her breath shaky. “I didn’t just like it,” she whispered. 

“I wanted it.” 

His eyes went dark. 

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the taste of her saying  something that fucked-up out loud. 

Like it turned him on more than it should have. 

The windows fogged. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt. 

But then he pulled away, breath ragged, hand still tangled in her hair. 

“Later,” he said, voice rough. 

Her chest heaved. She sat back in her seat, fixing her sweatshirt, heart pounding. “Promise?”

Harry looked at her like she was made of fire. 

“I’m not done with you.” 

Then he pulled the car back into drive, and they headed toward the body. The car rolled to a stop on a forgotten block off Lexington. 

Everything about it was dead. 

The streetlights were out. The windows of the surrounding buildings were boarded up, rotting.  Graffiti covered every wall, and trash was piled in lazy heaps along the sidewalk. 

Harry killed the headlights. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. 

They didn’t speak. 

Y/N opened her door slowly, the creak cutting through the silence like a warning. The night air  was sharp, damp, thick with the smell of oil and something heavier beneath it—metallic and wrong. 

Harry moved first. Walked around to the back of the car without a word, his boots crunching  over broken glass and gravel. Y/N followed, her heart pounding behind her ribs, her fingers  curled into fists at her sides. 

He popped the trunk. 

The body was inside. 

Shoved carelessly into the narrow space, arms bent awkwardly beneath him, head twisted to  the side. Blood had dried along his temple and jaw, already gone dark. His eyes were still open. 

Y/N froze. 

Not because she hadn’t seen a body before. 

But because it was different now. 

This wasn’t evidence. This wasn’t a case file. This wasn’t something she was writing about. This was Harry’s. 

The man he killed for her.  

She swallowed hard, stepping closer, the sour-sweet smell of decay already beginning to creep  in. 

“What the fuck happened?” she whispered. 

Harry, still looking down at the body, let out a quiet, almost amused breath. “Got a little carried away.”

She turned to him slowly. “Harry.” 

He looked up at her then—eyes sharp, blood drying along his jaw, like none of this touched  him at all. 

“Guy started talking. Said he remembered your face. Said you had a nice mouth.” He smirked.  “Told him to say it again.” 

Y/N stared. Her pulse hammered in her ears. “Jesus Christ.” 

Harry tilted his head. “Don’t ask me to be sorry. I’m not.” 

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. 

She took another step forward and looked at the man—what was left of him. The damage  wasn’t random. His face was swollen, split open. One hand was nearly crushed. There was  rage in it. Intent. 

Harry hadn’t just killed him. 

He’d punished him. 

“How are we getting rid of it?” she asked. 

That was all she said. 

That was all it took. 

Harry’s grin widened. “That’s my girl.” 

The cleanup was brutal.  

The body was heavier than she expected. Limp. Slippery. 

Harry wrapped the man’s head in a plastic tarp from the trunk and taped it twice, tight. Blood  smeared across his arms, up his forearm, under his nails. 

Y/N held the legs while Harry lifted the torso, and they shoved him into the rusted dumpster  behind the building. It wasn’t secure, wasn’t smart, but it was temporary. 

Just enough to buy them time. 

Her hands were soaked when they finished. Her jeans stained at the knees. 

She stood there in the alley, chest heaving, breath visible in the cold air, her skin damp and  tacky and reeking of someone else’s death. 

Harry leaned against the wall, wiped his hands on his shirt, then looked at her like she was  glowing.

“You did good.” 

Y/N stared at him. Her heart twisted in some sick, hot, unbearable way. 

He stepped closer, reached up, and wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with his thumb. Then pressed it to her lips. 

“Open,” he said softly. 

And she did. 

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore. 

Because this was who they were now. 

Because he’d done it for her. 

And she’d help him do it again. 

They didn’t speak on the drive back. 

The smell of blood still clung to them, even though Harry had made her scrub her hands with a  bottle of water and half a bar of motel soap in the alley before they got back in the car. 

Her skin stung. Her nails were lined in red. 

She watched the streetlights pass through the windshield, one after another, like a slow rhythm  meant to hypnotize her into forgetting what they’d just done. 

But she didn’t forget. 

She couldn’t. 

She could still feel the weight of the man’s legs in her hands. The sickening give of flesh  through cheap fabric. 

And worse— 

the steady, burning thrill low in her stomach that hadn’t gone away. 

Back at the apartment, Harry kicked the door shut behind them and started stripping his shirt  off. 

Blood smeared across his chest, a dark streak above his ribs. 

He peeled it off and tossed it into the sink. 

“Take those off,” he said, nodding to her jeans. 

Y/N hesitated only a second before stepping out of them. They were stiff with dried blood  around the knees.

She balled them up and threw them beside his shirt. 

The room was quiet again. 

Same radiator hum. Same flickering light. 

But something had shifted. 

There was no tension now. No question about what they were. 

Harry stood in the middle of the room, bare-chested, blood still drying along his forearms. He  looked at her like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck her or fall asleep on top of her. 

Y/N crossed the room. 

He didn’t move. 

She got close, close enough to feel his breath. Her fingers brushed his wrist, then slid up his  arm, slow and deliberate. 

“You didn’t have to do it like that,” she whispered. 

Harry smirked, lazy and dark. “He had a smart mouth.” 

Her fingers stopped at his jaw. She traced a smear of dried blood across his cheek. “You wanted me to see it.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“I wanted you to know what I’d do for you.” 

“I already knew,” she said softly. “You didn’t have to prove it.” 

Harry leaned in, his mouth brushing hers. “I think you liked watching me prove it.” She didn’t respond. 

Didn’t have to. 

He kissed her then. Slow. Rough. Bloody. 

It wasn’t about tenderness. 

It wasn’t about comfort. 

It was about what they’d done. About who they were now. 

She tasted metal on his tongue. 

She didn’t stop him.

They stripped down in silence, piece by piece, and crawled into bed like nothing had  happened. 

The mattress was cold, the sheets rough against her bare skin. 

Y/N lay on her back, breath shallow, heart hammering. She could still smell the blood on him,  on herself. The heat hadn’t left the room, or her. 

Harry moved beside her—slow, heavy, silent—like he wasn’t in a rush to touch her but needed  to know she was there. 

She turned to him. 

He looked down at her, eyes dark, unreadable, and for a long moment, neither of them said a  word. 

Then—his voice, low and steady: 

“Take your hands off the blanket.” 

She did. 

“Above your head.” 

She moved them slowly, wrists crossed against the pillow. 

His hand dragged down her stomach, not gentle, not cruel. Just firm. Possessive. “You think I didn’t notice?” he muttered. “The way you let him look at you?” Her breath hitched. 

“You smiled,” he said. “You knew I was watching.” 

She didn’t deny it. 

Didn’t offer an excuse. 

She just stared up at him, lips parted, letting him see it—the guilt, the want, the wreckage she knew he was about to make of her. 

Harry’s jaw tensed. “You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” 

A pause. 

Then, quietly: “Yes.” 

That was enough. 

He grabbed her wrists, pinned them harder against the pillow. 

“Then you’re gonna take everything I give you,” he said, voice low and flat. “And you’re not  gonna make a sound unless I say you can.”

Y/N nodded, her breath caught in her throat, skin burning. 

Because this wasn’t just sex. 

It was punishment. 

And it was love. 

Twisted, brutal, blood-stained love. 

Harry didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t ask. 

He shoved her onto the bed like he fucking owned her—because he did—and yanked her legs  apart without hesitation. His grip was bruising, hands rough as they dragged down her sides,  like he was stripping her bare just by touching her. 

“You think I didn’t see that?” he growled, leaning over her, his mouth barely brushing hers  before he moved lower. “The way you let him look at you—like you wanted him to imagine how  you sound when I’ve got you crying into the sheets?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just sank his teeth into her neck, hard, biting down until she  gasped and arched into him, needing more. Needing everything. 

“Fuck,” she whimpered. 

But he shoved her down flat, palm heavy against her chest. 

“You don’t get to make that sound,” he snapped. “Not yet. Not until I say. You wanted to play,  baby? Then fucking take it.” 

She moaned, biting her lip, eyes wild. Wrists pinned, legs spread, heart pounding like she knew  exactly what she signed up for—and still couldn’t get enough. 

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled against her skin, licking over the mark he just made. “Not  his. Not anyone’s. Mine to touch. Mine to ruin. Mine to fuck raw.” 

Her hips bucked, slick between her thighs, aching for him. 

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, grinding against her. “So wet for me already. You liked teasing me,  didn’t you? Wanted to see what I’d do?” 

“Yes,” she gasped. “Wanted to make you snap.” 

“You fucking succeeded.” 

He pulled back just enough to look down at her, eyes dark, mouth twisted into a smirk that  promised nothing gentle. “I kill for you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t smile at  men I wouldn’t slit open.” 

Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched. And he saw it.

“Oh, you fucking love that,” he said, laughing darkly. “You love knowing I’d wreck everything  just to remind you who you belong to.” 

“I do,” she whispered, voice wrecked. 

His hand slipped between her legs, fingers sliding through soaked heat. “Say it.” She gasped when he pressed in—two fingers, deep and fast. 

“I fucking said say it.” 

“I belong to you.” 

“Louder.” 

“I fucking belong to you.” 

“That’s right,” he snarled. 

Then he fucked her with his fingers until she was whining, hips jerking, begging for more—but  he didn’t give it. Not yet. Not until she was right on the edge, legs trembling, body shaking. 

Only then did he slam into her in one brutal thrust. 

“Jesus—fuck,” she cried out. 

He didn’t slow down. He pounded into her like he was trying to fuck the memory of anyone  else out of her. Like he needed her to feel it for days. 

“This pussy’s mine,” he grunted. “Say it again.” 

“It’s yours—fuck—it’s yours—” 

“Damn right it is.” 

He bent down, teeth scraping her jaw as he fucked her harder. “You don’t flirt. You don’t tease.  Unless you want this. Unless you want me to fuck you dumb.” 

And God, she did. She wanted it so bad her body was shaking, clenching around him, getting  tighter with every brutal thrust. 

When she came, it ripped through her—loud, messy, perfect. 

And he didn’t stop. 

He fucked her through it, chased his own release like a man possessed, groaning her name  into her mouth as he came, buried deep, body stiff, hips stuttering. 

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, soaked in sweat and come and heat. 

He pulled her into him, fingers still tangled in her hair, palm cupping her ass like he wasn’t  done. Like he never would be.

The room was hot. 

Sweat clung to her skin, sticky and salty, mingled with the faint metallic tang of dried blood that  hadn’t washed away completely. 

The sheets were a mess. Twisted, damp, stained. 

Y/N lay on her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow, her breath slowing in unsteady  waves. Every inch of her ached—her wrists, her throat, the tender parts of her he hadn’t  touched gently. 

And she didn’t regret a second of it. 

Behind her, Harry dragged the back of his knuckles down her spine. Lazy. Possessive. Like he  was petting something he’d just tamed. 

“You look better like this,” he muttered, voice thick, rough from the wreckage of what they’d  done. 

“Like what?” 

“Ruined.” 

Y/N smiled, lips swollen, eyes still half-closed. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Harry leaned down, his mouth brushing her shoulder, tongue dragging slow over a bruise he’d  left. 

“And you’re a filthy little thing who likes being treated like one.” 

She didn’t deny it. 

Couldn’t. 

She had begged for it. Taken it. Wanted every second of it. 

He grabbed her jaw and turned her head to face him. His fingers were rough, thumb smearing  spit across her cheek like a mark. 

“You think that guy would’ve given you this?” he asked. “Think he could’ve taken you apart like  that?” 

Her voice came out hoarse, ruined: “No.” 

Harry stared down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his grip didn’t  soften. 

“You were made for this,” he murmured. “For me.” 

She didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t blink.

Because deep down, under all the shame and ache and sick little truths—she knew he was right. 

The next morning crept in slow and gray. 

No sunlight. Just a dull wash of light through the dirty blinds, stretching across the floor like it  didn’t want to be there. 

Y/N stirred first. Her body ached everywhere, but it was the good kind—the kind that came  from being claimed. She blinked slowly, head foggy, throat dry. Her wrists were sore where  he’d held her down. 

Harry was still asleep beside her, or pretending to be. His back was turned, one arm draped  over the edge of the bed. 

The room smelled like sweat, sex, and old blood. 

She slipped out from under the sheet quietly, not because she was sneaking—there was no  such thing between them anymore—but because she didn’t want to break whatever stillness  had settled over them in the hours since. 

She stepped into the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it all without stopping. Her  reflection in the microwave door caught her eye—messy hair, bruised lips, marks on her throat  like proof. 

It wasn’t regret. 

It was ownership. 

A low creak came from the hallway outside. 

Y/N’s head turned. 

The sound stopped. 

Just pipes, maybe. Or someone in the apartment above. 

She stepped toward the front door, barefoot, cautious. The apartment was always quiet. Their  neighbors didn’t talk. Didn’t knock. Didn’t ask questions. 

But something felt off. 

She looked through the peephole. 

Nothing. 

Then—a small sound. 

Paper. 

Sliding.

She opened the door just enough to see the edge of a folded note on the floor. No envelope. 

Just a half sheet of paper, folded once. 

She picked it up. 

No name. 

No greeting. 

Just one line, scrawled in rushed, uneven handwriting: 

“I saw what he did.”  

Y/N stood frozen, the note soft in her hand, the air in the hallway suddenly colder than it  should’ve been. 

She turned back toward the bedroom. 

Harry still hadn’t moved. 

But he would. 

And when he did— Someone was going to bleed.  

The note felt heavier than paper should. 

Y/N stared at it in her hand for a few seconds longer, like maybe the words would change if she  gave them time. Like maybe she’d imagined them. 

She hadn’t. 

Her feet moved on instinct, quiet over the worn floorboards, her breath tight and shallow in her  throat as she stepped back into the bedroom. 

Harry was still on his side, one arm bent under the pillow, the other draped over his waist. He  looked peaceful in a way that didn’t match the man she knew. Like his body was resting but his  mind was still hunting something. 

“Harry,” she said, voice low but sharp. 

His eyes opened. Immediately. No delay. 

He didn’t ask what was wrong. 

He just looked at her. 

She held the note out.

He sat up, took it with one hand, unfolded it. 

Read it once. 

Twice. 

Then looked back up at her. 

His face didn’t change, but she could see it—the way the air shifted around him. Not panic. 

Not confusion. 

Focus. 

“Where was this?” he asked. 

“Shoved under the door.” 

Harry nodded slowly. His thumb pressed hard against the crease in the paper. “You see  anyone?” 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

He stood. Naked, unbothered, already moving. He tossed the note onto the mattress, grabbed  the pair of jeans from the floor, pulled them on. 

Y/N watched him, tension crawling up her spine. 

He was too calm. 

“Someone saw,” she said quietly. “You left him in a dumpster, Harry.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, moving to the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to look out.  “And someone’s too stupid to go to the cops. That means we’ve got time.” 

“Time for what?” 

He turned around. His expression was flat. Cold. Focused in a way that told her he was already  planning something. 

“To fix it.” 

Her stomach turned. “You don’t even know who it is.” 

“I’ll find out.”

“You don’t know that.” 

He crossed the room in two strides and stopped in front of her. “Yes. I do.” His voice was calm. Controlled. 

And that scared her more than if he’d shouted. 

Because it meant he was already gone. 

Already in the place where blood meant control. 

Where killing was just maintenance. 

Y/N looked at the note again. Still sitting on the bed. Still threatening to crack everything wide  open. 

“What if it’s a neighbor?” she asked. “What if it’s someone in the building?” Harry’s eyes never left hers. 

“Then we burn it down.” 

Harry didn’t wait. 

He threw on a hoodie, grabbed his knife from the drawer by the bed, and checked the clip on  the back of his waistband. His movements were methodical, efficient. 

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, her skin still bare and damp  from sweat and sleep, but none of it mattered now. Not with the sharp shift in the air. 

She watched him check the front door, glance through the peephole. 

“You’re just going out there? Like this?” she asked. 

Harry looked at her, jaw clenched. “I’m not going to knock on doors. I’m going to look.” “For what?” 

“Signs.” 

Y/N stepped in front of the door before he could open it. “Harry.” 

He stopped, one hand on the knob. His eyes were flat now. Somewhere else. “You don’t even know who it was. You’re going to make it worse.” 

“It’s already worse,” he said. “Someone watched us. Watched me. That means they’ve been  watching for a while.” 

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

He was right.

Whoever left that note hadn’t just stumbled on a scene in an alley. They’d followed. Or waited.  Or listened through the walls. 

Harry reached up and touched her face, gently, almost absently. “I’ll be back soon.” She didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside and let him go. 

He shut the door quietly behind him. 

And then she was alone. 

The silence in the apartment pressed in immediately. 

Y/N paced once, then twice, then stopped by the window and peeled the curtain back with two  fingers. 

Nothing. 

No one on the sidewalk. 

No cars out of place. 

But it didn’t help. 

The note sat on the bed like a threat. Like evidence. Like a countdown. 

She picked it up again. Read it. Over and over. 

I saw what he did.  

Just one line. But it said everything. 

Her mind spiraled. 

Who saw it? 

The neighbor across the hall—the one who never made eye contact? 

Someone in the unit upstairs? 

The kid who always smoked behind the building? 

How long had they been watching? 

What else had they seen? 

Had they heard her voice that night? Her moans? Her begging? 

Y/N dropped the note back on the bed, her hands shaking. 

She went to the bathroom. Splashed cold water on her face. 

When she looked up, her reflection startled her.

Bruised mouth. Faint red marks around her throat. 

She looked like someone who had been claimed. 

Someone who didn’t want to be saved. 

And if someone had seen that too— 

if someone had watched and still decided to get involved

They weren’t just a witness. 

They were a problem. 

The lock turned just after sunset. 

Y/N was already standing near the door, arms wrapped around herself, barefoot and tense.  She hadn’t left the apartment since he’d gone. Hadn’t eaten. Barely moved. 

When the door opened, her breath caught. 

Harry stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the room like he expected something to be wrong.  His hoodie was pushed back, his hair damp from sweat, and there was a fresh scrape along his  knuckle. 

No blood. Not this time. 

He shut the door and leaned back against it, silent for a moment. 

She stared at him. “Did you find anything?” 

Harry nodded, slow. “Maybe.” 

She stepped closer. “Who?” 

“There’s a guy who lives two floors up. Window faces the alley where I dumped the body.  Curtains were open last night.” 

Y/N’s pulse kicked up. 

“You think it was him?” 

“I don’t know.” Harry’s voice was low, even. “But I knocked. He didn’t answer. Lights were on. I  waited.” 

She watched him carefully. “Did you break in?” 

He gave her a look. “Not yet.” 

Y/N ran her hands through her hair. “So what now? You wait for him to leave and follow him?  Watch him like he watched us?” 

Harry stepped forward, eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t wait.” 

Her stomach twisted.

He touched her wrist gently, like he was reeling her in after being gone too long. 

“I wanted to take care of it tonight,” he said. “But I came back to see what you wanted me to  do.” 

That caught her off guard. 

She blinked. “Me?” 

Harry nodded. “You read the note first. You found it. This is yours too.” 

The weight of that hit fast and hard. 

Not just because he was looping her in—he always did, in his own way—but because he was  giving her the choice. 

A chance to stop it. 

A chance to draw a line. 

Or cross it. 

Y/N stared at him. “You think he saw everything?” 

Harry’s jaw flexed. “I think he saw enough.” 

They were close now. A breath apart. 

“I don’t want to run again,” she said quietly. 

“Then we don’t.” 

Her throat tightened. 

He was waiting. 

Waiting for her to decide if this was another night they’d bury something together. Or not. 

She glanced at the chair by the door. His knife sat there. 

She looked back at him. 

And nodded once. 

Harry’s mouth curved. Just a little. 

“Alright,” he said. “Then we handle it.” 

The apartment shifted the moment she gave him that nod.

It wasn’t dramatic. No chaos. No racing heartbeat or gasping breath. Just a quiet  understanding settling over the room like smoke. 

They’d made a decision. 

Now it was time to act like it. 

Harry moved first. He grabbed his knife from the chair by the door, checked the edge with the  pad of his thumb, then slid it into the waistband of his jeans. 

Y/N went to the closet. The duffel bag was already half-packed with their essentials—cash,  burner phones, a change of clothes. She zipped it closed. Just in case. 

They weren’t planning to run. But she knew better than to pretend they were untouchable. 

She slipped on jeans and her black hoodie, the one that hid blood well. The one she wore the  night they dumped the body. 

Harry stood near the window, watching the street below like a predator casing his own trap. “Window’s still open,” he said. 

She joined him. From this angle, she couldn’t see much—just the faint flicker of movement  through the curtain. Someone pacing. Alone. 

“He’s nervous,” Harry muttered. “He knows he fucked up.” 

Y/N nodded. 

He looked at her. “You ready?” 

She wasn’t. 

Not really. 

But she said, “Yes.” 

And he believed her. 

Harry moved to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a second knife. Smaller. Sharper. He handed  it to her. 

“You don’t need to use it,” he said. “But if something goes wrong, I want you to have it.” Her fingers curled around the hilt. It felt too cold. Too real. 

She tucked it into her waistband and met his eyes. 

“What if he talks?” she asked. 

Harry didn’t blink. “He won’t.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened. But she didn’t argue.

They moved together through the apartment, checking the hallway through the peephole  before stepping into the corridor. 

Their footsteps were quiet on the stairs. 

Each floor they climbed, the silence grew heavier. 

Like the building could feel what they were about to do. 

Like it had seen it before. 

And knew it would see it again. 

The hallway on the third floor smelled like mildew and cheap air freshener. Y/N’s pulse thrummed under her skin, but her face stayed still, calm. Just like Harry’s. He stopped in front of the door—unit 3B. The number was crooked, hanging by one bent nail. Inside, she could hear the faint sound of footsteps. Uneven pacing. Back and forth. Harry looked at her once. A silent question. 

She gave a small nod. 

He knocked. 

Not loud. Not polite. Just enough. 

Silence. 

Then, the footsteps stopped. 

Nothing for a few seconds. 

Then a voice. “Who is it?” 

Harry didn’t answer. 

Instead, he stepped back, just enough to hide his frame from the peephole. 

Y/N moved to the side of the door. Her hand hovered near the small knife tucked under her  hoodie. 

They waited. 

A soft creak. 

The lock turned. 

Then the chain. 

The door cracked open.

A pair of eyes appeared. Nervous. Sweaty. Red around the edges. 

“Can I help—” 

Harry shoved the door. 

It flew open with a loud thud, catching the man off balance. He stumbled backward, crashing  into a side table, knocking over a lamp. 

Before he could find his footing, Harry was inside. 

Y/N followed, shutting the door behind them. 

The man scrambled up, hands raised, panic all over his face. 

“Hey—hey, what the hell is this?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared. 

Y/N looked around. The apartment was small. Cluttered. Dirty dishes in the sink. No signs of  anyone else living there. 

Just him. 

Harry stepped closer. The guy backed up until he hit the wall. 

“You left a note,” Harry said calmly. “Under our door.” 

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You saw something.” 

“I didn’t—” 

“You wrote it. I recognize the handwriting.” 

The guy shook his head, too fast. “I didn’t mean anything by it, okay? I just—I saw something  weird and I panicked.” 

“Did you see me?” Harry asked, voice low. 

The man’s mouth opened, then closed. 

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I’m not going to the cops. I swear. I just—I saw you drag  someone—someone who wasn’t moving—and I…” 

Y/N stepped closer. “So you thought slipping a note under our door was the smart move?” 

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he barked. “I thought maybe you’d leave. That you’d know  someone was watching and disappear.” 

Harry smiled then. Just a little.

“That was your plan? To follow me and then slide a note under my door?” “I wasn’t trying to blackmail you, I swear. I just—” 

“You didn’t think,” Harry said, cutting him off. “You watched something you shouldn’t have,  and instead of shutting up and staying out of it, you wanted to feel important.” 

The guy looked at Y/N now, eyes pleading. 

“Please,” he said. “I’m not a threat. I won’t say anything. I don’t want to die.” And there it was. 

Said out loud. 

The thing hanging in the air between all three of them. 

Harry looked at her. Quiet. Calm. 

Like this decision was hers now. 

And he waited. 

Like he wasn’t going to touch the man until she said so. 

Y/N’s eyes locked on the guy in front of her. Not old. Maybe late twenties. He looked like the  type who lived mostly in shadows—quiet, twitchy, always watching things he wasn’t part of. 

Maybe he hadn’t meant harm. 

Maybe he really had panicked. 

Maybe he had no one to tell, nowhere to run, nothing to gain. 

But he had seen something. 

Something that belonged to her.  

The kill. The blood. Her face under Harry’s hand. Her mouth wrapped around a command. Her  submission. Her devotion. 

He’d watched. 

He’d inserted himself into something he couldn’t possibly understand. 

And now—he knew too much. 

Y/N’s jaw tightened. 

She stepped forward. 

The guy’s eyes widened. “Please—”

She cut him off. “Turn around.” 

He froze. 

She stared hard. “Turn. Around.” 

He hesitated—just for a second—then did as she said. 

Slow. Shaking. 

Harry didn’t move. 

Didn’t need to. 

Because this was her moment now. 

She reached into the waistband of her hoodie. Fingers curled around the knife. The one Harry had given her. 

Not for defense. 

For this. 

Her hand didn’t shake as she pulled it free. 

And the second the metal caught the light—Harry’s smile returned. 

Not wide. 

Not cruel. 

But proud. 

Because she had made her choice. 

And there was no going back. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

The knife in her hand felt heavier now, like it wasn’t just a blade but a weight tied to everything  she’d become. 

The man had his back to her, shoulders rising and falling too fast, fingers trembling where they  hovered near his sides. He knew. 

Even before she touched him—he knew. 

“Please,” he said again, voice cracking wide open. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was scared.  That’s it. Just scared.” 

Y/N stared at the back of his head. At the slope of his neck. At the small, involuntary shudders  that kept rolling through his spine.

She could still feel the bruise on her inner thigh from Harry’s hand. The echo of his voice in her  ear, “You’re mine.” 

And she remembered the note. 

Folded. Slipped under their door. 

Like a threat. Like a dare. Like someone thought they could watch and walk away untouched. Her grip tightened. 

Behind her, Harry didn’t say a word. 

He didn’t have to. 

This wasn’t his kill. 

It was hers. 

She stepped in close enough to smell the fear on him—that sour, electric stink of a man who knew his final seconds were being counted by someone who had stopped being human long before this moment. 

Y/N leaned forward, lips close to his ear. 

“You should’ve stayed out of it.” 

And then she did it. 

Quick. Precise. 

Not wild. Not messy. 

Controlled.  

The knife slid clean between his ribs. His body arched once, a strangled gasp caught in his  throat—then nothing. 

Just a slump. A thud. And silence. Her heart thundered. Not from panic. From clarity. 

She stood over him, breathing hard, the knife still in her hand, his blood warm and slick against  her skin.

Behind her, Harry stepped closer. 

He didn’t touch her. Not yet. 

He just looked down at what she’d done and said, quiet and certain: 

“There she is.” 

Y/N blinked, the air buzzing in her ears. 

She didn’t feel sick. 

Didn’t feel hollow. 

She felt awake. 

More than she had in months. And she knew—this was it. She wasn’t following Harry anymore. She was walking beside him. 

Blood soaked into the cheap carpet in a slow, blooming circle. The apartment was silent again,  but it was the wrong kind of silence now—too full. Too final. 

Y/N stood over the body, the knife still in her hand. Her chest rose and fell, breath steady but  sharp, like her body was catching up to what her mind had already decided. 

Harry crouched beside the man, fingers pressed to the pulse point in his neck. Not that he  needed to check. 

He looked up at her. 

“How’d it feel?” 

She didn’t answer right away. Just handed him the knife. His fingers closed around it, warm  where hers were cold. 

“I don’t need you to be proud of me,” she said. 

Harry smirked faintly. “That wasn’t the question.” 

Y/N wiped her palms on her jeans, streaking them red. 

She stared at the wall for a moment before answering. 

“I didn’t like how he watched us,” she said quietly. “Like he thought he was outside of it. Like  he thought he understood it.” 

Harry stood, knife still in hand, watching her.

“He didn’t,” she added. “He didn’t know what he was seeing. He thought he was catching a  crime.” 

She looked at the body. Her voice went lower. 

“But he was interrupting something that was mine.” 

That pulled a slow grin from Harry. 

Y/N turned her gaze to him, eyes steady. 

“I don’t like when people threaten what’s mine.” 

Harry tilted his head, studying her like she was some new thing he didn’t quite know how to  hold yet. 

But he liked it. 

He liked it a lot. 

They didn’t speak for a minute. 

Then he nodded toward the duffel bag they’d brought. “You want to help with the plastic?” She didn’t hesitate. 

The cleanup was ugly. 

They moved fast, but not frantic. 

They’d done this before—Harry had. But Y/N learned fast. She held the tarp while he rolled the  body, helped tie the knots, helped drag the weight down the back stairwell where no cameras  watched. 

They didn’t talk much. 

But when their hands brushed through the blood—when they both reached for the same roll of  duct tape, when she steadied him as he lifted the dead weight into the back of their stolen car —there was something between them. 

A new language. 

No longer just survival. No longer just obsession. Now it was control. Ownership. Symmetry.  

Y/N shut the trunk. 

Harry lit a match just to burn the gloves.

And she stood beside him, the flames flickering in both their eyes. 

The trunk clicked shut, and with it, the last trace of the man disappeared from sight. 

Y/N stood back, wiping her hands down the front of her jeans, blood still beneath her nails.  She didn’t flinch at the sight of it anymore. 

Harry lit the last match, flicked it onto the gloves wrapped in plastic, and watched the flame eat  through them until nothing was left but char and smoke curling into the night air. 

Then he turned to her. 

“Think we’ve overstayed our welcome?” 

His tone was light, teasing—but underneath, the meaning sat heavy. 

They’d crossed a line tonight. 

No witnesses this time. No threats left. But the air in the city had shifted.  Y/N didn’t smile. Didn’t hesitate. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.” 

Harry’s brows lifted slightly, like he expected more resistance. But she was already moving to  the passenger door, already pulling it open, already climbing inside like they’d rehearsed this a  hundred times. 

Like leaving behind bodies was second nature now. 

And maybe it was. 

He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine growled to life. 

The roads were empty at this hour—just long stretches of dark, dotted with occasional lights  and shadowy buildings that blurred past the windows. 

They didn’t speak much. 

Just drove. 

Y/N glanced at him once, one hand resting near the gearshift, her other elbow against the door. “You know where you’re taking him?” 

Harry nodded. “There’s a mill about thirty minutes out. Shut down years ago. Pit in the back.  Old metal tanks. No one’ll check.” 

Y/N nodded. “Good.” 

No fear. No questions. Just another step. Another act of devotion. 

When they reached the site, the air was colder—damp and heavy, the ground soft beneath  their boots. The mill loomed in the dark, rusted and half-sunken into the earth like it had been  trying to disappear for years. 

They worked quietly. No words. No rush. 

The tarp dragged behind them, catching on roots and gravel, the weight inside dead and dumb  and unremarkable now. 

It took time, but they got him deep enough. Covered. Buried. Erased. 

Y/N stood there a moment, looking down at the dirt under her boots. 

Harry came up beside her. 

“You alright?” he asked. 

She looked over at him. “You?” 

He smiled faintly. “This used to be harder.” 

She didn’t say it out loud, but she knew why. 

Because now, he wasn’t alone.  

They walked back to the car side by side, not touching, not speaking, but with that same silent  electricity between them—thick, intimate, earned. 

As they got in, Harry looked over at her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his  thigh. 

“So,” he said. “Where to next?” 

Y/N leaned her head back, eyes on the dark sky through the windshield. “Wherever they don’t know our names.” 

Harry grinned. 

“Atta girl.” 

And they drove. 

Into whatever was next. Together. 

Fast-forwarding now—quiet domesticity hiding old blood, a sharp shift when the past claws its  way back in. Here’s how it starts:

Three Years Later  

New names. New place. 

The apartment was small but clean. Real furniture this time. Real heat. Quiet neighbors who  kept to themselves. 

Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, a blanket over her lap, a half-empty glass of wine on the  coffee table. She wore glasses now when she read. Harry always said they made her look  innocent. She knew better. 

Harry was beside her, stretched out, one arm slung across the back of the couch, his hand  playing absently with the ends of her hair. 

The television glowed in front of them, some late-night news segment murmuring into the  room. Neither of them was really watching. 

They rarely did. 

Until the anchor’s voice changed—tone sharper, more serious. 

Harry’s fingers paused. 

Y/N’s head turned toward the screen. 

“—a series of unsolved homicides from over three years ago are now being re-examined after a  new witness came forward. Law enforcement sources say the killings, once thought to be  unrelated, share disturbing similarities in both method and victim profile. Investigators believe  this may point to a serial offender—possibly a pair.” 

Harry sat up slowly. Y/N didn’t breathe. 

The screen showed a grainy photo of a crime scene—an alley, a dumpster, yellow tape  fluttering in the wind. 

Not the alley. But close. Too close. Her stomach twisted. 

The reporter kept talking: 

“Authorities are asking for anyone with information to come forward, including residents who  may have lived in the area during that time but have since moved. A tip line has been  reopened, and sources suggest new evidence may soon lead to a breakthrough.” 

Harry picked up the remote and clicked the volume off.

The room went quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the tick of the wall clock. Y/N turned to him, pulse beating hard at her throat. 

“Think it’s real?” 

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on the screen. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s real.” 

She didn’t ask how he knew. 

He always knew. 

After a long pause, he looked at her. 

“They’re looking for us.”

[thereceptioniststyles]

Venom & Honey: Il

Where a girl once set out to catch a killer, and now shares his bed, his secrets, and the darkness he brought out in her.

Part two of Harry, a serial killer.

*Part one *

Content warnings: mentions of murder, blood, knives, cursing and filthy talk.

Word Count: 11k

The air in the courtroom was suffocating.

Y/N sat in the front row, her hands clenched together in her lap, nails pressing into her skin. She forced herself to stay still, to breathe, to keep her face neutral.

She had to watch this.

She had to see him go down.

The judge’s voice rang out, clear and absolute.

“Harry Edward Styles, you have been found guilty on all charges. You are sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.”

A rush of noise swept through the room—whispers, murmurs, a sharp sob from someone in the back.

But Harry didn’t flinch.

He didn’t react at all.

He sat in his chair, wrists cuffed, posture relaxed, his signature smirk still curling at the edge of his lips.

Like this was all a game.

Like he’d let them think they’d won.

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight, her skin hot under the weight of his gaze. Because he was looking right at her. She was burning.

Not at the judge. Not at the officers preparing to haul him away.

At her.

And when they came to take him, when the cold snap of metal echoed through the room as they grabbed his arms—

He snarled.

Not in anger.

In amusement.

His lips pulled back, teeth flashing, his eyes burning with something wild, something dark, something thrilled.

And then—

He smiled.

A slow, evil, knowing smile, one that made her stomach twist, made her breath hitch before she could stop it.

It was a promise.

A warning.

A threat.

They were dragging him away, pulling him toward a future that should have been a cage.

But the last thing Y/N saw before he disappeared through the doors—

Was his mouth moving.

Silent words.

Ones she would never forget.

“This isn’t over.”

Her blood ran cold.

Because somehow, someway…

She knew he was right.

It had been a year.

A full year since the trial, since the last time she saw him, since the last time she heard his voice.

Harry Styles was gone—rotting in a cell where he belonged.

Y/N had spent months convincing herself of that. Months rebuilding her life, pushing away the memories, trying to forget the way he had looked at her as they dragged him out of the courtroom.

But lately… something felt off.

It started small.

Little things she brushed off at first.

A window left slightly open when she was sure she had locked it.

The faintest scent of cologne in her apartment—something dark and musky, something that smelled like him.

Her phone buzzing in the middle of the night—unknown caller, no message left.

She told herself she was imagining it. That it was her mind playing tricks on her, that she was just paranoid, that she didn’t want it.

But then, one night, she found her front door unlocked.

And that?

That wasn’t her imagination.

That was real.

Her stomach twisted as she stood there in the doorway, staring at the lock, at the bolt that should have been turned but wasn’t.

She lived alone.

No one else had a key.

And yet, someone had been inside.

Her hands trembled as she pushed the door open, stepping in slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Nothing looked out of place.

No broken windows, no drawers rummaged through, no sign of a break-in.

In every creak of her bones, she felt it.

That eerie, crawling sensation at the back of her neck, the prickling awareness that she wasn’t alone.

That someone had been here.

That someone was watching.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe, forcing herself to shake it off.

Harry was in prison.

Harry was gone.

But for the first time in a year—

She wasn’t so sure.

Y/N locked the door.

Turned the bolt. Checked it twice. Stared at it for a full minute, willing herself to believe that it had been her mistake.

A lapse in memory. A long day. A moment of carelessness.

Nothing more.

She would not let herself spiral.

So, she took a breath, shaking the unease from her limbs, and forced herself to move on.

She made her favorite tea. Put on a mindless show. Scrolled through her phone.

But the entire time, she could feel it—that wrongness.

Like the air in her apartment had shifted. Like the walls had eyes that were watching her every move.

Every creak of the floorboards made her stomach twist. Every gust of wind against the window made her flinch.

She was being stupid. Paranoid.

But when she finally went to bed, she locked her bedroom door. Just in case.

The next morning, she convinced herself she had overreacted.

She threw herself into work, into routine, into anything that didn’t leave room for fear.

By the time the sun had set again, she felt normal.

Until she saw the mirror.

She was getting ready for bed, moving through her nighttime routine, when she noticed it.

The smudges.

Faint. Almost invisible in the dim light.

Like fingerprints.

Like someone had touched the glass.

Her stomach twisted as she stepped closer, heart hammering, fingers hovering over the faint outlines.

She never touched the mirror like this.

She never stood close enough to leave prints at this angle.

But someone had.

And when she exhaled, the breath fogged up the glass—revealing a streak that shouldn’t have been there.

A single, slow drag of someone’s fingertip.

Down the center of the mirror.

Her pulse roared in her ears, her throat going tight.

This wasn’t paranoia.

This wasn’t her mind playing tricks on her.

Someone had been here.

And somehow, she knew— It was him.

Y/N sat stiffly on the couch, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sweater as she stared past her therapist’s shoulder. The office was warm, dimly lit with soft yellow lighting, a candle flickering on the corner of the desk. It smelled like lavender, like something meant to be soothing.

She wasn’t soothed.

Dr. Bennett sat across from her, watching her carefully. A legal pad rested on her lap, pen poised between her fingers, waiting.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing her nails into her palm. “I think I might be losing it.”

Dr. Bennett didn’t react. “Tell me why you think that.”

She hesitated, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.

“It’s just… little things.” She shifted, fingers curling into the hem of her sleeve. “Doors unlocked when I swore I locked them. Noises in my apartment. My mirror had fingerprints on it, ones that weren’t mine.”

The words sounded ridiculous out loud.

She could hear the paranoia in them, the way they clung to her like something suffocating.

Dr. Bennett nodded, her expression unreadable. “You’ve been through something traumatic, Y/N. After what happened with Harry, it’s understandable that your mind is searching for threats. Even ones that might not be there.”

Y/N clenched her jaw. “I know that’s what it sounds like. I know it sounds like I’m being paranoid, but—” She inhaled sharply, rubbing at her temple. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels real.”

Dr. Bennett leaned forward slightly. “How long have you been feeling this way?”

Y/N hesitated. “A few weeks.”

“And have you checked in on him?”

Her stomach turned.

She hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted to. The idea of searching for him made her chest tighten, made something crawl beneath her skin. If she found nothing, she could breathe again.

If she found something…

She didn’t know what she’d do.

Dr. Bennett’s voice softened. “Y/N, sometimes our minds play tricks on us. When we experience fear for long enough, we start seeing it in places it doesn’t exist. Have you thought about looking up his records? Seeing where he is now?”

Y/N clenched her teeth. “No.”

“But you could.”

She looked away, fingers twitching against her knee.

She could.

She should.

Because if she did, if she saw proof that he was still locked away—

Then she’d know.

She’d know she was just being paranoid.

She’d know that the wrongness in her apartment, the mirror, the unlocked door—

It was all in her head.

Right?

Dr. Bennett gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Why don’t you try? It might give you some peace of mind.”

Y/N inhaled deeply, nodding once. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

But when she left the office, stepping into the cold evening air, she didn’t feel better.

She felt worse.

Because part of her already knew what she was going to find.

Nothing.

And somehow, that terrified her more than anything.

Y/N sat at her desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Her apartment was quiet, save for the hum of her laptop, the only light coming from the screen. The glow cast soft shadows across the walls, stretching and shifting whenever she moved.

She didn’t want to do this, she had to.

Her therapist was right—if she checked, if she saw his name on the prison registry, she could let this go.

She typed in the website for the state’s inmate records, her breath coming slow and shallow as the page loaded. Her hands felt cold, her pulse a dull thud in her ears.

Her fingers moved before she could think too much about it.

Harry Edward Styles.

The cursor blinked, waiting, expectant.

She hit enter.

The page loaded.

And then—

Nothing.

Her stomach twisted.

She hit refresh.

Checked the spelling.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

Her breath hitched, panic coiling tight in her chest. Her fingers scrambled for her phone, quickly searching his full name, the prison he was supposed to be in.

No news articles about an escape.

No public records stating his release.

No proof that he was anywhere.

It was like he’d been erased.

Like he’d never been locked away in the first place.

Y/N’s hands began to shake.

Because this wasn’t paranoia.

It wasn’t trauma.

It was real.

Harry was gone.

And somehow—he’d made sure no one would know.

Her stomach lurched, a wave of nausea rolling through her.

A sharp gust of wind rattled the window, making her jump.

The shadows on the wall stretched, flickering as the light from her laptop screen shifted.

Her throat went dry.

She wasn’t alone.

She could feel it.

A presence.

A shadow.

Something watching.

She turned slowly, heart hammering, breath locked in her throat—

And the lights went out.

A sharp inhale was all she managed before the darkness swallowed her whole.

The moment the lights went out, Y/N barely had time to react.

Her breath hitched, heart slamming against her ribs as her hands scrambled for her phone, for anything—

But she wasn’t fast enough.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

Her body went rigid, a muffled scream swallowed by the thick fabric suddenly pressed against her face. The scent was strong, chemical, suffocating.

Chloroform.

Fuck.

She kicked, thrashed, her nails clawing at the skin of the hand holding her in place. She tried to scream, to bite, to do anything—

But the dizziness hit fast.

Her vision blurred, her limbs turned to lead.

She was falling.

No—being caught.

She felt strong arms wrap around her as her body slumped, her mind slipping into darkness.

The last thing she heard before everything went black—

Was a soft chuckle.

Low. Amused. Familiar.

“Shhh, sweetheart. I’ve got you now.”

Then—

Nothing.

Y/N woke up with a pounding headache.

Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish as she blinked against the dim morning light filtering through her curtains.

Her mouth was dry. Her head swam with dizziness. She felt hungover.

But she hadn’t been drinking.

She sat up slowly, pressing a hand to her forehead. Something was wrong.

Her sheets were tangled around her legs, her pillows slightly out of place. Had she thrashed in her sleep?

The night before felt fuzzy. Disjointed.

She remembered working at her desk. Searching for Harry’s records. Finding nothing.

Then the lights had gone out.

Her stomach twisted, a deep unease curling through her.

Had that been real?

Had she actually felt someone behind her? Had she actually struggled against hands that weren’t her own?

Or had it been a nightmare?

A cold shiver rolled through her as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, moving carefully. Her head still felt off, like it wasn’t fully attached to her body.

She needed water. Needed to clear her head.

Pushing herself to her feet, she made her way toward the bathroom, her hand reaching for the knob.

She turned it. It didn’t budge.

Her stomach dropped.

She tried again. Twisted harder. Still locked.

Her breath caught, fingers tightening around the handle, pulse ticking up in slow, creeping realization.

She never locked her bathroom door.

A sound from behind her made her freeze.

A shift in the air. A presence.

And then—A voice. Low. Amused.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Her pulse spiked.

Slowly, she turned.

And there—leaning against the wall, smirking like he belonged there—

Was Harry. Alive. Here. In her fucking bedroom.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because for the first time in a year, she was looking into the eyes of the man she had put away. Y/N’s entire body locked up. Her mouth was dry, her heartbeat roaring in her ears as she tried to force rational thought through the rising panic in her chest. She needed to get out, needed to move, needed to wake up from whatever fucked-up reality she had just been dropped into.

But her feet were rooted to the floor, her back pressed to the locked door, her breath coming in shallow bursts that she couldn’t steady.

Harry took a step forward, slow and unbothered, like she was an animal he was waiting to bolt. His eyes flickered down the length of her body, taking in the way she was still in the clothes she had worn last night—except now they were rumpled, twisted, evidence of how she had been moved without her knowing.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Y/N inhaled sharply, her throat aching with the effort to hold back the fear clawing up from her chest. She didn’t want to give him that, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But her voice shook when she finally spoke.

“How?” she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice. “How did you get out?”

Harry exhaled a slow, amused breath, tilting his head as he stepped closer. “That’s the first thing you want to ask?” His lips curled. “Not why you woke up feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck? Not why you can’t remember how you got to bed?” He took another step, closing the space between them, his voice dipping lower. “Not why the door’s locked?”

Y/N’s chest rose and fell rapidly, every muscle in her body screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something.

But she couldn’t.

Because there was nowhere to go, he had made sure of that.

Her back hit the door fully as he took the final step, crowding into her space, his warm breath ghosting over her skin, the scent of something sharp and musky filling her senses.

He was real.

He was here.

And she had never been more fucked.

Harry lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, brushing a curl from her cheek before trailing his fingers down to her chin, tilting it up just enough to force her to look at him.

His grip was gentle.

His gaze was not.

“You should be asking what I’m going to do to you now,” he murmured.

Her stomach flipped.

Harry’s thumb skimmed her jaw, his touch deceptively light, like he wasn’t holding her trapped, like he hadn’t just ripped apart the careful, controlled world she had tried to rebuild.

“But since you asked so nicely,” he mused, “I’ll tell you.”

His mouth quirked, his voice dipping into something dark, something dangerous.

“I walked out the front door, sweetheart.”

A chill rolled down her spine.

His smirk widened.

“And now?” he whispered, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear, his words curling like smoke against her skin. “I’m never leaving you again.”

Harry inched closer, his body pressing into her space, the scent of him—leather, smoke, something undeniably sharp and masculine—making her stomach tighten. His hand remained firm beneath her chin, keeping her head tilted up, keeping her gaze locked with his.

“You’re going to wish I’d slit your throat the first time we met,” he murmured, his voice a slow drag of silk-covered razors.

Y/N sucked in a breath, pulse hammering beneath her skin.

His smirk deepened, his thumb pressing into her jaw just enough to feel like a warning. “Stupid, silly girl,” he murmured. “You really thought you’d gotten away from me? That you’d just go back to your little life like nothing happened? Like I wouldn’t fucking find you?”

The words stung, but not in the way they should have.

Not with fear.

With something else.

Something she didn’t want to name.

Something she refused to acknowledge.

Her body reacted before her mind could stop it.

Her fist swung up, hard and fast, colliding with his jaw with a sharp, satisfying crack.

Harry’s head snapped to the side.

For a moment, there was silence.

Y/N barely had a second to breathe before he moved.

His hand caught her wrist before she could pull back, twisting her around, forcing her onto the floor before she even knew what was happening.

The impact sent a shock through her body, knocking the air from her lungs. Before she could scramble up, he was on her.

Straddling her.

Holding her down.

One hand gripped her wrist, pinning it above her head, the other pressing firm against her chest, keeping her trapped beneath his weight.

His breath was ragged, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with something vicious.

“You just don’t fucking learn, do you?” he growled, his grip tightening, his fingers digging into her skin. “Always running your mouth. Always thinking you’re smarter than me. Always thinking you have a fucking choice.”

Y/N’s breath came in shallow bursts, her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his touch. Her limbs twitched beneath him, her body thrumming, every nerve on fire.

She should be fighting. She should be screaming. She should be terrified.

But she wasn’t.

Because, God help her—She had wanted this. Not the fear. Not the helplessness.

But the weight of him. The heat of his skin.

The way his hand wrapped around her wrist like it belonged there, the way his breath ghosted over her lips, rough and heavy, filled with the kind of anger that made her pulse quicken in the worst possible way.

And before she could stop herself— She smiled.

Harry froze.

His eyes flickered, searching, his fingers twitching slightly against her skin.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” he muttered, his voice low, edged with something almost… confused.

Y/N swallowed, trying to steady her breathing.

“Nothing,” she whispered, her lips still curved, the weight of her secret burning at the back of her throat.

Harry narrowed his eyes. His grip on her wrist flexed, his body shifting slightly, pressing her further into the floor.

“Liar,” he murmured.

Her smile widened.

And Harry’s pulse fucking jumped.

Because this wasn’t fear.

Harry’s breath came hard and slow, his weight pressing her deeper into the floor, his grip unrelenting.

But it wasn’t just rage in his eyes anymore.

No, it was something else.

Y/N could see the shift, the way his expression flickered, the way his fingers flexed against her skin like he was testing her.

Like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, she was made of.

He tipped his head, smirk still curling at the edge of his lips, amused, disbelieving. “You’re smiling,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over the inside of her wrist, pressing just hard enough to feel her pulse beneath it. “I have you on the fucking floor, a knife was at your throat not even five minutes ago, and you’re smiling.”

His voice was slow, laced with something sharp.

Something dangerous.

Y/N licked her lips, her throat aching with the effort to keep her breaths steady.

She should say something.

Something smart. Something biting.

But she didn’t trust her voice.

Not when he was looking at her like this.

Like she was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

Harry hummed, tilting his head, his fingers dragging slowly down her arm, brushing over the exposed skin, testing, waiting.

“Do you like this, sweetheart?” His voice was quiet now, almost like a whisper, but deadly. “Is that it?”

Her stomach flipped.

She swallowed, her jaw tightening.

“You want me to believe you’re terrified,” he mused, his grip tightening again, forcing her still. “But you’re not, are you?”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

“You should be,” he murmured, voice low, thick, edged with something dark. “You should be fucking shaking. You should be begging. You should be crying. But instead—”

He exhaled a soft, disbelieving chuckle.

“Instead, you’re smiling.”

Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, every muscle in her body locking up as he pressed his palm against her chest again, feeling her heartbeat.

Fast. Too fast.

But not panicked.

Not scared.

Harry’s smirk widened.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really are a sick little thing, aren’t you?”

Y/N bit down on her lip, her body betraying her again, a shiver rolling through her.

Harry saw it.

Felt it.

And he fucking grinned.

“You like this,” he murmured, dragging his fingers up to her jaw, gripping it tight, tilting her face up toward him. “You like the way I could fucking ruin you, don’t you?”

Y/N’s breathing hitched, her secret unraveling in front of him.

Harry’s eyes darkened.

“You’re worse than I thought,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “And here I thought you were just a liar.”

Her stomach twisted, heat pooling at the base of her spine.

His fingers drifted lower, trailing the line of her throat, his eyes locked onto hers, watching, studying, learning.

Then—

“Admit it,” he muttered.

Her breath caught.

His grip tightened.

“Say it,” he pressed, his nose brushing against hers, his words slipping over her mouth like a secret.

“Say you like it.”

Y/N’s pulse pounded.

Her skin was on fire, every inch of her burning beneath his touch, beneath his attention.

She should have fought.

But instead she whispered, “I like it.”

Harry exhaled sharply, his eyes flickering, something dark and satisfied settling behind them.

“Of course, you do,” he murmured, his lips barely a breath from hers.

And then, he laughed.

Low.

Wicked.

Because now—

Now he knew exactly what to do with her.

Harry’s fingers tightened around her throat.

Slow at first, his palm warm against her skin, the pressure firm but not yet crushing. He was testing, waiting, watching the way her lips parted slightly, the way her pupils blown wide with something filthy and unspoken.

Y/N’s pulse hammered against his palm, a thrill shooting up her spine at the way he held her—like he owned her, like he could squeeze a little harder and end her right here if he wanted to.

And God help her—

She wanted him to, not to kill her, but to break her.

To ruin her.

Harry saw it.

And fuck, he loved it.

He leaned in, so close his breath ghosted over her cheek, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough, thick with something dark and amused. “You’re actually getting off on this, aren’t you?”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

His grip flexed around her throat, pressing just a little harder, just enough to make her breath hitch.

“I could kill you,” he whispered, dragging his nose along the side of her face, his lips just barely grazing her skin. “And all you’d fucking think about is how wet it makes you.”

Heat flooded her body.

A whimper caught in her throat, her legs twitching beneath him, her entire body betraying her in real time.

Harry grinned.

“Filthy little thing,” he murmured, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip, his free hand skimming lower, teasing, taunting.

“You want it, don’t you?” His voice was a rasp, a taunt, a promise. “You want me to ruin you.”

Y/N gasped, barely able to think.

His fingers tightened.

“Say it,” he muttered, his mouth brushing against her jaw.

Her mind spun, her body burned, her own voice barely a breath when she finally choked out—

“Yes.”

Harry laughed.

Dark. Triumphant.

“That’s my girl.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around her throat once more, cutting off her breath just enough to make her squirm beneath him. His smirk curled wider, dark and wicked, watching the way her lips parted, waiting for the telltale sound of desperation.

Then—he let go.

Her chest heaved as air rushed back into her lungs, her head spinning, body aching with want.

But instead of giving her what she craved—what she had just fucking admitted to wanting—Harry pulled back, shaking his head with an exhale that was half amusement, half disappointment.

“Too bad,” he muttered, voice low, taunting, full of cruel satisfaction.

Y/N blinked up at him, her dazed, pleasure-hazed mind barely keeping up. “W-what?”

Harry smirked, shifting back just slightly, still straddling her, still caging her in.

“You think you get it that easy, sweetheart?” His fingers traced along her jaw, but there was no softness in it. Only control. Only ownership. “After all the bullshit you put me through?”

Her stomach dropped.

His eyes flickered, sharp and calculating, dragging over her face like he was studying her, peeling her open, exposing every lie she’d ever told.

“You want me?” he murmured, his voice turning mocking. “Want me so fucking bad, you’re smiling with my hand around your throat?”

He leaned down, his breath warm against her lips, so close she could taste him.

“Then beg.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Harry grinned. Laughed, even.

“But before that…” His hand slid back into her hair, yanking her head back just enough to make her gasp. His tone shifted, cold and sharp.

“I want answers.”

Her stomach twisted.

His grip tightened.

“Why’d you do it?” he murmured, dragging his nose along her cheek, his voice almost soft—almost. “Why were you in on the sting?”

Y/N’s pulse pounded.

She swallowed, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t go away.

Harry smirked against her skin. “What, nothing to say now?”

“I—” she gasped, but her words tangled in her throat, her mind spinning, reeling, breaking apart.

“You wanted me,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “So fucking bad.” His grip tightened. “So tell me, sweetheart—why’d you turn me in?”

Her heart ached.

“I—” she started again, struggling against the truth she had never wanted to say aloud.

Harry’s grin widened.

“You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

Y/N’s breath shuddered.

And Harry fucking knew.

He tilted his head, watching her fall apart beneath him. “That’s it, isn’t it?” His grip loosened, just slightly, just enough to let her breathe, to let her wallow in the truth.

“You didn’t want to turn me in,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over her lips, his voice dripping in something dangerous. “They made you.”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

“I—”

Harry clicked his tongue, his smirk returning.

“Sweet girl,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You really are fucked, aren’t you?”

Her breath froze.

Harry exhaled a slow, amused breath, shaking his head as if he pitied her. As if she was pathetic.

“Fucked little thing,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down her throat, feeling the rapid thump of her pulse. “Did they tell you what to say?”

Y/N swallowed hard, her breath shaky, uneven.

“Did they feed you some rehearsed little script?” he continued, tilting his head, watching her like a predator watches wounded prey. “Told you how to get close to me, how to make me trust you, how to set me up?”

Her chest rose and fell, her lips parting slightly as she struggled for words, but nothing came out.

She was trapped.

Because he was right.

She had been sent in. She had been hired to be the one to get close to him, to make him slip, to catch him in a moment of vulnerability.

But it had never been that simple.

Because Harry had gotten into her head. Had wrapped himself around her thoughts, her body, her very existence.

And now?

Now she wasn’t even sure if she had ever really wanted to stop him.

Harry hummed, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip, smearing the warmth of his skin against her mouth. “You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered, voice barely there.

Harry laughed.

“That’s what you’re going with?” His smirk widened, his grip tightening as he forced her to look at him. “That’s your excuse? You didn’t have a choice?”

Y/N burned under his gaze, her skin hot, her pulse hammering, her mind spinning in too many directions at once.

“I—”

“You could’ve walked away,” he cut her off, dragging his fingers down to her chest, pressing just hard enough to make her feel it. “Could’ve refused.”

He leaned in, so close, too close, suffocatingly close.

“But you didn’t, did you?” he whispered. “You stayed. You played your part. You set me up.”

His grip tightened.

“And now?” His lips brushed against her ear, mocking, teasing. “Now you’re under me, telling me you like it.”

“You really are a sick little girl, aren’t you?” he muttered, his voice slow, cruel. “You wanted me. Wanted to be near me. Wanted to be claimed by me.”

Y/N shivered.

Harry dragged his fingers lower, over the delicate line of her ribs, his touch taunting, his eyes burning.

“You want me now, don’t you?” His smirk widened. “Even after everything, after all the lies, after what I could do to you right now.”

Y/N’s body betrayed her.

Her breath shuddered, her stomach tightened, her mind spun with the horrible, humiliating truth.

She wanted him.

Even now.

Even like this.

Harry’s grin stretched, his fingers pressing against her hip, holding her still beneath him.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, dragging his thumb along her jaw. “Look at you.”

He shook his head, almost in disbelief.

“You did all that work to put me away,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over her lips. “And now you’re still exactly right where I want you.”

His grip tightened.

“Say it,” he murmured, his tone dropping into something darker, something dangerous.

Y/N squirmed.

“Say you want me.”

Her breath came out ragged, her mind screaming at her to fight, to deny it, to hold onto whatever dignity she had left.

But instead—

She whispered.

“I want you.”

Harry exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against her skin, his pupils blown wide with something filthy and victorious.

“Of course, you do.”

His lips curled.

“But I’m not giving it to you.”

Her stomach dropped.

Harry grinned.

“You think you get rewarded for betraying me?” He let out a mocking laugh, his fingers digging into her hips, pressing her further into the floor. “No, sweetheart. You work for it.”

Her throat went dry.

“You beg for it,” he whispered, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “After everything you fucking put me through? You don’t get to just have me.”

His grip flexed, his smirk taunting.

“You have to earn me.”

Y/N swallowed hard, every inch of her body on fire, every nerve screaming at her.

Harry let out a slow, heavy sigh before shaking his head.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, rolling off of her like he had just wasted his time.

Y/N blinked, breath still ragged, body still burning from the weight of him, from the way he had held her down, from the way he had looked at her like he was going to devour her whole.

But now?

Now, he was standing over her, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt, looking bored.

Bored.

Like she was nothing.

Like she was just another useless, desperate thing that had lost its appeal.

Harry stretched his neck, cracking it once before sighing. “There’s probably someone else out there more deserving of my time,” he said, barely even looking at her. “Some other girl who actually knows what she wants.”

Her stomach dropped.

Panic.

Real, raw, deep panic clawed at her throat.

Because no—no, no, no.

She couldn’t let him leave.

She wouldn’t.

Not after this.

Not after knowing what it felt like to have his hands on her, to have his full, undivided attention, to be the thing that made his pulse spike.

Before she could stop herself, she was on her hands and knees, crawling toward him.

“Please,” she gasped, voice wrecked, desperate, pathetic.

Harry stilled.

His head tilted slightly, amusement flickering in his dangerous, dark eyes.

She kept going.

“I’ll do anything,” she whispered, hands pressing into the floor as she stared up at him, shaking with need, shame, everything in between.

“Anything?” he echoed, his lips twitching.

She nodded frantically, willing to say, do, be whatever he fucking wanted.

Harry exhaled slowly, dragging his gaze down her body, watching her like she was nothing more than a pathetic little pet at his feet.

Then, after a long moment, his smirk deepened.

“Take your shirt off.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Her pulse pounded.

She didn’t hesitate.

Her fingers trembled as they reached for the hem of her shirt, ready to do exactly as he said.

Y/N grabbed the hem of her shirt, fingers trembling slightly as she pulled it over her head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

She sat there, bare from the waist up, chest rising and falling rapidly, her skin burning under his gaze.

Harry didn’t react right away.

He just watched.

His expression unreadable, his eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin, like he was committing her to memory. Or deciding what to do with her.

Her stomach tightened.

“Your pants, too,” he murmured, voice low, commanding. “Then sit on the bed.”

Y/N swallowed hard, but did as he said.

She stood just long enough to unbutton her jeans, shoving them down her legs, kicking them off before sitting back down on the edge of the mattress, waiting.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for what came next.

Harry stepped closer, standing between her legs, his fingers trailing along her bare shoulders, down her arms, over her collarbone.

Soft, almost gentle.

Her skin prickled, heat pooling in her stomach as his touch skimmed lower, teasing.

He traced the line of her ribs, his palm skimming over her stomach, sliding around her waist, squeezing.

Y/N inhaled sharply, her breath catching, her body tensing, anticipating—

But then—

Harry chuckled.

Low, amused, cruel.

Her eyes snapped open, blinking up at him in confusion.

Then, he smirked.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, fingers drifting lower, skimming her hips. “I was just checking for a wire.”

Her stomach dropped.

A wire.

He thought—

Her blood ran cold.

Harry’s smirk widened, like he was thrilled by her reaction.

“You really thought I was about to fuck you?” He let out another sharp laugh, his fingers digging into her waist for just a second before pulling away. “After what you did?”

Y/N’s mouth went dry.

Her pulse hammered, something twisting, coiling, breaking inside her.

Because he was right to check.

She had been a snitch.

She had turned him in.

Harry hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Guess it’s my turn to ask some questions,” he muttered, dragging his fingers along her jaw. “Since you’re being such a good girl for me now.”

She forced herself to swallow. Harry tilted his head, dragging his fingers down her bare arm, his touch light, teasing, but laced with something far more sinister. He was enjoying this, playing with her, unraveling her, exposing every lie she had ever told.

He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her cheek. “So, tell me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice smooth and laced with mockery. “Why you?”

Y/N swallowed hard, fingers digging into her lap, her entire body tensing.

She had known this question was coming.

She had dreaded it.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she forced herself to breathe, to keep her voice steady, to give him something real.

Because Harry could smell a lie.

She knew that.

So she gave him the truth.

“I write true crime novels,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Harry stilled.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, he let out a slow, amused exhale.

“Of course, you do, so that part of your lie was true,” he muttered, shaking his head, his fingers skimming her shoulder, her collarbone, pressing just slightly into her skin. “Fucking hell, you really are a sick little pup, aren’t you?”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She kept going.

“I was looking for you.” Her voice wavered. “Before the police ever got involved. I—I wanted to know if the stories were real. I wanted an up-close look at you.”

Harry grinned, his hand sliding lower, taunting her. “And what did you think when you found me, sweetheart?”

Her stomach twisted.

She could still remember the first time she saw him.

The way he had looked at her.

The way her entire body had reacted to him.

The way she had wanted him before she even knew what he was.

“I…” she hesitated, her pulse racing.

Harry’s fingers trailed lower.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

She inhaled sharply.

“I was obsessed,” she whispered.

Harry laughed.

Low. Dark. Triumphant.

“Of course, you were,” he muttered, his smirk deepening.

Her breath hitched as his grip on her hip tightened.

“You wanted me,” he continued, voice silky and cruel. “But instead of coming to me like a good little girl, you ran to the police.”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach churning.

“I didn’t run to them,” she muttered, her voice strained.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “No?”

She forced herself to look at him.

“They found out about you on their own,” she admitted. “I had already been researching you, and when they started closing in, I—” she swallowed, “I reached out.”

Harry hummed, dragging his fingers over her jaw, gripping her chin just tight enough to hold her still.

“And they thought you were perfect for the job, didn’t they?”

Her throat bobbed.

She nodded.

“Because you looked like them,” Harry murmured. “Like the others.”

Y/N shivered.

Because she had.

That was why they had chosen her.

She fit the profile.

The dark hair. The delicate features. The softness, the sweetness.

The perfect bait.

Harry smirked, shaking his head. “That’s fucking poetic,” he muttered. “The writer getting thrown into her own story.”

His fingers tightened, his grip firm but taunting.

“But you weren’t just writing about me, were you?” His voice dipped lower, something dark curling beneath it. “You were fucking dreaming about me.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat once more.

“Thinking about what it’d be like,” Harry continued, dragging his lips close to her ear. “To be one of them. To see if you’d survive. If you could make me keep you. If you could fix me. If you could fuck me. ”

Her stomach coiled.

Harry smirked against her skin.

“And now,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, “you’re exactly where you wanted to be.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, forcing herself to keep talking.

“I thought you were…” She hesitated, her fingers gripping the sheets beneath her, her body still bare from where he had made her strip down, still burning under his taunting, amused gaze.

Harry hummed, tilting his head. “Go on,” he urged, his voice slow, dripping with something mocking.

She swallowed hard, her chest tight, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I thought you were attractive,” she whispered, her voice barely there. “And charming.”

Harry froze.

For a second, there was nothing but silence.

He laughed.

Loud. Sharp. Cruel.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His amusement was genuine, his grin stretching wide, flashing his teeth. Harry let out another bitter chuckle, pacing in front of her, running his tongue over his bottom lip before flicking his gaze back to her.

“There are a million guys out there,” he said, raising an eyebrow, grinning like this was the funniest fucking thing in the world. “And you’re pining after the one that fucking kills people for fun?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her face burning as humiliation twisted through her.

But she couldn’t deny it.

Couldn’t argue.

Because he was right.

Harry sighed dramatically, rolling his shoulders back before stepping toward her again, trapping her beneath his gaze.

“You’re the one who should be fucking institutionalized,” he said while point his finger at her and shaking his head. “Not me.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Because it wasn’t just an insult.

It wasn’t just something to throw at her in anger.

It was the truth.

She had hunted him down.

She had wanted to meet him.

She had let herself get close.

She had let herself fantasize about him, even after knowing what he was.

Harry dragged his fingers down her cheek, tilting her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

“You’re sicker than I am,” he murmured, smirking. “You just hide it better.”

Y/N didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

She was still perched on the edge of her bed, her body bare, vulnerable, exposed to the man standing over her, the man who had dragged her into this, who had unraveled every carefully crafted lie she had told herself.

And now?

Now he was looking at her like he had finally figured her out.

Harry’s smirk lingered, his fingers still curled beneath her chin, keeping her face tilted up toward him, forcing her to hold his gaze.

“You gonna deny it?” he murmured, his voice smooth, taunting, wicked. “Gonna sit there and tell me you’re not just as fucked in the head as I am?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her stomach twisting, burning, breaking apart.

Harry chuckled, his grip tightening slightly. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered, his breath warm against her skin, his taunt curling through her like smoke.

His other hand trailed slowly over her collarbone, his fingers skimming the delicate line of her neck, his touch light, teasing, testing.

Y/N inhaled sharply, her body betraying her, her breath shuddering beneath him.

He saw it.

Felt it.

And fuck, he loved it.

Harry exhaled a slow, amused sigh. “You really are ill, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over her bottom lip, watching the way her breath hitched at his touch. “A normal girl would be crying by now.”

His smirk deepened, his fingers trailing lower, toying with the hem of her underwear, teasing her.

“A normal girl wouldn’t be sitting here,” he continued, voice dipping into something darker, something dangerous. “She’d be screaming. Fighting. Begging for me to let her go. ”

He tilted his head, dragging his thumb along her throat again.

“But you?” He hummed, shaking his head. “You’re sitting there, half-naked, still fucking wanting me. Still thinking about what it would be like to have this cock inside your mouth.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her entire body betraying her, heat coiling at the base of her spine.

Harry grinned, reading her like a book, seeing straight through her.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” His voice was slow, deadly, intoxicating.

Her stomach twisted, shame and desire colliding, melting together into something filthy, something humiliating.

She licked her lips, her voice breaking, wrecked, ruined.

“Yes.”

Harry let out a sharp laugh, his grip tightening on her hips.

“You are a stupid little thing,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

Y/N blinked, her body screaming at the loss of contact, her breath caught in her throat.

Harry stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

“Too bad.”

Her stomach dropped.

Her lips parted, eyes widening as she processed what he had just said.

Harry smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think you get rewarded for betraying me?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Nah, sweetheart. That’s not how this works.”

She clenched her fists in her lap, anger, frustration, need all colliding inside her, breaking her down further.

Harry just grinned.

“You want my attention? You prove you deserve it.”

He tilted his head, watching her closely, waiting.

“What are you willing to do for me, sweetheart?” His voice dipped lower, his fingers tapping idly against his forearm. “How far will you go to earn me back?”

Y/N’s stomach coiled.

Because she already knew the answer.

As far as he wanted. Y/N didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

She was still perched on the edge of her bed, her body bare, vulnerable, exposed to the man standing over her, the man who had dragged her into this, who had unraveled every carefully crafted lie she had told herself.

And now?

Now he was looking at her like he had finally figured her out.

Harry’s smirk lingered, his fingers still curled beneath her chin, keeping her face tilted up toward him, forcing her to hold his gaze.

Harry didn’t move for a moment.

He just watched her, taking his time, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter around her throat.

He still had one hand wrapped around it, fingers firm, commanding, possessive, but not pressing hard enough to hurt—not yet.

She had given him the words he wanted.

Now, he wanted her to show him.

His thumb stroked absently along her jaw, his smirk deepening as he tipped her chin up.

“On your knees,” he murmured.

Y/N shivered.

Her stomach twisted, flipped, burned with something filthy and unspoken.

She hesitated—not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew exactly what this meant.

If she did this, if she obeyed him now, there was no turning back.

Harry cocked his head, amusement flickering in his gaze as he felt the hesitation ripple through her.

“Problem, sweetheart?” he taunted, his voice smooth, almost lazy.

Her breath hitched as she shifted forward, hands trembling slightly as she slid off the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her entire body hot, on fire, burning beneath the weight of his stare.

Harry grinned.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

He reached out, dragging his fingers slowly through her hair, gripping just enough to make her tilt her head back further, to make her look up at him.

She exhaled shakily, her own pulse hammering against her skin.

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head with something like mock disappointment.

“You make me sick,” he muttered, but he was smiling.

Y/N clenched her hands into fists in her lap, her stomach coiling.

Harry let out a slow breath, dragging his thumb over her cheek, his gaze still locked on hers.

“You could’ve had a normal life,” he mused, his voice low, thoughtful, cruel. “You could’ve stayed away from me. You could’ve lived in blissful ignorance, never knowing what I looked like, never knowing what I was capable of.”

His grip in her hair tightened.

“But no,” he murmured, shaking his head, “you had to come find me.”

Y/N’s breath shuddered.

“You had to dig your nails in, had to crawl inside my fucking head, had to make me trust you.”

Harry exhaled slowly, his jaw clenching, his fingers digging in.

“And now look at you,” he whispered, voice dripping with mockery, with something victorious.

“Kneeling for me.”

Harry hummed, tilting his head, his smirk stretching.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles down the side of her cheek.

“How does it feel?”

Her breath hitched.

“How does it feel,” he repeated, slowly, his tone dipping into something dark, something dangerous, “knowing that you lost?”

Y/N swallowed hard.

Her pride was shattered, obliterated, reduced to dust beneath him.

And yet—

She licked her lips, looked up at him through her lashes, and gave him the truth.

“It feels good.”

Harry grinned.

“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip.

Harry’s grip on her throat loosened, his fingers dragging down to her collarbone, his expression shifting into something calculating. The amusement faded just slightly, replaced by something sharper—awareness.

They couldn’t stay here.

For all the fun he was having, for all the ways he enjoyed pulling her apart piece by piece, he wasn’t stupid.

The police were going to start looking for him.

And now that he had her?

That meant they’d be looking for her, too.

He sighed, shaking his head, before finally stepping back. “As much as I’d love to keep playing with you here,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders, “we need to go.”

Y/N blinked, her body still humming, still shaking, still completely and utterly ruined from everything he’d just done to her.

But then, the reality of what he was saying sank in.

They were leaving.

Just like that.

Harry had decided.

She was going with him.

Her breath hitched, her fingers twitching in her lap. “Go where?”

Harry smirked, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “Anywhere but here, sweetheart.”

And that was it.

That was all he had to say.

Because he had already won.

They drove for hours.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, silent, obedient, devoted, watching the road stretch out endlessly before them, watching the night swallow the last pieces of her old life.

She didn’t ask where they were going.

She didn’t ask when they would stop.

She just existed beside him, waiting.

When they finally pulled into a run-down roadside motel, the neon VACANCY sign flickering weakly above them, Harry turned to her, tilting his head.

“You’re gonna take care of me, right?” he murmured, smirking, though there was something serious, something possessive behind the tease.

Y/N’s stomach coiled.

She nodded.

“Say it,” he muttered.

Her throat tightened.

“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered.

Harry grinned.

“Good girl.”

Y/N did everything for him.

She checked them into the motels.

She cleaned him up when he came back in the middle of the night, knuckles bruised, face splattered with things she didn’t ask about.

She washed his clothes.

She made sure he ate, brought him food, set it down in front of him like she was offering something holy.

And when he touched her, when he pulled her into his lap, when he whispered things in her ear that made her shiver, made her ache, made her cum, she let him.

Because she had already given him everything.

And now?

She didn’t know who she was without him.

The motel room was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic outside and the soft sound of water dripping from the bathroom faucet. The walls were thin, the bed was stiff, and the air smelled faintly of cigarettes and cheap cleaning supplies. But it didn’t matter.

Because they were alone, together.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees, his head tilted back slightly as he watched her. Y/N was kneeling in front of him, carefully wiping his hands clean with a damp washcloth, her touch delicate, reverent.

She didn’t ask where the blood had come from.

She never did though she knew it came from another midnight kill.

And maybe that’s what made him feel something different when he looked at her.

Harry exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching beneath her touch, his gaze heavy as it traced the features of her face. She was so careful with him. So soft.

It had been a long time since anyone had handled him like that, with the love and devotion she had for him.

Y/N glanced up, catching his stare, her lips parting slightly as she held his gaze. “What?”

Harry smirked slightly, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just thinking.”

She raised an eyebrow, dragging the washcloth over his knuckles one last time before setting it aside. “Thinking about what?”

He inhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, leaning back against the headboard.

For once, he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t mocking her, wasn’t playing a game.

He just looked… tired.

Harry ran a hand through his curls, exhaling through his nose. “Just wondering how the fuck I ended up here,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, slower, more thoughtful.

Y/N swallowed, shifting to sit on the bed beside him, tucking her legs beneath her. “What do you mean?”

He let out a soft chuckle, dragging his fingers along his jaw. “I wasn’t supposed to be this,” he muttered.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, curious. “Then what were you supposed to be?”

Harry exhaled, pausing for a long moment before answering.

“My mum wanted me to be normal,” he muttered, his voice almost distant. “Wanted me to go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. All that shit.” He shook his head slightly. “She always saw the best in me. Always thought I could be something good.”

Y/N swallowed, her stomach twisting at the way his voice softened when he talked about her.

“Where is she now?” she asked gently.

Harry glanced at her, his green eyes darker, unreadable.

“Dead.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“I—”

“Don’t,” Harry muttered, shaking his head, his jaw clenching slightly. “I don’t need your sympathy.”

She nodded, staying quiet.

Harry ran his fingers along his bottom lip, exhaling slowly. “She was the only person who ever really believed in me,” he muttered. “Even when I started—” He stopped, his lips pressing into a thin line. “She knew something was wrong with me. But she never said it. She just kept trying to love me through it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

Because for the first time, Harry wasn’t speaking like a predator, like a monster, like the untouchable thing he always wanted to be.

He sounded like a person.

Like a little boy who had once been loved.

“What about your dad?” she asked softly.

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “Never knew him.”

Y/N stayed quiet, watching him.

Waiting.

And for once, he kept talking.

“My mum was young when she had me,” he muttered. “She did her best, but I think she always knew I was different. Other kids… they played football, they laughed, they made friends.” He smirked slightly, but there was no amusement in it. “I liked to hurt things. Even when I was little. I used to rip the wings off bugs, kill small animals, just to see what it felt like.”

Y/N’s stomach coiled, but she didn’t move away.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look at him like he was a monster.

And maybe that’s why he kept talking.

“When I got older, it got worse,” he muttered. “Started getting into fights. Started craving that feeling—the control, the rush, the power.”

His fingers flexed at his sides.

“I think my mum knew she couldn’t save me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But she never stopped trying.”

Y/N swallowed, her throat aching.

“She sounds like she really loved you,” she murmured.

Harry exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And I fucking ruined her.”

Y/N froze.

Harry didn’t look at her.

Didn’t say anything else.

Just let the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

And for the first time, Y/N saw something in Harry she had never seen before.

Guilt.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the voice in the back of her head that told her she should be scared, that she should leave, that she should fight for whatever was left of her own life and dignity.

Because that wasn’t what she wanted.

She reached out, hesitating for only a second before placing her hand over his.

Harry’s fingers tensed beneath hers but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable, guarded, almost suspicious.

Like he couldn’t understand why she was still here.

Y/N squeezed his hand gently, her voice barely a whisper.

“I see you, Harry.”

His jaw clenched.

His eyes flickered.

And for the first time, maybe ever—

He didn’t know what to say. Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react the way she expected him to.

Y/N had thought he might shove her hand away, scoff, make some biting remark about how she was just another girl trying to fix him, trying to make him something he wasn’t, or that she was fucking crazy.

But he just sat there, still, quiet, staring.

His green eyes flickered, darting over her face, searching, testing, waiting.

“Say that again,” he muttered, voice low, almost like he didn’t believe she had said it in the first place.

Y/N swallowed, but she didn’t look away.

“I see you,” she whispered.

Harry inhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching beneath hers, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or hold on.

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking in his cheek, his body rigid.

He wasn’t used to this.

To someone staying.

To someone not looking at him like he was a monster, a thing to be feared and avoided.

She wasn’t scared.

She should be.

But she wasn’t.

And that fucked with him.

Harry exhaled, dragging a hand over his face before shaking his head. “You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he muttered. “You don’t want to see me.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around his.

“But I do,” she murmured.

Harry scoffed, shaking his head, his smirk returning, but it wasn’t as sharp as before.

“You see what I let you see,” he muttered, his voice a slow drawl, lazy, dismissive. “You see the version of me you want to believe in. But that’s not real.”

Y/N inhaled, her heart twisting, because she knew that was only half true.

Yes, he had played a game with her.

Yes, he had controlled every move, every piece of their story.

But he had also let her in.

Even if he hadn’t meant to.

“I see you,” she repeated, her voice stronger this time. “Not the version you show the world. Not the one they talk about in newspapers or whisper about in interrogation rooms.”

She shifted closer, her breath shallow, pulse pounding.

“I see the part of you that still remembers your mother,” she whispered. “The part of you that didn’t want to disappoint her. The part of you that still feels something—”

Harry’s hand snapped up, wrapping around her throat, stopping her words in an instant.

Her breath caught, her pulse pounding against his palm, but she didn’t pull away.

Harry’s grip wasn’t crushing.

It was firm, commanding, warning.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were burning.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about me,” he muttered.

The motel room was still, but the air between them was charged with something unspoken, something neither of them wanted to say out loud.

Harry had let her in, just for a second, just long enough for her to see the cracks beneath the smirking, taunting, dangerous exterior he wore so well.

And he hated it. He hated the way being vulnerable made him feel. He hated feeling weak.

Y/N could tell.

She could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself to do it.

But despite the tension coiling between them, he didn’t pull away.

Not yet.

He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before dragging a hand through his curls. “We need to sleep,” he muttered, like he was forcing himself to move on, like he was forcing himself to bury whatever had just passed between them.

Y/N blinked, watching as he kicked off his boots, pulled off his shirt, and dropped it onto the chair in the corner like this was just any other night.

Like he hadn’t just admitted that she had gotten under his skin.

Like she hadn’t just made him feel something.

Y/N hesitated. “Do you want me to—”

“You’re sleeping in the bed,” he cut her off, not looking at her, not giving her the chance to argue.

Her breath caught slightly, her fingers twitching in her lap.

“But—”

Harry sighed, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart, I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

Y/N swallowed, something warm curling in her stomach.

He wasn’t acting like a man who didn’t care about her.

Not really.

Because a man who didn’t care wouldn’t have said anything.

A man who didn’t care would have let her take the floor, let her suffer, let her figure it out on her own.

But Harry wasn’t that man.

Not with her.

She climbed into the bed carefully, waiting, testing, unsure of how close she could get without setting something off.

Harry sighed again, like she was exhausting him, but when he laid down next to her, he didn’t turn away.

He stayed facing her, his green eyes flickering in the dim motel light, his expression unreadable, guarded, but softer than before.

She let the silence stretch between them for a moment before speaking.

“Why are you letting me stay?” she asked, her voice quiet, careful.

Harry scoffed, dragging a hand over his face. “You don’t have anywhere else to go,” he muttered.

Y/N frowned slightly, watching him. “That’s not why.”

Harry inhaled, staring at the ceiling, his fingers twitching slightly against the sheets.

Then—he reached out.

Slowly. Hesitantly.

And he tugged the blanket over her.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

It was small.

It was barely anything.

But it meant everything.

Harry sighed, rubbing his jaw before turning to look at her again.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he muttered. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

Because she had won.

Not all of him.

Not yet.

But this.

This was something.

And for now—

It was enough.

The year slipped by in a haze of highways, dimly lit motel rooms, stolen glances, and the ever-present hum of danger that never really went away.

Y/N had stopped counting after the first six months.

She didn’t know how many towns they had passed through, how many different names they had used, how many times they had barely missed getting caught.

But somehow, they were still here.

Together.

And that was the only thing that mattered.

The motel room was quiet aside from the rain that pattered on the windows.

Harry sat on the bed, legs stretched out, his arm draped behind his head as he flicked a pocketknife open and shut, the blade catching in the low light.

Y/N sat cross-legged beside him, carefully wrapping his knuckles, her fingers steady, practiced.

“You’re getting good at this,” he muttered, watching her work, his voice deeper now, rougher with time.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “That’s not a good thing.”

Harry smirked, tilting his head. “Depends who you ask.”

She tugged the bandage a little tighter, just to make him hiss.

Harry chuckled. “Sadist.”

“Masochist,” she shot back.

His grin widened. “You love it.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I love keeping you alive, which is apparently a full-time job.”

Harry hummed, watching her carefully. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t respond.

Because they both knew it was true.

She had spent a year taking care of him.

Washing the blood from his skin.

Lying beside him in nameless motel beds.

Buying him cigarettes at gas stations in the middle of the night.

Keeping him alive, keeping him close.

And somewhere along the way, she had stopped trying to convince herself that she wasn’t in love with him.

Because she was.

She had been for a long, long time.

And he knew it.

That night, Harry let her settle against him, his arm curling around her waist, his body warm, solid, real.

She traced absent patterns over the ink on his chest, her fingers memorizing the way he felt beneath her touch.

“Do you ever think about stopping?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the dark.

Harry inhaled deeply, dragging his fingers along her back.

“Stopping what?” he murmured.

“The running.”

His body tensed slightly.

She felt it.

Not much. Just enough.

“Not really,” he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Y/N swallowed, waiting.

And after a long pause, he added—

“But if I did, it wouldn’t be without you.”

Her breath hitched.

Her fingers froze against his skin.

Because he meant that.

Harry didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him. “So if we found a place,” she murmured, “a real place, somewhere quiet, somewhere safe—you’d stay?”

Harry exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his curls before pressing his forehead against hers.

“If it was with you,” he muttered.

That night, Y/N rolled onto her side, pulling the thin motel blanket up over her shoulder. The room was calm besides for the steady hum of the heater.

She could feel Harry behind her, his body warm, solid, familiar. His arm slung over her shoulder tightly. His breathing was slow, steady.

She assumed he had already drifted off.

So she let herself relax, closing her eyes, letting sleep pull her under.

But just as she was about to slip away, she felt it.

A shift in the bed.

A faint exhale.

Then—his voice.

Soft. Low. Almost hesitant.

Like he was speaking to himself.

Like he thought she wouldn’t hear.

“I’d stay for you,” he whispered.

Y/N’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move.

Didn’t let him know she was awake.

Didn’t let him know that his words had just cracked something inside her.

His fingers brushed her hip, barely there, just a ghost of a touch.

“You’re the only thing keeping me here,” he muttered, his voice so quiet she almost thought she imagined it.

Almost.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, aching, twisting, screaming at her to turn around, to face him, to tell him she wasn’t asleep, that she heard him, that she felt the same.

But then—

He let out a slow, almost shaky breath.

And what he said next nearly stopped her heart.

“I don’t love many things,” he murmured.

A pause.

Then—

“But I love you.”

Y/N froze, her entire body tensing beneath the sheets.

But Harry wasn’t done.

“Mum would’ve loved you too,” he whispered, his voice soft, distant, raw. “She always liked people who made me feel better.”

[thereceptioniststyles]

The Sound of My Voice

Based off this request:

Where Y/N and Harry were once bandmates until a bitter fallout ended everything. And where, years later, a forced reunion puts them back on stage.

Word count: 2.2k

Content warning: cursing, mentions of smoking.

Y/N arrived at the festival grounds at 12:17 PM, her right hand gripping a paper cup filled with black coffee, her left clutching a crumpled setlist. The mid-afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt, the temperature hovering around 95°F. Roadies, their shirts drenched in sweat, darted between stages. Multiple soundchecks filled the air with a mix of drum beats, guitar riffs, and microphone feedback.

Y/N's gaze fixed on the large LED schedule board. Her name appeared in bold letters, slotted for 8:45 PM - her debut as a solo act at a major festival. The sight of it twisted her stomach into knots. She took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste.

A woman in a black polo shirt with 'STAFF' emblazoned on the back approached, her brunette hair escaping a messy ponytail. "There's been a cancellation," she said, her voice strained. "The headliner dropped out. We're scrambling for a replacement."

Y/N nodded, her eyes scanning the festival grounds. Technicians scurried about, carrying cables and equipment. A forklift beeped as it backed up, hauling speaker stacks. She took another sip of coffee, the liquid now lukewarm.

"We're thinking of a reunion set," the staff member continued, her tone shifting to excitement. "Your old band. The demand is insane. It would be—"

Coffee sprayed from Y/N's mouth, droplets splattering the asphalt. "What?" She coughed, wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

"It makes perfect sense," the woman pressed on, oblivious to Y/N's reaction. She counted off on her fingers. "You're all here. Your solo slot could be expanded. It'd be—"

"No," Y/N said immediately, and the word cut through the air. "Not possible."

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes, the past unraveling around her, an old wound reopening. She saw them on the schedule all lined up after her, the names like ghosts, haunting the crisp paper. Her certainty wavered as the whole situation unfolded in her mind. Sarah, Mitch, and most of all—

Harry.

His name sent her emotions spiraling. He was the reason. The fight. The chaos. The way everything fell apart in the end. Now, he was here, and the shock of it ran through her like lightning. She'd been so wrapped up in her nerves, so focused on taking this next step alone, that she hadn't even considered that they might be at the same festival. She'd thought there would be space, distance, time before she'd have to face them again.

The organizer was still talking, but Y/N couldn't hear her anymore. She was already being pulled back to that last fight, when everything they'd built had crumbled. A hotel room, voices raised until past midnight, until they couldn't shout anymore and were left staring at each other in silence and exhaustion.

Sarah and Mitch smashing through the minibar. Harry outside smoking.

She remembered the click of the door as she left.

She hadn't laid eyes on him since the band fell apart, since they both fell apart. That night, everything crumbled in a fight that left words suspended in the air like haunting echoes. The organizer continued, "It's a logistical miracle, honestly. The others already agreed. We just need you."

The dressing room's walls closed in. Y/N perched on the worn velvet couch, arms crossed. Mitch's tousled hair bobbed as he grinned. Sarah's laughter rang out. Adam, the once-temporary guitarist now a fixture, leaned against the wall. Their voices intertwined, swapping stories of wild nights and tour mishaps. The air reeked of sweat and anticipation.

Y/N's stomach churned. Her bandmates' easy rapport grated on her nerves. She glanced at Harry, who stood in the corner, silent and brooding. His presence set her teeth on edge.

"Remember that time in Denver?" Mitch said, eyes gleaming. "When Sarah accidentally set off the fire alarm?"

Sarah snorted. "God, don't remind me. We had to evacuate the entire hotel at 3 AM."

"In our pajamas," Adam added, smirking.

Y/N's fingernails dug into her palms. The memories flooded back - not just the good times, but the bitter arguments, the sleepless nights, the crushing pressure. She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.

"I need some air," she muttered, pushing past Harry to reach the door.

The hallway stretched before her, a cacophony of sound and movement. Roadies hauled equipment. A guitar tech tuned an instrument nearby, the notes discordant and jarring. Y/N leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply.

The door creaked open behind her. Harry stepped out, his imposing frame filling the doorway. Y/N's heart raced. She turned, meeting his gaze.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low and gravelly.

Y/N's throat tightened. "Fine," she spat. "Just peachy."

Harry's jaw clenched. He stepped closer, towering over her. "Look, I know this isn't ideal-"

"Ideal?" Y/N scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"We need to make this work," Harry said, running a hand through his messy curls. "For the fans, if nothing else."

Y/N's eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend you care about the fans. This is about your ego, same as always."

Harry's nostrils flared. He opened his mouth to retort, but a stagehand interrupted.

"Five minutes to showtime," she called, hurrying past.

Y/N and Harry locked eyes, the tension between them electric. Without a word, they turned and walked back into the dressing room, the door slamming shut behind them.

But today, everything was different.

Because Harry was here.

His presence electrified the air, making Y/N's heart race and the small room feel claustrophobic. They hadn't spoken a word to each other. Across the room, she felt him tuning his guitar, tension visible in his rigid posture. The space between them was thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. They both pretended this was an ordinary gig, but beneath the surface, they knew there was a sea of unfinished business.

"Alright," Mitch clapped his hands together. "Setlist. What are we doing?”

They tossed around some ideas, including the obvious hits that still got radio play. For a while, it felt safe. Easy.

Then Adam mentioned the song.

Y/N’s stomach twisted. In her peripheral vision, she saw Harry shift, heard his soft exhale.

Unspoken yet understood, it hung in the air like a shared secret. The song wasn't just a melody; it was their anthem, born from the chaos of their lives.

Harry finally broke the tense silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't have to do that one," he said, the words heavy with an unspoken tension.

Y/N's head jerked up in surprise. It was the first time he had spoken directly to her, and his tone sent a jolt through her chest.

Sarah interjected, her gaze darting between them. "It's what the crowd wants," she asserted, her voice unwavering.

Harry remained mute, the weight of his silence hanging thick in the air.

Y/N steeled herself, lifting her chin. "Fine," she declared, her voice edged with resolve. "Let's just get it over with."

The atmosphere was heavy as they began. Their initial try was a disaster. Mitch sighed. "Alright," he remarked, "that was terrible." Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "No shit."

The festival grounds were teeming with people—thousands of fans crammed against the sturdy barricades, their voices a deafening chorus of screams and songs, each one surrendering to the magic of the moment. Y/N stood under the intense stage lights, gripping the microphone tightly. She used to revel in this sensation, the electric energy coursing through the air, the exhilarating rush, the way the music drowned out everything else around her. But tonight, it was different. Because he was here.

Harry was just a few feet away, his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked comfortable, like stepping back into this world was easy. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension between them, simmering beneath every note.

The first few songs went fine. They hit their cues. Their harmonies were technically perfect. They moved around the stage as they used to—carefully choreographed chaos. But there was distance. They didn't look at each other or acknowledge the weight of the past pressing against the present. The crowd loved it, but Y/N knew better—they weren't really performing together.

Y/N's pulse halted as a wave of recognition and excitement swept through the crowd, amplifying the noise. She instinctively turned her head towards Harry on the other side of the stage who was already watching her—their eyes met for the first time that night.

The moment lingered, heavy with unspoken words. A mutual understanding was there, along with a disquieting dread. Yet, beneath it all, an unshakeable yearning existed, a pull that was both comforting and terrifying. The cheers became a distant hum as she tightened her grip on the mic. The opening notes hung in the air, sharp and clear. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to take a steady breath. This is just a performance. Just another song.

But that wasn't true.

It had never been just a song.

The first verse was hers.

She closed her eyes, letting the words settle on her tongue before they escaped her lips.

“I told myself I’d be fine without you…” As she sang, the words felt like a shield, keeping him at bay.

Her voice cut through the noise with deliberate sharpness, each syllable carrying composure and defiance. There was a rawness she couldn’t hide, even though she tried to mask it with control. Yet within that steadiness lurked something else, something unrestrained and impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if he could hear the truth under her voice, but she could. And it terrified her.

Harry’s fingers flexed over the guitar strings, his knuckles paling from exertion. He seemed to ground himself in the music as he came in on the next line, his voice low and measured, contrasting her tremulous tone.

“I told myself I wouldn’t care.” He sounded convincing enough. But she knew him too well. She knew how he sang when he was trying to believe his own lies.

She opened her eyes and for the first time all night, really looked at him—looked at him as if she could see past their constructed barriers. The moment held them captive, fragile yet fierce. Her heart pounded in her chest and throat like a tidal wave. The way his lips shaped the words as if he still felt them. His tense shoulders, as if holding something back. His eyes, dark and unreadable, burning into hers.

The air between them thickened, charged with raw emotion. Each lyric was a dagger from the past, every note a fresh wound ripped open anew. By the time they hit the chorus, restraint had vanished, leaving raw passion in its wake.

"You swore you’d never leave me— But I watched you walk away."

Propelled by an invisible force, Y/N surged forward, not even aware of her movement until she was right there, invading his space.

Harry stood his ground. His voice dropped to a deeper, more resonant timbre as he sang the next line, his gaze unrelenting.

"You said you’d never forget me— But I knew you would someday."

The words hit. Like a challenge, like an accusation, like something too real to be ignored. His intense stare made her breath hitch. Her conflicted expression caused his fingers to tighten around the guitar. The tension cracked, spilling into the next verse.

It wasn’t just a song anymore. It had transformed into a battle, a clash of wills wrapped in harmonies, cloaked in melodies of nostalgia. It seemed like something they could simply walk away from once the music stopped. But deep down, they both knew the truth. This confrontation wasn't over. It had never truly ended.

The song ended, but the intensity of the moment hung in the air. Y/N stood too close, breath ragged and quick, adrenaline surging like wildfire. The crowd's screams were a deafening roar that barely pierced her consciousness.

Because Harry was right there. His gaze met hers, eyes dark and unreadable, filled with an intensity she couldn't understand. His fingers clung to his guitar as if it were his only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

The silence between them stretched into tension, hanging for a fraction of a second too long before the next song erupted, a tidal wave of sound that forced them apart and broke the spell.

The rest of the set was a blur.

By the time they played the final song and took their bows, Y/N could barely remember a second of it.

All she knew was that she needed to get off this stage.

She turned the second the lights dimmed, ignoring Harry's hesitation before he followed.

The moment they were backstage—hidden from the crowd, away from the cameras—she whipped around.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry barely had time to stop before she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

He scoffed, yanking his guitar strap over his head. “You tell me.”

“Oh, don’t pull that shit.” She snapped. “You—”

“What, Y/N?” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

Her heart pounded.

She didn’t know if it was from the show or him.

“You were looking at me like—like—”

“Like what?” His voice was lower now, rougher. He took a step closer. “Like I meant it?”

Her breath hitched.

Because he did.

And she did, too.

And that was the problem.

She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I did?”

“You sang that song like—”

“Like it was real?” His voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. “Because it was, Y/N. It still is.”

She felt it like a punch to the chest.

Anger, confusion, want.

“You don’t get to say that,” she whispered.

His expression flickered—just for a second—before he stepped back, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake it off.

“Right,” he muttered, voice hollow. “Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pretend it never happened.”

Y/N’s hands clenched. “And what do you do, Harry? You throw it in my face? Make me relive it just so you don’t have to be the only one still stuck in the past?”

His eyes flashed. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you actually faced it instead of running every damn time.”

She froze.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

The tension was thick, suffocating, too much.

She could hear the others in the dressing room down the hall, feel reality creeping back in.

But in this moment, it was just them.

Same fight, different place.

Same pain, different years.

Silence fell between them.

There was nothing left to say.

And maybe that was the worst part.

[thereceptioniststyles]

White Lie

Where Y/N tells Harry a lie and she gets in trouble. Word Count: 5,990

Content Warning: Mentions of alcohol, spanking, smut, dominance.

Based off Toxic Valentine by All Time Low

Harry adjusts the horns on his head, smirking at his reflection in the mirror. “Who knew finding a decent devil costume in March would be this impossible?” he mutters, running a ringed hand through his curls.

Y/N, slipping the halo onto her head, grins. “At least you didn’t have to order yours from a questionable website. The shipping took forever, and I’m pretty sure this halo is made of pipe cleaners.”

Harry turns to her, dragging his gaze over the soft white fabric hugging her body. “Looks like it was worth the wait, though,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You look like a dream.”

She rolls her eyes but can’t help the warmth creeping up her neck. “And you look like trouble.”

Harry smirks, adjusting the pitchfork in his grip. “Then I guess I’m playing my part well.”

Harry scoffs, leaning against the bathroom counter as he watches her. “Only Zack would throw a costume party just because he’s bored of normal birthdays.”

Y/N adjusts her halo, turning slightly to check her reflection. “Yeah, and only we would spend a whole week scrambling to find costumes in the middle of March.”

Harry steps up behind her, his hands lazily resting on her hips as he meets her eyes in the mirror. “You complaining, angel?” His voice is smooth, teasing.

She tilts her head, feigning thought. “Not complaining, just making sure you remember how much effort I put into this.”

His smirk deepens. “Oh, trust me, I noticed.” His fingers squeeze her waist, his voice dropping an octave. “And I plan on showing my appreciation later.”

She rolls her eyes, but the warmth in her stomach betrays her. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love me,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss just beneath her ear.

Y/N adjusts her wings, making sure they sit just right before slipping on her heels. Harry watches her with a smirk, twirling the car keys around his finger. “Ready, angel?” he drawls.

She nods, and they head out. The night air is cool as they slide into his black Range Rover, the soft leather seats cool against her thighs. Harry starts the engine with a low rumble, his rings glinting as he grips the wheel. One hand stays steady on the leather, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His devil horns sit slightly askew, curls falling over his forehead, and the glow of the dashboard casts sharp shadows on his jawline.

The road is quiet, streetlights flickering past in warm pools of yellow. Music hums softly through the speakers, something slow and sultry, the bass thrumming beneath their conversation. Harry’s fingers tap against the wheel in time with the beat, his thumb occasionally dragging across his bottom lip as he concentrates on the road.

Every now and then, he glances at Y/N, eyes flicking over her bare thighs, the curve of her dress. A smirk tugs at his lips when he catches her staring. “See something you like?” he teases, voice rich with amusement.

She rolls her eyes, shifting in her seat. “Just wondering if you’re even paying attention to the road.”

Harry chuckles, deep and low. “Trust me, angel, I can multitask.”

Harry smirks, letting his palm drift from the gear shift to Y/N’s thigh, his rings cool against her warm skin. His fingers splay out lazily, tracing slow, absentminded circles as he focuses on the road.

Y/N swallows, shifting slightly, but the heat blooming under his touch is undeniable. The warmth spreads up her spine, pooling low in her stomach. The soft fabric of her dress does little to shield her from the way his fingertips skim closer to the inside of her thigh, just enough to tease.

Harry notices—of course he does. His smirk deepens, his thumb pressing in just slightly. “You’re warm,” he muses, voice smooth, teasing. His eyes flick toward her for a split second, dark and knowing. “Something on your mind?”

She exhales slowly, willing herself to keep her composure. “Just wondering if you actually plan on keeping your hands on the wheel.”

Harry chuckles, low and deep. “I like having one hand free.” His fingers tighten ever so slightly, a deliberate squeeze before he pulls away, dragging his palm back to the gear shift.

The absence of his touch leaves her skin tingling, the air between them charged. The rest of the drive is quiet, but the tension lingers—thick, heavy, and promising.

Harry pulls the Range Rover into Zack’s driveway, the low hum of the engine cutting out as he kills the ignition. The house is lit up, warm yellow light spilling from the windows, and a steady pulse of music thrums from inside—not deafening, but enough to feel in their bones.

The front door is slightly ajar, laughter and conversation drifting out into the cool night air. A few people linger on the porch, drinks in hand, their costumes ranging from effortless to completely ridiculous. One guy, dressed as a cowboy, tips his hat at Y/N as she walks past, making Harry’s grip on her waist tighten slightly as they step inside.

The living room is spacious, decorated just enough to match the theme without feeling like a Halloween party. Streamers hang lazily from the ceiling, and a few dimly lit lamps cast a soft glow over the crowd. The scent of alcohol and something sweet lingers in the air, mixing with the faint traces of cologne and perfume.

Zack, dressed as some over-the-top magician, spots them instantly from across the room and grins, making his way over. “Finally! Thought you two weren’t gonna show,” he teases, clapping Harry on the back before pulling Y/N into a quick hug.

Harry smirks, slipping an arm around Y/N’s waist. “Wouldn’t miss it, mate. But if I’d known I’d be seeing that—” he gestures to Zack’s dramatic velvet cape— “I might’ve reconsidered.”

Zack scoffs, adjusting his ridiculous top hat. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Styles.”

Zack rolls his eyes at Harry before turning to Y/N. “Anyway, drinks are in the kitchen, music requests go through me—” he smirks, wagging a finger, “—and try not to get into any fights with anyone’s questionable costume choices.”

Y/N laughs, already spotting a questionable superhero outfit across the room. “No promises.”

Zack disappears back into the crowd, and Harry’s hand slides down to rest against the small of her back. “Drink?” he asks, voice close to her ear over the music.

She nods, letting him guide her through the room. The bass of the music is steady but not overpowering, the kind that hums low in her chest. People acknowledge them with nods, a few playful whistles thrown Harry’s way at his devil costume. He only smirks, unfazed, as they make it to the kitchen.

The counter is lined with bottles, mixers, and red solo cups, evidence of drinks already being made. Harry grabs a bottle of tequila, quirking a brow at her. “Want me to make you something, angel?” he teases, pouring himself a drink.

She hums, pretending to think. “Make it strong.”

His smirk deepens. “Didn’t take you for a sinner.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s heat behind her stare. “I’m full of surprises.”

Harry chuckles, pouring her a drink with ease, his fingers brushing hers as he hands it over. “That,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over her, “I don’t doubt.”

They lean against the counter, sipping their drinks as the party flows around them. Every now and then, someone stops to chat, but Harry’s presence remains close—his fingers grazing her hip, his voice smooth in her ear when he leans in to make a comment. There’s a tension between them, lingering just beneath the surface, a push and pull that neither of them fully acknowledge.

Y/N laughs, shaking her head as she takes in the scene—people scattered in small groups, some dancing, others leaning against the kitchen island, sipping drinks and chatting. It’s lively, but not overwhelming. The kind of night that could go in any direction.

Harry squeezes her waist before stepping back. “Be right back, angel,” he murmurs, brushing a quick kiss against her temple before disappearing into the crowd.

Y/N leans against the counter, sipping her drink, letting the low hum of conversation and music settle around her. The party is comfortable, just lively enough without feeling overwhelming. She scans the room idly, watching people dance, laugh, and lean into each other with tipsy grins.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Did it hurt?”

She turns, eyebrows lifting as she finds herself face-to-face with someone she doesn’t recognize. A guy, tall, confident smirk in place, dressed as some kind of Roman gladiator.

She blinks, confused. “Sorry?”

He leans against the counter beside her, grin widening. “When you fell from heaven.”

Oh.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s a terrible line.”

He shrugs, undeterred. “Had to try. You kind of stand out.” His eyes drag over her costume, slow and deliberate. “What’s your name?”

She gives him a polite smile. “I’m here with someone.”

“I didn’t ask that,” he replies smoothly, tilting his head. “Just your name.”

Before she can respond, a familiar presence slips back into place beside her.

Harry.

His hand brushes hers as he sets a cup down in front of her, his gaze flicking over the guy in an instant. “Was he flirting with you?” His voice is calm, casual, but there’s something sharp lurking beneath it.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

Harry’s eyes snap to hers, the shift almost imperceptible—but she feels it. Knows he caught the lie the second it left her lips.

She takes the drink, lifting it to her lips, hoping he’ll let it go.

He does. For now.

But the way his fingers flex against his cup, the way his jaw ticks just slightly, tells her everything she needs to know.

Harry doesn’t say anything else. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than necessary. Y/N shifts under his gaze, knowing he’s already filed away her lie, tucked it somewhere deep where he’ll let it simmer.

The guy, oblivious to the silent exchange, glances between them before clearing his throat. “Right. Well—nice meeting you,” he mutters, before slipping back into the crowd.

Harry watches him go, jaw still tight, but he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t react. Instead, he turns his attention back to Y/N, his fingers idly tapping against his glass.

She exhales, keeping her tone light. “See? No big deal.”

Harry hums, a sound that’s neither agreement nor disagreement. “Mm.” He tilts his head, eyes dropping to her lips before flicking back up. “Drink your drink, angel.”

She narrows her eyes slightly, sensing the shift in him—the way his voice has dropped lower, the edge of something unreadable in his expression. “I am,” she mutters, taking another sip.

Harry just watches, his smirk subtle, like he’s waiting for something.

The party around them continues, people laughing, music thrumming, but the energy between them has changed. He’s quiet, controlled, unreadable in that way he gets when he’s thinking. Calculating.

And then, after a long moment, he leans in, his breath warm against her ear. “Let’s go.”

Y/N swallows, setting her drink down. “Harry—”

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, his own dark, unwavering. “Now.”

She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t pretend not to understand what’s happening.

Without another word, he takes her hand and leads her out the door.

The car ride back is suffocatingly silent. No music, no idle conversation—just the low hum of the engine and the occasional flick of the turn signal. The city lights cast fleeting shadows across Harry’s face, sharp angles illuminated before fading into darkness again. His grip on the steering wheel is steady, but his fingers flex every so often, his rings catching the dim glow from the dashboard.

Y/N shifts in her seat, the tension thick enough to choke on. She can feel the weight of his silence pressing against her, heavy, deliberate. He hasn’t looked at her once since they left Zack’s house. No teasing smirks, no sideways glances. Just focused, controlled restraint.

She bites her lip, sneaking a glance at him. His jaw is tight, the muscle there twitching as he clenches it.

The quiet stretches, unbearable. She exhales softly, voice cautious when she finally speaks. “Harry—”

His fingers drum against the wheel once before he exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t,” he murmurs, voice low. Calm. Too calm.

She swallows, staring at him, but his eyes stay locked on the road. The way he’s holding himself—so composed, so maddeningly quiet—tells her everything she needs to know.

He’s waiting.

Not for an apology. Not for an excuse.

For her to sit in the silence and feel the weight of her lie.

The drive feels endless. The weight of Harry’s silence coils around her like a vice, thick and unrelenting. Every passing streetlight flickers across his face, highlighting the sharp tension in his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows.

Y/N swallows, pressing her palms against her thighs, the air in the car feeling heavier with each mile. The soft hum of the engine is the only sound between them, save for the occasional drag of Harry’s thumb against the leather steering wheel.

Her throat is dry. She tries again, softer this time. “Harry—”

His grip tightens, knuckles shifting beneath the dim light. “Not now.”

Not now.

The two words slice through her, quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument.

She exhales slowly, leaning her head back against the seat, staring out the window. The streets blur past, dark and empty, the city slipping away as they near his house. Her pulse is steady, but beneath it, she can feel the slow, creeping burn of anticipation curling at the edges.

Because she knows him.

Knows the way his silence is never just silence. It’s deliberate. It’s restraint.

And restraint never lasts.

When he finally pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at her. The stillness stretches for a moment too long. Then, finally, he speaks—voice low, controlled.

“Inside. Now.”

Her breath catches.

She doesn’t argue.

Doesn’t hesitate.

She just unbuckles her seatbelt and steps out of the car, following him into the house, into the charged, waiting dark.

The door shuts behind them with a quiet click. The house is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the windows, casting long shadows along the walls. Y/N stands just a few steps inside, her breath unsteady, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

Harry still hasn’t looked at her.

He takes his time. Shrugs off his coat, tosses his keys onto the entryway table with a soft clink. The silence stretches, thick and unbearable, wrapping around her like a vice. Her hands fidget at her sides, the weight of his restraint pressing down on her like gravity itself.

Finally—finally—he turns.

His gaze is unreadable, dark and unreadable, sweeping over her with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes her stomach flip. He tilts his head, dragging his tongue along the inside of his cheek before speaking.

“Tell me again,” he murmurs, voice low, smooth. “Was he flirting with you?”

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Her throat feels tight, heat curling at the base of her spine under the weight of his gaze.

Harry steps closer, slow and steady, like a predator circling its prey. His fingers come up to brush the halo from her head, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.

“Careful, angel,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet and warning all at once. “Because I don’t like being lied to.”

Y/N swallows, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay… he was flirting with me.”

Harry’s expression doesn’t change at first. But something shifts—his jaw tightens, his eyes darken, and the air between them thickens. He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his curls before leveling her with a look so intense it makes her stomach flip.

“Why did you lie to me?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it.

She hesitates, shifting on her feet. “Because…” She exhales, dropping her gaze for a second before forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I didn’t want you to get mad.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, that smirk appears. The one that isn’t playful, isn’t teasing—it’s sharp, calculated.

“Mad?” he repeats, stepping closer until she has no choice but to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. He lifts a hand, fingers trailing along her jaw before tilting her face toward him. “Why? Because he was trying to take what’s mine?”

Her breath catches.

His fingers tighten just slightly against her skin, his eyes never leaving hers. “Tell me, angel,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower. “Is that why you lied to me?”

Y/N exhales shakily, her pulse hammering beneath the weight of his gaze. The room feels smaller, the air charged and suffocating. His fingers against her jaw are firm, his touch deceptively gentle, but there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

She nods, barely, her voice caught in her throat. “I—I didn’t want you to make a scene.”

Harry chuckles, a deep, dark sound that sends a shiver down her spine. “A scene?” He tilts his head, thumb brushing just below her bottom lip. “You think I’d cause a scene over some idiot who didn’t know better?” His smirk deepens, but there’s no humor in it. “No, angel. I wouldn’t waste my time on him.” He leans in, lips a breath away from hers, his voice a low murmur. “But you lying to me? Now that—that’s something I don’t like.” His fingers slide down, trailing over her throat, pressing lightly against the rapid beat of her pulse.

“You thought I’d get mad if I knew he was flirting with you,” he muses, watching her reaction carefully. “But you didn’t stop to think what lying to me would do.” He pauses, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “That’s not very angelic of you, is it?”

Her body feels like it’s burning from the inside out. The way he’s looking at her, the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers down her neck, over her collarbone, the possessiveness in his voice—it’s overwhelming.

She swallows, whispering, “I just didn’t want to ruin the night.”

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he lets out a soft tsk. “Oh, angel,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over the shell of her ear. “The night was already ruined the moment you lied to me.”

His fingers find her waist, pulling her flush against him. His voice is velvet, smooth and dangerous. “So tell me,” he breathes, lips barely brushing her skin, “how do you plan on making it up to me?”

Y/N swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll do anything.”

Harry’s smirk deepens, something dark and knowing flickering behind his eyes. He tilts his head, studying her, dragging his thumb lazily along the curve of her jaw.

“Anything?” he repeats, his voice low, almost amused.

She nods.

His gaze lingers for a moment before he hums, pleased. “Okay,” he murmurs.

Without another word, he takes her hand, guiding her toward the stairs. The grip on her wrist is firm, not forceful, but commanding. She follows without hesitation, her heart pounding as they ascend, the tension between them thick and unspoken.

The moment they step into his bedroom, Harry shuts the door behind them, the quiet click echoing through the dimly lit space.

“On your knees,” he instructs smoothly, voice unwavering.

Y/N hesitates for only a second before sinking onto the floor, the soft carpet brushing against her bare skin. She tilts her chin up, waiting, her breath uneven.

Harry watches her, running his tongue along his bottom lip, his expression unreadable. He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward his nightstand. As he slides open the drawer, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Been waiting for a reason to try these,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her.

Her stomach tightens as she watches him reach inside, his fingers curling around cool metal.

Handcuffs.

He dangles them from one finger, the silver glinting under the warm light of the room. His eyes flick back to hers, dark and full of something wicked.

“Still willing to do anything?”

Y/N’s breath hitches, her eyes flickering between the handcuffs dangling from his finger and the dark, unreadable expression on his face. The weight of his gaze pins her in place, her heart hammering in anticipation.

Slowly, deliberately, she nods. “Yes.”

Harry hums in approval, stepping closer until the toes of his boots brush her knees. “Good,” he murmurs, reaching down, his fingers threading through her hair before tilting her chin up. “I’d hate for you to change your mind now.”

She doesn’t. Not even for a second.

The click of the cuffs as he separates them is deafening in the quiet room. He moves with a deliberate slowness, dragging out the moment, making sure she feels every second of it. He crouches slightly, running a ringed finger down the line of her throat before reaching for her wrists.

“Hands,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk.

She lifts them without hesitation, and his smirk deepens. His fingers brush over her skin as he snaps one cuff around her wrist, the metal cool and unyielding. He takes his time securing the other, watching her carefully as if daring her to back out.

She doesn’t.

The final click echoes through the room, sealing the moment between them.

Harry leans in, his breath warm against her ear. “You lied to me tonight, angel.” His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an unmistakable edge of something darker lurking beneath it. “Now, I get to decide how you make it up to me.”

He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, dragging his thumb over the rapid pulse at her wrist, smirking at what he finds.

“Hope you’re ready,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Because I’m not feeling very merciful tonight.”

Y/N barely holds back a breathless laugh at the irony of it all—her, dressed in white, halo discarded on the floor, wrists bound in silver cuffs. And Harry, standing over her, every bit the devil he’s pretending to be.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp flickers against his skin, deepening the shadows along his sharp jawline, making the green of his eyes seem almost unnatural—too dark, too knowing. His devil horns, slightly askew in his unruly curls, only add to the sinful picture he makes. The deep red of them catches the light when he tilts his head, watching her with that slow, wicked smirk, the one that promises nothing good.

His all-black outfit clings to him in the right places—the fabric of his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a glimpse of the swallows inked against his collarbones. The silver rings on his fingers glint as he flexes them, rolling his wrists like he has all the time in the world. He looks like temptation itself, like something dangerous wrapped up in silk and smirks, and she knows—she knows—he’s enjoying this.

“You’re quiet,” he muses, stepping closer, his boots brushing against her knees. He reaches down, fingers tracing over the metal cuffs, testing their weight against her wrists. “Having second thoughts, angel?”

His voice is deep, slow, velvety smooth, and it sends a shiver down her spine.

No, she’s not having second thoughts.

She just can’t believe how perfectly devilish he looks. And worse—how much she wants to fall right into his trap.

Y/N swallows, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin as Harry’s fingers lazily trace the edge of the cuffs around her wrists. His touch is light, barely there, but deliberate—always deliberate. He tilts his head slightly, studying her with a slow, dark amusement, his lips curling at the edges like he already knows what’s running through her mind.

“No second thoughts then?” he murmurs, his voice deep, teasing. His thumb brushes over her pulse, feeling how fast it beats beneath his touch.

She shakes her head, barely able to find her voice. “No.”

His smirk deepens. “Good.”

He steps back, just enough to take her in—the way she looks beneath him, dressed in white, knees pressed into the plush carpet, wrists bound together like a perfect contradiction to him. The sight makes something dark flicker in his gaze, something possessive.

“You look so sweet like this, angel,” he muses, dragging his knuckles slowly down the line of her jaw. “So obedient.” His voice dips lower, rougher. “But I know better, don’t I?”

She exhales shakily, feeling the heat creep up her neck, pooling low in her stomach. His words are measured, carefully placed, meant to unravel her piece by piece.

Harry leans down, fingers tilting her chin up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze. His breath is warm against her lips when he speaks.

“Tell me, angel,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you ready to confess?”

Y/N’s breath catches in her throat. The way he’s looking at her—dark, expectant, patient but unforgiving—makes her head spin. The handcuffs feel heavier now, the cool metal biting into her skin, a reminder of the power shift between them.

She swallows, wetting her lips. “Confess what?”

Harry hums, amusement flickering in his eyes like a slow-burning fire. His thumb ghosts over her bottom lip, applying the faintest pressure. “Don’t play dumb,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You lied to me tonight, didn’t you?”

Her stomach flips.

“I—”

His hand slides into her hair, gripping just enough to make her stop. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make her feel it.

“Didn’t you?” he repeats, quieter this time.

Y/N exhales shakily, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. “Yes.”

His smirk is slow, dangerous. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his fingers flexing against her scalp for just a second before releasing. “Now, tell me why.”

Her mouth feels dry. She could blame it on the tension, on the way he’s looming over her, looking every bit the devil he’s dressed as. But deep down, she knows the answer isn’t complicated.

“I didn’t want you to get mad,” she admits softly.

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he drags his thumb along her jaw. “Mad?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Why would I be mad, angel?” His fingers tighten just slightly, the warmth of his rings pressing into her skin. “Because he wanted something that doesn’t belong to him?”

The air between them is heavy, thick with something unspoken. He waits, eyes locked onto hers, daring her to deny it.

She doesn’t. She can’t.

Instead, she lets the truth slip through her lips, barely above a whisper.

“I belong to you.”

Something shifts in his expression—something darker, something claiming. He leans in, brushing his nose along her cheek before his lips find her ear.

“Say it again.”

The demand is soft, but there’s no mistaking the command behind it.

Y/N shivers, tilting her head slightly, her breath uneven. “I belong to you.”

Harry exhales, slow and controlled, his hands slipping down her arms, tracing the edge of the cuffs at her wrists. He hums, pleased, dragging his mouth along her jaw before finally pulling back enough to meet her eyes.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against her pulse. “And I don’t take kindly to people touching what’s mine.” His eyes flick down to her bound wrists, then back up to her face, his smirk returning, slow and calculated.

“Lucky for you,” he breathes, tracing the metal with his fingers, “I know exactly how to remind you of that.”

Harry doesn’t rush. He never does.

With deliberate ease, he reaches down, gripping Y/N’s arms and pulling her up from her knees. The cuffs clink softly as she stumbles slightly, but he steadies her with a firm hand at her waist. His eyes never leave hers, dark and unreadable, filled with something wicked.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding.

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread, the picture of power and control. His rings catch the dim light as he tugs at her hips, guiding her forward until she’s standing between his knees.

Then, with one sharp pull, he has her sprawled across his lap.

The movement is so sudden, so effortless, that it takes her breath away. Her cheek presses against the cool sheets, her arms pinned at her lower back, wrists still bound.

Harry hums in satisfaction, his hands dragging slowly over the curve of her waist, down to her thighs, his touch deceptively gentle.

“You lied to me tonight, angel,” he muses, tracing lazy circles against her skin. “And I can’t just let that go, can I?”

Her breath hitches, heat blooming across her skin. “Harry—”

Smack.

The first strike lands before she can finish her sentence.

She gasps, her body jolting, the sharp sting spreading through her instantly.

Harry exhales, slow and measured, his palm lingering against her skin for a second before pulling away. “That,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along the fresh warmth of the spot he just struck, “is for lying.”

Then another. Smack. Harder this time.

Y/N lets out a quiet gasp, her fingers curling into fists, her bound wrists pressing into the small of her back.

Harry chuckles, low and deep. “You can take it, angel,” he murmurs, his touch soothing for only a second before he lands another one. “Can’t you?” She nods, barely able to form words, her body buzzing with heat.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his fingers trailing along the curve of her spine. “I want you to remember this the next time you think about lying to me.”

Another sharp smack, and this time, Y/N feels the heat flood every inch of her body.

Harry leans down, lips brushing against her ear, his voice dark and filled with satisfaction.

“Now,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the red marks blooming on her skin. “Are you ready to be good for me?”

Y/N barely manages to catch her breath before she exhales, her voice soft but certain. “Yes, Daddy.”

Harry stills for a second, his grip on her waist tightening just slightly, before a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, voice dripping with satisfaction.

His fingers trail up her back, to where her angel wings are still fastened in place. He takes his time undoing them, dragging his fingertips along her spine as he lifts them off. The soft material rustles as he sets them aside, his smirk deepening as he leans down, his lips grazing her ear.

“These,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, “can never get you quite as high as I do.” A shiver rolls down her spine at his words, at the smug confidence in his voice, at the way he always knows exactly what to say to make her melt. Before she can respond, he presses a firm hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her down until her chest meets the mattress. His weight shifts behind her, slow and deliberate, his fingertips ghosting over the freshly warmed skin of her thighs, teasing, taunting.

“So eager,” he muses, dragging his palm over the curve of her hip, his fingers barely applying any pressure. “And you haven’t even earned it yet.” She whimpers softly, shifting beneath his touch, but he only chuckles again, amused by her impatience.

“Be good for me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against her skin. “Let me take my time.”

And he does.

He always does.

Harry's hands roamed over Y/N's bound form, his touch firm but teasing, tracing the curves of her body with a possessive air. He leaned in close to her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "You're mine now, angel. And I'm going to show you just how good it can be."

With that, he gripped her hips roughly and flipped her over onto her back. Y/N gasped, her wrists still bound behind her back, leaving her at his mercy. Harry smirked down at her, his eyes dark with desire. Slowly, he unzipped his pants, revealing himself to her. He was hard and ready for her, the sight of her helplessness driving him wild with need.

"Spread your legs," he growled lowly, and she obeyed without hesitation. Harry positioned himself at her entrance and then paused for a moment, savoring the power he held over her in this moment. His fingers trailed up the inside of Y/N's thighs before dipping between them to test how wet she was for him. He groaned at the slickness he found there; she was every bit as ready as he was.

Without warning, Harry thrust into her in one long stroke, filling her completely and eliciting a sharp cry from both their lips. He didn't stop there; he began to move inside of Y/N with a relentless rhythm that soon had them both panting for air. Her legs trembled around his waist as she arched up into him

Harry's hips pounded into hers, his grip on her hips tightening as he angled his thrusts to hit that sweet spot deep inside her. Y/N's cries of pleasure filled the room. Her body trembled beneath him, her cuffed wrists the only thing grounding her in this world of sensation.

Their bodies moved together in a dance, their moans and gasps the only soundtrack to their passionate symphony. Harry's fingers dug into Y/N's hips, his nails leaving marks as he drove himself deeper and deeper inside her. Sweat glistened on both their brows as they pushed each other higher and higher, teetering on the edge of release.

Harry could feel it building in his core, that familiar tightness that signaled his climax was near. He knew he wanted to savor this moment, to draw it out as long as possible, but Y/N felt too good—too perfect—wrapped around him like this. With a final deep thrust, he groaned out his release, emptying himself inside her depths.

His climax sent her over the edge as well, her own orgasm crashing through her like a tidal wave. Her back arched off the bed as she cried out in ecstasy, every nerve ending in her body alight with pleasure. Wave after wave washed over her until she finally collapsed back onto the mattress beneath him, spent and breathless.

"I'm sorry. I was a bit rough tonight," Harry breathed against her hair-lined neck, apology heavy in his voice. It was meant to be genuine, offering a sliver of remorse for the power dynamic they had just indulged in, despite both of them enjoying it immensely. But it was also tinged with something else, a quiet satisfaction that Y/N could almost taste on his lips – the thrill of the dominance, the knowledge that he could bend her to his will.

She shifted slightly against him, snuggling deeper into his warmth. "It's alright," she murmured, the words strained and breathless from their shared exertion.

He unsnapped the cuffs, relief washing over her as she relaxed, but the apologies hung thick in the air. Harry’s gaze met hers, the intensity of his eyes making her hold her breath.

"Do you...do you regret it, angel?" he asked, his voice softer now, a touch vulnerable.

She shook her head, the movement making their bodies brush against each other.

"No," she whispered with a faint smile.  

[thereceptioniststyles]

For the Both of Us

Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.

Word Count: 2,493

Content Warning: mentions of injury

It starts as an offhand comment, something I don’t fully think through before saying it.

“We should run a marathon.”

Harry doesn’t even blink. “Alright.”

I pause mid-bite of my sandwich, glancing up at him from across the kitchen island. “Just like that?”

He shrugs, casually tying his hair up as he leans against the counter. “Why not?”

I squint at him. “No questions? No protests? No ‘that sounds miserable, why would we do that to ourselves’?”

He grins. “I like running.”

Of course, he does.

I narrow my eyes, setting my sandwich down. “I thought this was going to be one of those things where I had to convince you, and then you’d be all dramatic about it.”

Harry smirks. “Sorry to disappoint.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

Still, there’s no backing out now. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.

Training in New York happens because we’re here, and it makes sense. Early mornings in Central Park, the world just waking up as we weave through runners, cyclists, and dogs too eager for their own good. The air is crisp, the pavement familiar under our feet, and for once, I don’t hate running as much as I thought I would. Maybe it’s the routine of it, the way my body adjusts to the movement, or maybe it’s just Harry, a few strides ahead, turning back every now and then with an easy grin like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright back there?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Shut up,” I pant, pushing forward.

He laughs, slowing just enough to match my pace. “You’re getting better.”

“I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not.” He bumps his arm against mine. “One day, you’re gonna love this.”

I glare at him, sweat dripping down my back. “Doubt it.”

But then we go to Italy, and everything shifts.

We run because we’re already there, because it feels right, because some part of me—some stubborn, determined part—wants to prove him right. The streets are quieter in the early morning, the sun just starting to stretch across the sky as we move through small villages and winding hillsides. It’s different here, softer somehow. The air is warm, carrying the scent of citrus and fresh bread from the bakeries just opening up for the day. There’s no urgency, no dodging commuters or stopping at crosswalks, just open road and the steady rhythm of our feet against the earth.

Harry doesn’t speak much when he runs, but I can tell he’s in his element, moving effortlessly like he was made for this. I watch the way his shoulders stay relaxed, the way he breathes in even counts, the way he looks completely at ease, and for the first time, I get it.

At some point, I stop thinking about how much I want to stop and start thinking about how much I want to keep going.

And when Harry turns his head, catching my eye with a knowing smile, I realize he knew this would happen all along.

One evening, long after the sun has set and the warmth of the Italian day has settled into something softer, we sit on the terrace of our rental, sipping wine and watching the lights flicker in the distance. My legs ache, but it’s a good kind of ache, the kind that reminds me of everything we’ve done today, of the miles we’ve put behind us.

Harry stretches his legs out, rolling his shoulders before turning his head toward me. “We should do Tokyo.”

I blink at him, processing. “Do Tokyo?”

“The marathon.” He tilts his glass, watching the wine swirl before looking back at me. “We’ve done all this training. Might as well put it toward something.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You said that way too casually.”

He grins. “Because I already decided.”

I arch a brow. “You already decided?”

“Mhm.” He takes another sip. “Figured if we’re gonna do a marathon, might as well make a trip out of it. Stay for a bit, sightsee. The weather will be nice.”

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. “And when, exactly, did you decide all this?”

A lazy shrug. “Somewhere between mile six and seven today.”

I groan, letting my head fall back against my chair. “I knew that second wind of yours was dangerous.”

Harry laughs, nudging my foot under the table. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a good idea.”

I lift my head, watching him. He’s relaxed, loose-limbed and comfortable in the way he always is when he’s made up his mind. And the worst part? He’s right. It is a good idea.

I sigh, feigning reluctance. “I can’t believe you’re using my own tactics against me.”

His smile grows. “So that’s a yes?”

I shake my head, unable to stop my own grin. “That’s a yes.”

He clinks his glass against mine. “Good. Because I already started looking at flights.”

The decision is made, and just like that, Tokyo becomes the destination, the marathon the reason—but not the only one. Training continues, days blending together with long runs, ice baths, and Harry reminding me that we actually signed up for this.

The trip comes quickly, faster than I expect, and before I know it, we’re stepping off a plane into the crisp Tokyo air, the city sprawling out before us in endless color and movement. It’s different from anywhere we’ve been—bright, electric, alive in a way that feels both overwhelming and exhilarating.

We settle in easily, our days leading up to the marathon filled with late-night ramen stops, temple visits, and walks through neighborhoods that feel like they belong in a different time. Harry’s the one who insists on going to every convenience store we pass, fascinated by the rows of neatly packaged snacks and drinks. I let him, if only because it means I get to watch the way his face lights up every time he finds something new.

“Are you ever gonna eat the food you actually buy,” I tease one night, watching him place yet another snack onto our growing pile.

He grins, unapologetic. “Eventually. Maybe.”

I shake my head, shoving a bag of matcha-flavored candy at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, tossing a Pocky stick into his mouth, “you love me.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

The night before the race, we sit on the floor of our hotel room, stretching out our legs and pretending not to be nervous. Harry leans back on his hands, rolling out his ankles. “You ready?”

I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs. “I think so.”

He watches me for a beat, then nudges my knee with his. “You’re gonna do great.”

I glance at him. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.” His voice is steady, certain. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Something in my chest tightens, but I push past it, knocking my foot against his. “Don’t go leaving me in the dust tomorrow.”

He smirks. “I’d never.”

It’s a lie. He absolutely would.

But for now, I let myself believe him.

The morning of the marathon comes quietly, the city still stretching awake as we make our way to the starting line. The air is crisp, the kind of cool that settles into your lungs without biting. There’s an energy around us, a nervous hum of anticipation that thrums through the thousands of runners gathered, their breath visible in the morning chill.

Harry stands beside me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. He looks completely at ease, like this is just another run, another morning, another challenge he already knows he’ll conquer.

“Last chance to back out,” he teases, tugging lightly on the sleeve of my jacket.

I scoff, shaking out my arms. “Not a chance.”

His grin is wide, proud. “That’s my girl.”

And then the countdown begins, the crowd buzzing, the excitement thick in the air.

Three.

I exhale, steadying my breath.

Two.

Harry shifts beside me, the warmth of him grounding me.

One.

The horn blares, and we run.

Tokyo unfolds around us, the streets lined with spectators, their cheers blending into the steady rhythm of our feet against the pavement. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, the city alive with movement, the energy unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Harry stays beside me, keeping pace with effortless ease, checking in with a quick glance, a subtle nod. I feel good, strong even, my body moving in sync with the course, my mind focused.

We pass temples and skyscrapers, bridges stretching over quiet rivers, the neon of Shibuya just a distant blur. The kilometers tick by, each one a small victory, each step bringing us closer to the finish.

And then—

It happens fast.

A misstep, a shift in the pavement, the sudden, sharp twist of my ankle. Pain shoots up my leg, white-hot and immediate, and before I can fully process it, I stumble forward, catching myself just before I hit the ground.

“Shit.”

Harry is there instantly, his hand on my arm, steady, solid. “What happened?”

I clench my jaw, testing my weight. It’s bad.

“I—” I try to step forward and nearly collapse. “—I think I’m done.”

Harry’s face darkens, his grip tightening. “Okay, let’s—”

“No.” I shake my head, inhaling sharply. “You have to keep going.”

His brows furrow, his jaw tightening. “I’m not leaving you here.”

I look at him, my chest rising and falling too fast. “Harry.” My voice softens, pleading. “You have to finish. For me.”

He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get to the medical tent, but you need to keep going.” I force a smile, swallowing against the frustration rising in my throat. “You trained too hard for this. You need to finish.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes scanning my face, searching for any reason to stay.

“Please,” I whisper.

A beat. A breath. And then he exhales, nodding once.

“Alright.”

He hesitates for just a second longer before reaching out, cupping the side of my face briefly, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “Don’t move too much, yeah?”

I nod, watching as he pulls away, glancing back one last time before taking off down the course.

A volunteer helps me over to the medical tent, their voice calm as they ask me basic questions—where it hurts, how it happened, if I can still move my foot. I answer automatically, my focus still on the course, my heart still pounding from the rush of adrenaline and frustration.

The tent is efficient, a blur of movement as runners come in and out, quick assessments, ice packs, stretches, taped-up ankles. One of the medics kneels in front of me, carefully rotating my foot as I wince.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” they say, pressing gently along the side of my ankle. “Probably a bad sprain. You’ll need to rest it for a while.”

I nod, barely processing their words as they wrap it up and hand me an ice pack. “Can I still walk on it?”

“Carefully. But you shouldn’t put too much pressure on it.”

I exhale, shifting in my seat. My race is over, but Harry’s isn’t. I glance toward the tent’s entrance, the noise of the marathon still pulsing just beyond it.

“Do you need to call someone?” the medic asks.

I shake my head, gripping the ice pack tighter. “No.”

Because I already know where I need to be.

I thank them quickly, carefully testing my weight before hobbling out of the tent, determination burning through the dull ache in my ankle. I won’t make it to the finish line in time to see him cross, but I’ll be there when he does.

Because if I can’t run this race, I can still be waiting for him at the end.

The journey to the finish line is slow, each step sending a dull ache up my ankle, but I push forward anyway. The marathon course winds through the city, but I take a more direct route, slipping through gaps in the crowd, careful not to put too much weight on my injured foot. My heart beats faster—not from exertion, but from anticipation.

By the time I reach the finish area, the air is thick with celebration. Runners stumble past the line, gasping for breath, clinging to each other in exhausted relief. The crowd swells with applause, cheers rising and falling like waves. I scan the finishers, my gaze moving quickly, searching.

And then I see him.

Harry moves through the last stretch, his strides steady despite the exhaustion weighing on his frame. His curls cling damply to his forehead, his arms pump with one final push, and when he crosses the finish line, his head drops forward, chest heaving as he slows to a stop.

A volunteer approaches, draping a medal over his neck, but he barely reacts. His hands find his hips, his head lifting as he drags in a deep breath—then, as if pulled by something unseen, his gaze shifts, scanning the crowd.

Looking for me.

I don’t move, don’t call his name. I just wait.

His eyes flick from face to face until they land on mine, and the moment they do, his entire body exhales. He doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward me with purpose, stepping around other runners, dodging spectators without so much as a glance. When he reaches me, his hands find my face before I can say a word, his palms warm and firm, thumbs brushing just beneath my cheekbones. His breathing is still uneven, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to my wrapped ankle, his brows knitting together. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I had to be here.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” I admit, and it’s quiet, because I know how much he means it.

He lingers, his fingers curling slightly at my jaw like he’s anchoring himself to me. His touch is careful, like he’s making sure I’m real, like he’s still coming down from the high of the race and the low of worry.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment, the noise of the world muffled around us. Then, finally, his lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something softer.

“So…” he murmurs, voice teasing but tired. “Do I get to pick our next stupid challenge?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that slips through. “Not a chance.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, and though his hands drop from my face, his fingers brush against mine before he steps back.

And even though I didn’t cross the finish line, I don’t feel like I lost.

Because I was here.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Like Us

Where Y/N and Harry thought they had lost each other, fate gives them a second chance.

Word Count: 7,222

Content Warning: Cursing, alcohol, mentions of Zayn leaving.

Y/N had been with Harry through it all. Through the late-night calls filled with exhaustion, the frantic texts that barely scratched the surface of what he was feeling, the moments of silence where he didn’t have the words to explain what was breaking inside him. She had been there before Zayn left, and she was still there now, following him on tour like a quiet anchor in the chaos.

The energy backstage wasn’t the same anymore. Ever since Zayn had left, there was a palpable shift—like a table missing a leg, still standing but wobbling with every move. The crowds were still loud, the shows still electric, but behind the scenes, it was different. Unease lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

On his days off, they escaped together. Away from the arenas, the cameras, the questions. They did the kind of touristy things that made Harry feel like himself again—exploring tiny coffee shops tucked into side streets, wandering through museums with their hands intertwined, laughing at the ridiculous souvenirs in gift shops. She took pictures of him when he wasn’t looking, the city lights reflecting in his green eyes, the weight on his shoulders momentarily lighter.

But even in those moments, she could see it. The exhaustion. The restlessness. The way his mind was always somewhere else, thinking about something he wasn’t saying.

It was late, the city glowing beneath them as they sat on the small balcony of their hotel room. Paris had been a dream—long walks along the Seine, stolen kisses in quiet cafés, pretending for just a little while that the world outside didn’t exist. But now, reality was creeping back in, threading itself between them like an unwelcome guest.

Y/N glanced at Harry beside her, his gaze distant as he traced patterns on the rim of his wine glass. He had been quiet all day, his usual spark dulled by something he wasn’t saying. She knew him well enough to wait, to let him come to her when he was ready.

Eventually, he sighed, leaning back against his chair. “The band’s ending soon.”

The words weren’t surprising, but hearing them aloud still made her chest tighten. “You don’t know that.”

Harry let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I do. Even if we don’t say it outright, even if we call it a hiatus, we all know what it really means.” He looked over at her, his green eyes filled with something heavy. “It’s not gonna be the same after this.”

Y/N studied him, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or hope—but all she found was exhaustion. “Is that what you want?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his curls. “I don’t know. I just know I need… something to change. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. It’s all I’ve ever known.” He turned his gaze to the city below, watching the headlights blur together in streaks of gold and red. “And if it ends… I don’t know who I am outside of it.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, grounding him the way she always had. “You’re still you, Harry. Band or no band.”

He squeezed her hand, but the look in his eyes told her something she wasn’t ready to hear.

“I think,” he said slowly, carefully, like he was testing the words as he spoke them, “there’s gonna be a break.”

The air between them shifted, heavy with unspoken things. Y/N felt the weight of it settling in her bones, but she didn’t let go. Not yet.

And Harry was right.

A few months later, the band officially announced their hiatus. At first, it was meant to be temporary. Just a few months to rest, to breathe, to figure things out. But as time passed, the months stretched longer than expected.

One night the rain tapped lightly against the windows of Y/N’s apartment, the soft hum of an old record playing in the background. Harry sat on the couch, one leg bent beneath him, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the ring on his index finger. He had been quiet all night, lost in thought, his gaze distant even when she spoke.

Y/N curled up beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. “You’re thinking,” she murmured, her voice soft.

He let out a small breath of laughter, tilting his head toward hers. “Always am.”

She pulled back slightly to look at him, her fingers brushing over his arm. “What is it?”

Harry hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip like he was trying to find the right words. Finally, he exhaled. “I think I wanna do something on my own for a bit.”

Y/N’s brows lifted, but she didn’t look surprised—just curious. “Music?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean, I love the band, always will, but… I wanna see what I can do by myself, y’know? Find out what my sound is. And—” He hesitated again, his fingers still fidgeting with his ring. “I think I wanna try acting, too. I’ve always wanted to, and now feels like the right time.”

Y/N watched him for a moment, taking in the way he spoke—cautious, hopeful, nervous. She reached for his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I think that’s amazing, Harry.”

He glanced at her, his lips parting slightly. “You do?”

She smiled. “Of course I do. You’ve always talked about wanting to try acting, and your own music? That’s exciting.”

He nodded, exhaling like he’d been holding it in. The rain kept falling, the record kept spinning, and for now, they sat there together, wrapped in the quiet of what came next.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his fingers lightly tracing circles on the back of Y/N’s hand. The rain outside filled the silence between them, steady and rhythmic, but inside, everything felt still—like the moment before something irreversible happened.

He finally looked up at her, his green eyes filled with something heavy. “I’m gonna be busy a lot,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “With the music, with acting… with figuring out who I am outside of all this.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, a sinking feeling creeping in. “I know,” she said softly, watching him carefully.

Harry swallowed, his grip on her hand tightening for just a second before loosening. “I love you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “And because I love you… because I respect you… I don’t think I can be in a relationship right now. Not while I’m trying to figure myself out.”

The words felt like a slow, unraveling thread, pulling apart everything they had built. Y/N held onto his gaze, searching for something—maybe a way to change his mind, maybe a way to understand. But deep down, she already knew.

She nodded once, her throat tight. 

Everything shifted.

Y/N felt her breath hitch, her fingers trembling slightly in his grasp. “Harry…” she started, but she didn’t know how to finish.

His face twisted in pain, like he hated every word coming out of his own mouth. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do this, love. God, I don’t. But I need to.”

Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes. “Why?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Why do you think we can’t figure it out together?”

Harry inhaled sharply, his hand cupping hers, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her skin. “Because I don’t know who I am right now. And I can’t drag you into that mess. I can’t ask you to sit around waiting while I run off chasing things I don’t even fully understand yet.” He let out a shaky breath. “You deserve someone who is sure, someone who can be there for you in every way. And I—I don’t know if I can be that person right now.”

Tears slipped down Y/N’s cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away, hating how fragile she felt. “But you love me.” It wasn’t a question; it was a desperate grasp for something solid, something real.

Harry’s eyes softened, filling with sorrow and something deeper—something that hurt just as much as it loved. “With everything in me,” he said. “I love you so much that it physically hurts to say this.” He let out a broken laugh, running a hand through his curls before gripping the back of his neck. “I hate this, Y/N. I hate myself for saying it. But if we’re meant to be, we’ll find our way back.”

Her chin trembled as she tried to process it all. “And what if we don’t?”

Harry’s breath hitched. He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to keep his own tears from falling. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, willing herself to stay strong, but her heart was shattering. “I don’t know how to be without you.”

He let out a soft, broken sound, his forehead falling to rest against hers. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once,” he whispered. “Just promise me something.”

She swallowed hard. “What?”

“When the time comes—if we ever get another chance—promise me you’ll let me fight for you.”

A sob escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, feeling his warmth, memorizing the way he smelled, the way he held her like she was something precious. She didn’t know how to promise him that. She didn’t know if she could.

But in that moment, with her heart breaking in his hands, she whispered the only word she could.

“Okay.”

And just like that, it was over.

They laid together for a long time, neither speaking, neither moving—just breathing in the same space, clinging to the last moments before everything changed. Y/N listened to the steady rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat beneath her cheek, memorizing the way it sounded, the way it felt against her skin.

His hand ran absentmindedly up and down her arm, slow and soothing, like he was trying to calm them both, like he wanted to keep this moment suspended in time. But time didn’t stop. It never did.

Eventually, he stirred, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of her head before shifting beneath her. She knew what was coming before he even said it, but hearing the words still made her stomach twist.

“I should go home,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

Y/N didn’t move, didn’t lift her head from his chest. If she did, it would make this real. And she wasn’t ready.

Harry exhaled shakily and brought his fingers beneath her chin, gently tilting her face up so she had no choice but to look at him. His green eyes were glossy, his expression torn, his lips parted like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he leaned in, pressing the softest, most devastating kiss to her lips—slow, full of love, full of sorrow, full of everything they still were but couldn’t be anymore.

When he pulled away, he lingered for just a second, his forehead against hers, his breath warm on her skin. Then, without another word, he stood.

She didn’t watch him leave. She couldn’t.

That night, she laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin. She waited for sleep, but it never came—not that night, not the next, not for a long, long time.

And even when exhaustion finally won, she woke up empty. Every single time.

Five Years Later

The late afternoon sun streamed through Y/N’s apartment windows as she flipped through the stack of mail she had just pulled from the box. Bills, a few random flyers, and then—her fingers paused as she caught sight of an envelope with elegant gold script.

Her heart lifted immediately.

Tearing it open, she pulled out a beautifully embossed wedding invitation, the words practically sparkling off the page: Mallory & Ethan—Join us as we celebrate our love!

A grin spread across Y/N’s face. She barely took a moment to admire the details before grabbing her phone and dialing.

It rang twice before a familiar voice answered. “If this isn’t Y/N calling to say she got my invitation, I will be thoroughly disappointed.”

Y/N laughed. “Guess you won’t be disappointed, then.”

Mal squealed on the other end. “You got it!”

“Of course I did. And obviously, I’ll be there. Like I’d miss my best friend’s wedding.”

“Ugh, I’m so excited! It’s getting so real now. I was just finalizing the seating chart and—wait.” Mal gasped dramatically. “Are you bringing a date? Tell me you’re finally letting some poor soul take you out.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, smiling as she walked into her kitchen and leaned against the counter. “No, Mal. I’m not into dating right now.”

Mal groaned. “It has been years, Y/N.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me no one has caught your interest? Not a single, ridiculously attractive, emotionally stable man?”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “Nope. No one’s been worth the effort.”

Mal sighed in defeat. “Fine, fine. You can be my honorary date instead.”

Y/N grinned. “Gladly.”

The girls dissolved into laughter, the excitement buzzing between them. It was going to be a beautiful day, a celebration of love.

The following months passed in a blur of wedding excitement—not hers, but Mal’s. Still, as Y/N shopped for a dress, something about it felt personal in a way she hadn’t expected.

She stood in front of the fitting room mirror, smoothing her hands over the fabric of yet another gown. It wasn’t even white, just a simple, elegant dress for a bridesmaid. But every time she looked at herself, every time she turned to see how it moved, her mind wandered to a place she tried so hard to ignore.

What would Harry think if he saw me in this?

And then the thoughts spiraled.

What would I look like standing next to him at a wedding? What if it were our wedding?

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to shake the thoughts away, but they always came back.

Harry had always been the one. Even when he wasn’t.

They used to talk about it—getting married. Not in a serious, let’s-plan-this-right-now way, but in the way that two people who love each other deeply do when they think forever is inevitable.

She could still picture it—late nights in bed, her head resting on his bare chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his tattooed skin.

“What would your dream wedding be like?” he had asked once, his voice thick with sleep.

Y/N had smiled, shifting so she could look up at him. “Small,” she had said. “Somewhere beautiful. Maybe Italy or the English countryside. I want twinkly lights everywhere, candles, good food, and dancing until our feet hurt.”

Harry had hummed, running a hand through her hair. “Sounds perfect.”

She had smirked. “What about you? Or do you just plan on showing up in a suit and letting me do all the work?”

He chuckled, his dimples deepening as he turned onto his side, facing her. “I wanna write my vows the night before. Just me, a glass of whiskey, and all my thoughts about you spilling out onto paper.”

Y/N had rolled her eyes. “You’d procrastinate on our wedding vows?”

Harry grinned, brushing his lips over hers. “You’d love ‘em anyway.”

And he was right. She would have.

She would have loved anything, as long as it was with him.

But now, standing in a dressing room, staring at herself in a dress that wasn’t even a wedding gown, it hit her. 

Still, every dress she tried on, she imagined what it would look like if Harry was standing beside her. If she was choosing a dress for him, for them.

And God, she hated that even after all these years, part of her still wanted that life with him.

The airport was bustling with the usual chaos—rolling suitcases, hurried announcements over the intercom, the hum of travelers moving toward their destinations. Y/N clutched her boarding pass, shifting her carry-on higher on her shoulder as she navigated through the crowd.

She had traveled alone before, but this time felt different. There was an unshakable feeling in her chest, something stirring beneath the surface. Maybe it was just wedding nerves, maybe it was seeing Mal walk down the aisle, maybe it was the inevitable string of questions about when she would settle down.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

The flight was smooth, and she spent most of it staring out the window, watching the clouds shift below her. Her mind wandered, drifting through old memories, old conversations, old pieces of herself that she thought she had let go of. But that was the thing about love—about Harry. It never really left.

After landing, she gathered her luggage and stepped out into the crisp air. The venue for Mal’s wedding was a dreamy countryside estate, nestled just far enough away from the city to feel like a secluded fairytale.

The car ride from the airport was quiet, scenic views rolling past the window as she watched the world blur by. When the car finally pulled up to the venue, her breath caught.

The estate was stunning—classic architecture with ivy climbing up the stone, fairy lights already twinkling along the pathways. It was exactly the kind of place she and Harry used to talk about for their own wedding.

She sighed, pushing the thought away as she stepped out of the car.

Before she could grab her bags, an excited squeal filled the air.

“You’re here!”

Y/N turned just in time to see Mal rushing toward her in a sundress and bare feet, arms outstretched.

She barely had time to drop her bag before Mal threw herself into her arms, squeezing her tight. Y/N laughed, hugging her back. “I told you I was coming.”

“I know, but now you’re actually here!” Mal pulled back, her eyes sparkling. “Come on, I need to show you everything! The venue, the flowers, my dress—I have so much to tell you.”

Y/N grinned, letting Mal drag her toward the estate, momentarily allowing herself to get lost in the excitement.

For now, she focused on the wedding, on Mal’s happiness.

What she didn’t know was that somewhere inside this very venue, Harry Styles had also just arrived.

Y/N followed Mal through the estate, taking in the stunning surroundings—the sprawling gardens, the delicate string lights woven through the trees, the elegant reception area where tables were already being set up with crisp linens and gold accents. It was breathtaking, the kind of wedding Mal had always dreamed of.

“I know it’s a little over the top,” Mal said, grinning as she led Y/N toward the main hall. “But Ethan wanted something classic and romantic, and honestly, who was I to argue? I’m marrying the love of my life—I’d say I’m winning here.”

Y/N laughed. “It’s perfect, Mal. Seriously. It’s like something out of a movie.”

Mal gave her an approving nod before looping her arm through Y/N’s. “Speaking of perfect—are you sure you don’t want me to set you up with someone at the wedding? Ethan has some very attractive friends.”

Y/N groaned. “Mal—”

“Okay, okay! Just saying. No pressure.” Mal smirked. “But I do expect you to have at least one fun, flirty dance with someone. It’s a wedding, Y/N. You deserve a little romance.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll think about it.”

They stepped inside the main hall, where final touches were still being put together—florists arranging centerpieces, staff preparing tables. It was a flurry of beautiful chaos.

And then, just as Y/N turned to say something to Mal, she heard his voice.

“Mal?”

The world around her froze.

That voice. That voice.

Slowly, she turned her head, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes landed on him.

Harry.

He stood just a few feet away, looking exactly like she remembered and somehow entirely different all at once. His hair was shorter than it had been back then, but still slightly tousled, his sharp jawline even more defined. He was dressed casually in a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking through. But it was his eyes—those familiar, heartbreakingly green eyes—that sent a shock through her system.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

Mal, oblivious to the sudden tension, grinned and rushed toward him. “There you are! I was wondering when you’d get here.”

Harry tore his gaze away from Y/N, hugging Mal briefly. “Yeah, just got in. Thought I’d check in before the rehearsal.”

Mal beamed, then gestured between them. “You remember Y/N, right?”

Harry’s gaze flickered back to her, something unreadable flashing across his face. His lips parted, and for the first time in five years, he spoke her name.

“Y/N.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t casual. It was heavy with everything unsaid.

Y/N forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat, to keep herself steady.

“Harry.”

The air between them was thick, the past pressing in on them like a ghost.

Mal, still completely unaware, clapped her hands together. “Oh, this is perfect! You two already know each other! Harry is one of Ethan’s best mates, and I was just about to tell Y/N she should have a dance with someone at the wedding.”

Y/N nearly choked.

Harry’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk playing there, but his eyes stayed locked on hers.

Mal grinned between them. “Okay, I have a million things to do, but you two should catch up! I’ll find you later, Y/N.”

Before Y/N could protest, Mal was gone, leaving her standing there with him.

Silence stretched between them.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah. Same.”

And just like that, the past wasn’t so far away anymore.

The silence between them stretched for a moment, thick with years of unsaid words and lingering memories. Y/N could feel her pulse in her ears, her heart slamming against her ribcage as she tried to figure out what the hell she was supposed to say to the man who had once been her whole world.

Then, Harry’s lips parted, and his voice was softer than she expected. “You look beautiful.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just polite small talk, it was genuine. His gaze lingered on her like he was memorizing every detail, like he was seeing her for the first time all over again.

Y/N swallowed, shifting her weight slightly. “Thanks,” she said, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. She forced herself to shake off the nerves, tilting her head as she took him in. “You cut your hair.”

Harry let out a small chuckle, running a hand through the shorter strands. “Yeah. Needed a change, I guess.”

She nodded, her eyes flickering over him, the tattoos on his arms more defined, his shoulders broader, his presence somehow even more commanding than it had been back then. But beyond all that, there was something else—something settled in his expression, in the way he carried himself. He had changed.

“Looks good,” she admitted.

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah? Thought you liked it long.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, a familiar warmth creeping up her spine. “I did. But you pull this off, too.”

Harry laughed, a sound that sent a flicker of something dangerous through her chest. “High praise, then.”

She exhaled, crossing her arms over her chest as she studied him. “You’ve been busy,” she said, her voice even. “The albums, the movies… you’ve done everything you said you would.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hands still tucked into his pockets. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I guess I have.”

Y/N nodded, a small, bittersweet smile pulling at her lips. “I’m happy for you, Harry. Really.”

He held her gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Thanks, love.” The old term of endearment slipped out effortlessly, like it had never left his vocabulary, like five years hadn’t passed.

Y/N’s breath caught for just a second, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she offered a small smile and looked away, focusing on the wedding preparations happening around them.

“So,” Harry said after a moment, rocking back on his heels. “What about you?”

Y/N turned back to him, raising a brow. “What about me?”

His gaze was steady. “How’ve you been?”

There was something in the way he asked—something deeper, something careful.

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Good. Life’s been… steady. Work, friends, the usual.”

Harry’s lips pressed together like he wanted to ask more, but before he could, a voice called his name from across the room.

Ethan, the groom.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, giving a small nod in acknowledgment before turning back to her. “I should probably—”

Y/N nodded quickly, stepping back. “Yeah, of course.”

He hesitated, then gave her a small, lingering smile. “It’s really good to see you, Y/N.”

She swallowed, her heart doing something stupid in her chest. “You too, Harry.”

And just like that, he was gone, walking toward Ethan, blending into the crowd like he hadn’t just turned her world upside down all over again.

Y/N wanted to scream.

Scream in anger for the way he had just waltzed back into her life like five years hadn’t passed, like he hadn’t left her lying awake at night, wondering if she would ever stop missing him.

Scream in joy because—God help her—she had missed him. Seeing him again had ignited something in her chest. 

But instead, she took a shaky breath, pulled out her phone, and opened her messages.

Y/N: Naomi. Emergency.

A few seconds later, the typing bubbles appeared.

Naomi: Omg what happened?? Did someone spill wine on Mal’s dress? Did you trip in heels?

Y/N: Harry. Is. Here.

A long pause. Then:

Naomi: I’m sorry. WHAT.

Y/N: HE IS HERE. AS IN, PHYSICALLY PRESENT. IN THE SAME ROOM AS ME.

Naomi: WHAT THE HELL. HOW. WHY. ARE YOU BREATHING.

Y/N: BARELY.

She could practically hear Naomi screaming through the phone screen.

Naomi: Start from the beginning. How did it happen??

Y/N exhaled sharply, moving to a quieter corner of the venue as she leaned against a column, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Y/N: I was with Mal, she was showing me around, and then I heard his voice. I turned around and there he was. Just standing there like he wasn’t about to send me into cardiac arrest.

Naomi: Holy. Shit.

Y/N: He told me I looked beautiful.

Naomi: YOU’RE KIDDING ME.

Y/N: I WISH I WAS.

Naomi: What else did he say??

Y/N hesitated, biting her lip before typing:

Y/N: We talked a little. He asked about me. I told him I was happy for him. It was… weird. Like no time had passed, but also like a lifetime had.

Naomi: Oh my god. Are you okay? Like, genuinely?

Y/N let out a breath, staring at the screen for a long moment before responding.

Y/N: I don’t know.

Naomi didn’t respond right away, and for once, Y/N was grateful. Because she really didn’t know.

Naomi finally responded after a long pause.

Naomi: Do you need me to fly out there? Because I will.

Y/N smiled slightly, shaking her head even though Naomi couldn’t see her.

Y/N: No, you’re off the hook. I’ll survive.

Naomi: Will you?

That was the real question, wasn’t it? Would she survive this? Would she survive seeing Harry, being near him, pretending that it didn’t shake her to her core?

Before she could respond, Mal’s voice rang through the hall.

“There you are!” Mal rushed up to Y/N, her eyes bright. “I need you to come to the rehearsal dinner in like, twenty minutes. Bridesmaid duties. You’re sitting at the head table, by the way.”

Y/N blinked, still slightly disoriented from everything that had just happened. “Wait—what?”

Mal rolled her eyes. “You’re basically my sister, of course you’re sitting with me. Ethan’s groomsmen will be there too, obviously.” She paused, her expression turning smug. “Including Harry.”

Y/N felt her stomach drop. “Mal.”

Mal grinned innocently. “What? You two used to know each other. Might as well catch up.”

Y/N groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. She quickly looked at her phone. 

Naomi: Why do I feel like something is about to go down?

Y/N sighed, typing back.

Y/N: Because it probably is.

She locked her phone and exhaled deeply.her.

Y/N stopped in her tracks, gripping Mal’s arm before she could walk off. “Mal.”

Mal turned, eyebrows raised. “What?”

Y/N took a deep breath, her heart pounding. “Harry… he’s the ex.”

Mal blinked, not catching on immediately. “What do you mean ‘the ex’?”

Y/N stared at her, her throat tightening. “The ex, Mal. The one I never got over.”

Mal’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Wait. Harry is that Harry?”

Y/N just nodded, feeling her stomach twist.

Mal’s eyes widened in horror. “Y/N! Why didn’t you tell me?! I just—oh my God—I just forced you into sitting at a table with him! I basically told you to flirt with your ex-boyfriend!”

Y/N let out a weak laugh, rubbing her temples. “Yeah. You did.”

Mal looked genuinely panicked, placing her hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “Okay, do you want me to change the seating? I can put you somewhere else. I can banish him to the other side of the room if you want.”

Y/N hesitated, her heart a mess of emotions. Every logical part of her was screaming yes, but deep down, there was something else. A tiny part of her—one she wanted to ignore—knew she wasn’t ready to run from this.

She swallowed hard. “No… don’t change anything.”

Mal searched her face. “Are you sure?”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “No. If I’ve spent the last five years surviving without him, I can survive one dinner.”

Mal groaned, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I was the one to unknowingly throw you into this situation.”

Y/N gave her a small smile. “It’s not your fault. I never really talk about him.”

Mal frowned. “That should’ve been my first clue.”

They stood there for a moment before Mal squeezed her hands. “Okay. If at any point you need an out, just say the word, and I’ll stage an emergency.”

Y/N smiled despite the nerves in her chest. “Thanks, Mal.”

Mal smirked. “And for what it’s worth… the way he looked at you earlier? Yeah. That man is not over you either.”

Y/N’s breath caught, but before she could respond, Mal looped her arm through hers and started leading her toward the dining hall.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Y/N walked into the rehearsal dinner with Mal, her stomach twisting into knots. The dining hall was breathtaking—soft candlelight flickered across the elegantly decorated tables, and laughter filled the room as guests mingled. It should have felt warm, exciting, celebratory. Instead, it felt like she was walking straight into the eye of a storm.

Her eyes scanned the head table, and sure enough, there he was.

Harry sat near Ethan, laughing at something one of the other groomsmen said. He looked relaxed, at ease, but the second his gaze flickered up and landed on her, something shifted. His smile faltered—just for a second—before he quickly masked it. But Y/N caught it.

And it made her chest tighten.

“Breathe,” Mal whispered in her ear.

Y/N inhaled deeply, forcing a polite smile as Mal pulled her toward her seat.

“Alright, everyone, take your seats!” Ethan’s voice rang out, and people began settling in.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she approached her spot at the table. As fate would have it, she was seated directly across from Harry.

Of course she was.

Mal slid into her chair beside her, oblivious to the internal battle raging inside Y/N’s head. Or maybe she wasn’t—because when Y/N hesitated for half a second too long, Mal gave her a subtle nudge.

Y/N had no choice but to sit.

As soon as she did, the table conversation picked up, and for a few moments, she thought maybe she could get through this dinner unscathed. But then—

“You look nice.”

The deep, familiar voice sent a shiver down her spine.

She looked up, and there he was. Harry. Looking right at her.

For a second, she forgot how to breathe.

She cleared her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she murmured. “You do too.”

He gave a small smile, but there was something behind his eyes—something hesitant, something unsure.

Ethan, oblivious to the tension, clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Mate, did you know Y/N used to date a musician?”

Y/N nearly choked on her drink.

Harry’s brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering across his face. “Oh?”

Ethan grinned. “Yeah! I don’t think she ever got over him, asshole broke up with her to go fuck around.”

Mal visibly cringed. “Ethan—”

Y/N wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Harry’s gaze was steady, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smirk. He looked at her, his voice smooth as ever.

“Yeah?” he mused. “Wonder what happened to him.”

Y/N shot him a glare across the table, her face burning, while Mal reached for Ethan’s hand and squeezed it in warning.

Ethan frowned, confused for a second before realization dawned on his face. His eyes darted between Harry and Y/N, his mouth dropping open. “Wait—no way.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face. Mal let out a nervous laugh, while Harry just sat back, looking far too amused.

Ethan whistled low. “Wow. Okay. This just got interesting.”

Y/N peeked up at Harry, who was still watching her with that unreadable look in his eyes.

Ethan finally shut up after a pointed glare from Mal, and conversation around the table shifted away from Y/N’s romantic history—or rather, her history with Harry Styles. But the damage had already been done.

Y/N felt the weight of Harry’s gaze every so often, his eyes flickering toward her between conversations, his expression unreadable. She did everything in her power to ignore it, to focus on the food, on Mal’s wedding plans, on anything but the fact that Harry was sitting across from her, looking like a damn dream, completely unbothered by the chaos he had just walked into.

Eventually, the dinner plates were cleared, and drinks were passed around. Mal and Ethan stood to give a short thank-you speech, and while everyone was clapping and toasting, Y/N took the opportunity to slip outside for some air.

She stepped onto the balcony, the cool evening breeze brushing against her skin. She exhaled slowly, gripping the railing, trying to steady herself.

The air was crisp outside, a welcome contrast to the warmth and noise of the rehearsal dinner. Y/N gripped the railing, inhaling deeply, trying to calm the storm brewing in her chest.

She heard the door creak open behind her, followed by the familiar sound of footsteps.

“Running away already?”

She closed her eyes briefly before turning her head. Harry stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same unreadable expression.

“Not running,” she murmured. “Just… breathing.”

He hummed in response, stepping closer until he was beside her, leaning against the railing. Their shoulders barely touched, but the proximity sent a ripple through her.

Silence settled between them, the weight of five years pressing down on both of them.

Harry exhaled, his fingers tapping lightly against the wood. “I tried.”

Y/N frowned slightly, turning to look at him. “Tried what?”

His jaw tightened for a brief moment before he met her gaze. His voice was steady, quiet. “To find something that felt like this.”

Her breath caught.

“Like us.”

The words settled between them, thick and heavy, cutting through the cool night air like a blade.

Y/N swallowed, her fingers tightening around the railing. She should say something—anything—but her mind was blank, her heart betraying her with how hard it was pounding in her chest.

Instead, she forced herself to look away, staring out at the dark horizon. “Did you?”

A beat of silence. Then, just as softly—

“No.”

The quiet stretched between them, filled with everything they weren’t saying.

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. “Harry…”

He let out a quiet, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I know.”

But he didn’t move.

And neither did she.

The weight of his words sat between them, thick and unmoving. Y/N stared out at the night sky, her grip on the railing tightening.

She had waited.

For months. For years.

She had waited for the moment when he would come back, when the universe would prove him right—that if they were meant to be, they’d find their way back to each other.

But he never came.

And so, she had forced herself to move on, to let go of the idea of him and the promises they had made.

Except now, here he was. Standing beside her, his presence as overwhelming as ever.

She turned to him then, her voice quieter, but firm. “You told me if we were meant to be, we’d find our way back.”

Harry inhaled sharply, his gaze locking onto hers. “I remember.”

Her throat tightened. “I waited, Harry.”

A shadow crossed his face, pain flickering in his eyes. “I know.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

She shook her head slightly. “I told myself I wouldn’t. That I couldn’t. But I did anyway.” She swallowed, the emotions she had buried for so long threatening to surface. “And the thing is… I didn’t have to let you fight for me.” She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Because you were always the one.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his hands curling into fists at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.

She didn’t look away.

“I was yours, Harry,” she whispered. “Always.”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He looked like he wanted to say something—needed to—but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he did what he had always done.

He looked at her like she was his entire world.

The space between them was thick with tension, a storm neither of them could outrun. Y/N’s heart pounded, her breath coming in uneven waves as she tried to steady herself.

Harry looked wrecked, his hands twitching at his sides like he was holding himself back, like the only thing keeping him from reaching for her was the fear that she’d pull away.

“I thought about coming back a million times,” he admitted, his voice raw. “But every time I convinced myself it was too late. That you’d moved on, that I’d lost my chance.”

Y/N exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I waited for you, Harry.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care. “You said if we were meant to be, we’d find our way back. And I believed you.” She swallowed hard. 

His jaw tensed, pain flashing in his eyes. “I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“That you deserved better than someone who left you.” His voice was barely above a whisper, like he hated himself for even saying it. “Scared that if I came back, I’d ruin you all over again.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, her emotions bubbling too close to the surface. “And what about me?” she whispered. “Did you ever think about what it did to me when you didn’t come back?”

Harry flinched like she had physically struck him. He took a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair before looking at her again, his green eyes burning into hers. “I never stopped thinking about you, Y/N. Not for a single day.”

She sucked in a breath, her hands trembling at her sides. “Why now, Harry?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t stand in the same room as you and act like I don’t still love you.”

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs. “You—”

“I love you.” His voice was steady, sure. “I never stopped.”

A strangled breath escaped her lips. Every wall she had built over the years, every defense she had tried to put up—it all crumbled in an instant.

Because she loved him, too.

She always had.

And maybe she always would.

Before she could stop herself, before she could think about the consequences, she surged forward, her hands gripping his face as she crashed her lips against his.

Harry let out a soft, surprised sound before sinking into her, his hands flying to her waist, pulling her closer, like he had been starving for her.

The kiss was desperate, aching, filled with everything they had lost, everything they had missed, everything that still burned between them.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and shaken, Harry rested his forehead against hers, his hands still firm on her waist.

“Tell me it’s not too late,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together.

Y/N’s hands trembled as she cupped his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek.

“It was never too late,” she whispered back.

Harry let out a shaky breath, his forehead still resting against hers. His grip on her waist tightened, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

Y/N felt the warmth of his skin, the way his chest rose and fell in sync with hers, and for the first time in years, she felt like she could breathe.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers still cradling his face. His green eyes were glassy, searching hers for something—reassurance, hope, maybe even forgiveness.

“I can’t do this again if you’re not sure, Harry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I barely survived losing you once.”

Harry shook his head instantly, his hands cupping the small of her back, holding her like he never wanted to let go. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Y/N let out a shaky laugh, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill. “You say that now.”

“I say that because I know what it’s like without you.” He swallowed hard, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’ve spent five years trying to figure out who I am, trying to find something that felt even remotely close to what we had. And I couldn’t.”

Her breath hitched, and she let her hands drop from his face to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

“So what now?” she murmured.

Harry gave her a small, almost nervous smile. “Now I prove to you that I mean it.”

Y/N felt something crack open inside her, something she had kept locked away since the day he left.

Before she could second-guess herself, before doubt could creep in, she nodded. “Okay.”

Harry’s face softened, and he let out a breath of relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A slow, almost disbelieving grin spread across his face before he leaned in again, pressing the gentlest, most reverent kiss against her lips—like he was sealing a promise.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers curling into his shirt, anchoring herself to him, to this.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy.

But it was them.

[thereceptioniststyles]

A Real Good Doctor

Where Y/N is running and hurts herself but there happens to be a doctor who can help.

Doctor Harry

Word count: 5,108

Content Warning: Falling, blood, stitches.

Y/N pulls open the door to her flat, stepping into the dimly lit hallway. The air inside is warm, carrying the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of someone’s morning coffee. She moves quickly down the stairs, her footsteps light against the worn steps. Outside, she knows the city is already awake, but for now, the building is quiet, save for the occasional creak of a door opening on another floor.

As she reaches the lobby, she spots the doorman standing near the entrance, his hands tucked into the pockets of his navy-blue coat. His expression is neutral but kind, a hint of familiarity in the way he straightens slightly at her approach.

“Morning,” she says with a small smile.

“Morning, Miss Y/N. Enjoy your run.”

She nods in thanks before pushing through the heavy glass door. The crisp morning air greets her instantly, cool against her skin but not unpleasant. The street outside is alive with the early stirrings of the city. Cars pass in steady streams, their tires hissing over the damp pavement. The scent of brewing coffee drifts from a cart stationed on the corner, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the lingering morning chill.

She takes a deep breath, stretching her arms overhead before adjusting her sleeves. The city feels different in the morning—calmer, quieter, yet still thrumming with an energy that never quite fades. With one last roll of her shoulders, she takes off at a steady pace, her footsteps blending seamlessly into the rhythm of New York waking up around her.

The wind is chilly as Y/N picks up her pace, the cool air biting at her cheeks as she moves through the city streets. Her breaths come evenly, her body warming with each stride. The rhythm of her footsteps against the pavement is steady, matching the hum of New York around her.

She turns a corner, then another, cutting through familiar side streets where the crowds are thinner. The scent of fresh bread wafts from a bakery as she passes, blending with the ever-present aroma of exhaust and damp pavement. A few early risers sip their coffee at outdoor tables, bundled in light jackets, their conversations a quiet murmur beneath the city’s morning soundtrack.

Her pace quickens, muscles fully awake now as she pushes herself into a full run. The energy of the city fuels her, the blur of storefronts and passing faces barely registering as she weaves between pedestrians. A man in a suit steps aside just in time, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup as she brushes past. She dodges a woman walking her dog, then sidesteps a slow-moving couple engrossed in conversation.

The wind rushes past her, her pulse pounding in her ears. She barely notices the slight unevenness in the sidewalk until it is too late.

Y/N’s sneaker catches on a crack in the pavement, the sudden jolt sending a sharp shock through her body. For a split second, she thinks she might be able to steady herself, her arms flinging out in a desperate attempt to regain balance. But gravity is faster.

Her stomach flips as she stumbles forward, her footing completely lost. The world tilts around her, the blur of passing faces and city movement twisting into a mess of colors. A sharp gasp escapes her lips as she realizes there is no way to stop it—she is going down.

The impact comes fast. Her knee slams against the rough pavement first, sending a searing pain up her leg. Her palms hit next, scraping against the cold, unforgiving concrete. The force of the fall knocks the breath from her lungs, leaving her stunned for a moment as she blinks at the ground beneath her.

Pain throbs instantly through her knee, a sharp, burning sensation that spreads as she slowly lifts her hands. The rough asphalt has left angry red scrapes on her skin, and when she looks down, she sees blood beginning to pool around a deep gash in her knee, staining the torn fabric of her leggings.

A mix of frustration and embarrassment bubbles up in her chest as she presses a shaky hand against her wound. Around her, the city moves on, pedestrians barely giving her a second glance as they continue on their way. She takes a slow breath, wincing as she shifts her leg, trying to assess the damage.

Y/N barely has time to catch her breath before she hears footsteps slowing near her. A shadow falls over her, and when she looks up, she sees a man standing just a few feet away. He is dressed in an athletic outfit—black running shorts, a moisture-wicking long-sleeve top, and a pair of well-worn trainers. His hair is neatly styled, not too short but nowhere near long, and his face is flushed, likely from his own run. There is a slight crease between his brows, his green eyes sharp with concern as he looks down at her.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asks, his voice steady but gentle.

Y/N’s face flushes instantly with embarrassment. The last thing she wants is attention, especially from a stranger, especially in the middle of a New York sidewalk. She quickly nods, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face as she shifts her weight.

“I’m fine,” she says, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile.

He does not look convinced. His gaze flickers down to her knee, where blood is steadily pooling around the torn fabric of her leggings, staining the pavement beneath her.

“That doesn’t look fine,” he says, crouching down beside her.

Before she can protest, his hands are already reaching out. He is careful but firm as he gently pulls her leg forward, his fingers wrapping around her calf to steady her. The touch is warm even through the thin layer of fabric. Y/N sucks in a sharp breath, her knee throbbing under the new angle.

“It’s not that bad,” she insists, though the pain tells her otherwise.

He lets out a quiet scoff, tilting his head as he inspects the wound. “You’re probably going to need stitches,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “That’s deep. You’ll need a real good doctor to fix you up.”

Y/N shakes her head, already knowing where this is going. “I’ll be fine,” she says again, this time a little firmer. “I can clean it up myself.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly unconvinced. “You should really go to a hospital,” he tells her.

She hesitates before admitting, “I can’t really afford to go to the hospital.”

That makes him pause. His grip on her leg loosens slightly, and for a brief moment, there is something unreadable in his expression. Then, he nods as if he has already made up his mind about something.

“You’re in luck,” he says, his lips quirking into the hint of a smile. “I happen to be a doctor.”

Y/N blinks up at him, her breath still uneven from the fall. She had not expected that. He does not look like a doctor—not in the way she imagined one. His athletic gear, his flushed cheeks from running, the casual confidence in his stance—it all feels too relaxed, too effortless. But there is something about the way he speaks, the calm certainty in his voice, that makes her believe him.

She nods, still slightly dazed. “Oh. Okay.”

He glances back down at her knee, assessing the steady trickle of blood seeping through the torn fabric of her leggings. “My apartment is just around the corner,” he tells her. “I can stitch you up.”

She hesitates, her mind briefly flashing to all the reasons why following a stranger home in New York City is not the best idea. But then she looks at him again—the steady, unshaken way he watches her, the kindness in his eyes, the quiet authority in his voice. Something tells her he is not lying, and right now, with her knee throbbing and blood pooling onto the pavement, she does not have many options.

“Alright,” she agrees, her voice quieter now.

He does not waste any time. Shrugging off his long-sleeve athletic shirt, he kneels down in front of her, gently lifting her leg to wrap the fabric around her knee. His movements are efficient but careful, making sure to apply just enough pressure to slow the bleeding without hurting her more than necessary. Up close, she notices the way his jaw tightens in concentration, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead from his run.

“This should help for now,” he says, securing the makeshift bandage.

She watches as he straightens, rolling his shoulders back slightly now that he is left in just a fitted short-sleeve undershirt. He reaches out a hand. “Come on, let’s get you to a bench.”

She lets him help her up, wincing as she puts weight on her injured leg. His grip is steady as he guides her toward a nearby bench, keeping a firm hold on her arm to make sure she does not stumble again.

“Sit tight,” he says once she is settled. “I’ll pull my car around.”

Y/N watches as he jogs toward the street, her fingers gripping the bloodied fabric tied around her knee. The city moves around her, indifferent to the small moment unfolding between them. The pain is still there, pulsing through her leg, but it is dulled now by the strange realization that, somehow, she has just been saved by a man she had never seen before.

A sleek black Range Rover pulls up to the curb, the engine purring softly as it slows to a stop. Y/N watches as the doctor steps out, moving around the front of the car with quick, purposeful strides. He opens the passenger door, offering her his hand.

“Come on,” he says, his voice steady but still carrying that edge of concern.

She takes his hand, gripping it tightly as he helps her stand. The pain in her knee flares when she shifts her weight, but he is there, keeping her steady as she eases herself into the plush leather seat. As soon as she settles in, she notices it—the scent lingering in the car. It smells good, clean, and warm, a mix of something woodsy and fresh. It smells like him.

The door shuts with a solid click, and moments later, he is sliding into the driver’s seat beside her. His tattooed hands grip the wheel effortlessly, the ink on his skin stark against the dim morning light filtering through the windshield.

The car moves smoothly down the street, the hum of the city slipping into the background as they drive. Y/N exhales, glancing down at her knee, still wrapped in his makeshift bandage.

“Thank you,” she says after a moment. “And… sorry.”

His eyes flick toward her briefly before returning to the road. “What are you sorry for?”

She shrugs, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “For ruining your run. For bleeding all over your shirt. For making you do… all of this.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I think I’ll survive.”

She smiles faintly, relaxing just a little before realizing something. She turns her head to look at him, studying the sharp angles of his face, the way his brows stay slightly furrowed in concentration.

“I never got your name,” she admits.

He glances at her again, this time holding her gaze for just a second longer. Then, with a slight smirk, he says, “It’s Harry.”

“Y/N,” she tells him, her voice softer now as she watches him navigate the busy street with ease.

Harry nods once, like he is committing it to memory. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Even under these circumstances.”

A few minutes later, the car slows as he pulls up to a brick-front flat on a quieter street. The Range Rover eases to a stop, and before Y/N can even think about how she is going to get inside without making a mess, Harry is already out of the car.

She watches as he jogs around to her side, moving with effortless speed. The moment he swings open the door, his hands are on her again—gentle but firm as he helps her maneuver out of the seat.

“There are a few stairs,” he says, glancing toward the entrance. His brows furrow slightly before he looks back at her. “Is it alright if I pick you up?”

Y/N hesitates, glancing toward the short staircase leading up to the door. She appreciates the question, at least. “I think I can make it.”

He tilts his head slightly, unconvinced. “You’re already in pain. No need to make it worse.”

She exhales, feeling slightly guilty. “I feel really bad,” she admits, her fingers still gripping the fabric tied around her knee.

Harry just smirks as he bends down slightly. “Consider it the weight-lifting portion of my workout,” he says before sliding an arm beneath her legs and the other around her back.

Before she can protest, he lifts her with surprising ease, holding her securely against his chest. Her hands instinctively grip onto his shoulders as he starts toward the flat, climbing the steps effortlessly.

“You’re way too good at this,” she mutters, the heat creeping up her neck only half due to the fact that she is being carried by a complete stranger.

Harry chuckles, the sound deep and warm. “I’d be a pretty shit doctor if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?”

Harry reaches the door and carefully sets Y/N down just long enough to unlock it. The key turns with a quiet click, and he pushes the door open before turning back to her. Without hesitation, he scoops her up again, his grip just as steady as before, and carries her inside.

The flat is warm and inviting, a mix of modern and lived-in. The scent of something clean and vaguely citrusy lingers in the air. Large windows let in the morning light, casting a soft glow over the neutral-colored furniture and shelves lined with books and small personal items.

He moves effortlessly through the space, bringing her over to the couch and gently lowering her onto the cushions. He makes sure she is comfortable before stepping away, disappearing toward a nearby closet. She listens as he rummages through supplies, the sound of cabinets opening and closing before he returns, his arms full.

He sets everything down on the coffee table—gauze, antiseptic, a needle, thread, and medical tape, along with a few other tools she does not want to look at too closely. Without a word, he heads into the kitchen. Y/N hears the faucet running and the rustle of paper towels being pulled from a roll. A moment later, he is back, hands now washed, rolling up the sleeves of his undershirt as he kneels in front of her.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice calm as he gently lifts her leg, propping it up to get a better look at the wound. His fingers brush against her skin, warm against the chill that still lingers from her time outside. His expression is unreadable as he assesses the gash, but she can tell he is already figuring out exactly what needs to be done.

“This is going to sting a little,” he warns, reaching for the antiseptic. “But you’re tough, right?”

Y/N exhales, bracing herself. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Y/N gasps sharply as the antiseptic makes contact with her wound, the sharp sting shooting up her leg. Her fingers grip the edge of the couch cushion, her jaw tightening as she exhales through the pain.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs, his voice smooth and steady as he works. “Just a little longer.”

She nods quickly, focusing on her breathing as he continues dabbing at the cut with practiced precision. Despite the pain, she cannot help but notice how careful he is, how his hands are steady and sure, never lingering more than they need to.

After a moment, the burn starts to fade, and she watches as he reaches for a small vial, squeezing a bit of clear liquid onto a cotton swab. “This’ll help numb it a little,” he tells her. “Should make the stitches easier.”

She hums in acknowledgment, watching as he gently applies the numbing agent with slow, deliberate movements. His fingertips press lightly against her skin, ensuring it spreads evenly. It tingles at first, then gradually, the pain dulls into something distant.

Harry sits back slightly, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the needle and thread. He glances up at her, a hint of amusement flickering in his expression. “Now, I won’t lie to you. This might still hurt a little,” he says, pulling the thread through the needle’s eye with an easy familiarity. “But I’ve been told I’m really good at this.”

Y/N swallows, her eyes drifting to his hands as he prepares the first stitch. His movements are fluid, effortless, as if he has done this a hundred times before—which, of course, he probably has.

Her gaze shifts up, taking him in properly for the first time. His features are sharp but not unkind, his jawline defined, his lips slightly parted in concentration. There is something about the way his brows furrow slightly as he focuses, the way his green eyes flicker between the wound and his hands with such quiet confidence.

He is attractive. Really attractive.

She feels a warmth creep up her neck that has nothing to do with the numbing agent. Of all the people who could have found her bleeding on the sidewalk, it had to be a ridiculously good-looking doctor with tattooed arms and a quiet charm.

“You alright?” Harry asks, glancing up at her just as he prepares to make the first stitch.

Y/N blinks, quickly pulling herself from her thoughts. She nods, clearing her throat. “Yeah. Just… watching.”

His lips twitch slightly, like he knows exactly what she was doing. “Well, try not to stare too hard,” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to distract me while I’ve got a needle in my hand.”

She huffs out a small laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Y/N exhales slowly as he starts the first stitch, her fingers curling against the couch cushion. The tug of the thread through her skin is uncomfortable, but the numbing agent does its job, dulling most of the pain.

“Thank you,” she says softly, watching as he works with careful precision. “I really appreciate this.”

Harry glances up briefly before focusing back on the stitches. “Of course.”

She hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Most people wouldn’t have stopped.”

His hands don’t falter, but something shifts in his expression. He pulls the thread through smoothly, then knots it with a practiced ease before speaking.

“That’s why I wanted to be a doctor,” he says simply. “To help.”

Y/N watches him closely, the way his jaw tenses slightly like he is considering his words carefully.

“If I couldn’t do that,” he continues, his voice quieter now, “then what would be the point?”

She lets the words settle between them, the weight of them heavier than she expected. There is something unshakable in the way he says it—like this is not just a job to him, but something deeper.

For the first time since she fell, she forgets about the sting of her knee, the embarrassment of tripping, even the fact that she is sitting in a stranger’s apartment while he stitches her up. All she can focus on is him, and the quiet sincerity in his voice.

After a few minutes, Harry ties off the last stitch, his movements just as steady and precise as when he started. He snips the excess thread and leans back slightly, inspecting his work with a quick nod of approval.

“All done,” he says, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe away any lingering blood before applying a fresh bandage over the wound.

Y/N watches as he smooths down the edges of the bandage, his fingertips light against her skin. There is something oddly comforting about the way he does it, like he genuinely cares.

“The stitches will fall out on their own in about a week or two,” he tells her, tossing the used supplies into a small bin beside him. “You’ll want to keep it clean, avoid putting too much pressure on it.”

She nods, but part of her feels an unexpected disappointment at the thought. A week or two. That meant no reason to come back. No follow-up appointment. No excuse to see him again.

She clears her throat, pushing the thought away. “Thank you,” she says, meeting his eyes. “Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.”

He smirks slightly as he pushes himself to his feet. “Probably would’ve bled all over the sidewalk,” he teases.

She rolls her eyes, but she cannot help the small smile tugging at her lips.

“Let me give you a ride back to your place,” he offers, already grabbing his car keys from the table.

Y/N shakes her head immediately. “No, you’ve already done so much. I don’t want to take up more of your time.”

Harry tilts his head slightly, like he is debating whether to argue, but after a moment, he just sighs. “Alright,” he relents. “But here.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to her. She hesitates for a second before taking it and typing in her number. A second later, her own phone vibrates in her pocket.

“In case you have any questions,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Or if something doesn’t feel right.”

She swallows, glancing at the contact now saved in her phone. She doubts she will need to ask him anything, but there is something reassuring about having his number.

“Thanks,” she says, standing carefully. He steadies her with a hand on her arm as she gets her balance.

He walks her to the door, holding it open as she steps outside. The morning chill has eased, but the air is still crisp against her skin. She pulls out her phone and quickly orders an Uber, glancing at Harry as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“Looks like I’ll live,” she says lightly, rocking on her good leg.

He smirks. “I’d hope so.”

A car pulls up to the curb a minute later, and Y/N glances back at him one last time before opening the door.

“See you around, Doctor,” she says with a small smile.

His lips twitch slightly, like he is holding back a grin. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.”

She slides into the car, and as they pull away, she catches a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror, standing in the doorway, watching her go.

The moment Y/N settles into the back seat of the Uber, she pulls out her phone and quickly unlocks it, her fingers already flying across the screen as she starts a message to Poppy.

Y/N: You are NOT going to believe what just happened to me.

A few seconds later, the typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then reappear.

Poppy: Oh god. What now?

Y/N exhales, still feeling the slight sting in her knee, but mostly just riding the adrenaline of the past hour.

Y/N: So I was on my run, right? And I totally wiped out. Like, full-on face-plant into the sidewalk.

Poppy: LMAO are you okay???

Y/N: I mean, kinda. I busted my knee open pretty bad. Like BAD bad.

Poppy: Oh my god. Did you go to the hospital??

Y/N: Nope. A HOT doctor who was also out on a run just happened to find me bleeding out on the pavement and took me back to his apartment to stitch me up.

This time, the typing bubbles take a little longer to appear.

Poppy: …You’re messing with me.

Y/N: I SWEAR ON MY LIFE.

Poppy: WHAT DO YOU MEAN A HOT DOCTOR TOOK YOU BACK TO HIS APARTMENT???

Y/N: I mean exactly that!! He was all like “You’re in luck, I happen to be a doctor” and then he carried me up to his flat, cleaned me up, stitched me up, gave me his NUMBER in case I had any issues, and then walked me out.

Poppy: HE GAVE YOU HIS NUMBER????

Y/N: …Yeah. But like. In a professional way.

Poppy: Babe. I need a full description IMMEDIATELY.

Y/N bites her lip, glancing out the window as the city blurs past. She can still smell the faint trace of his cologne in her hoodie from where he carried her, and the image of him threading the needle, his tattooed hands moving with practiced ease, flashes through her mind.

Y/N: Tall. Green eyes. Tattoos. Really nice arms. Smelled amazing. Also, annoyingly charming.

Poppy: You’re literally living in a rom-com.

Y/N: It’s not like that.

Poppy: Babe. He carried you. In his ARMS. Like a damsel in distress.

Y/N: …Okay that part was kinda nice.

Poppy: Text him.

Y/N: NO.

Poppy: You HAVE to. What if he was into you?? What if this is FATE??

Y/N sighs, staring down at Harry’s number in her recent contacts. She has no reason to text him. No medical emergencies, no lingering pain, no excuse at all.

But still… she hesitates before locking her phone and tucking it away, a small smile playing on her lips. 

A few weeks pass, and life moves on as usual. Y/N’s knee heals well, the stitches falling out just as Harry said they would. She thinks about him more than she probably should, but she never texts him. There is no reason to, and she convinces herself that what happened was just a one-time, serendipitous moment. Nothing more.

Today, she and Poppy are spending the afternoon shopping, bouncing from store to store, their arms slowly filling with shopping bags. The air is crisp, just on the edge of winter, and the city is alive with holiday decorations starting to appear in shop windows.

“I need caffeine,” Poppy groans, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Like, immediately.”

Y/N laughs. “I could go for a coffee too.”

They turn the corner and spot a small café tucked between two larger storefronts. It looks warm and inviting, with fogged-up windows and the smell of fresh espresso wafting through the open door as a customer steps out.

“This looks cute,” Poppy says, already leading the way inside.

The bell above the door jingles as they step in, the scent of roasted coffee beans and vanilla filling the air. It is cozy, with a mix of people scattered at tables—some working on laptops, others chatting over pastries. Y/N and Poppy step up to the counter, scanning the menu.

“What are you getting?” Y/N asks, fishing her wallet from her bag.

“Probably a caramel latte,” Poppy says, before turning to her with a smirk. “Are you getting tea? Or are you finally going to admit that coffee is better?”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “I drink coffee sometimes.”

“Barely.”

They place their orders, stepping to the side to wait. Y/N glances around, taking in the warm glow of the café, the low hum of conversation, the baristas moving efficiently behind the counter.

And then, just as she reaches for her cup when her name is called, she hears a familiar voice behind her.

“Y/N?”

Her breath catches slightly. She knows that voice.

Turning around, she finds herself face-to-face with none other than Harry. He stands just a few feet away, dressed casually in a dark sweater and jeans, his green eyes flickering with recognition. He looks different than the last time she saw him—not sweaty from a run, not focused on stitching up her knee, but just… normal. And somehow, just as annoyingly attractive.

“Oh,” she says, blinking in surprise. “Hey.”

Poppy, who had just grabbed her own coffee, looks between them with wide eyes, barely containing her excitement. “Oh my god,” she whispers under her breath, not-so-subtly elbowing Y/N’s side.

Y/N ignores her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Harry smirks slightly, holding up his own coffee cup. “I could say the same thing. How’s the knee?”

Y/N glances down at her knee, instinctively brushing a hand over it. The skin is smooth now, with only the faintest trace of a scar left behind.

“Healed really nice,” she says, looking back up at him. “Barely even a scar.”

Harry grins, taking a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s what I’m known for,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Although… a battle scar could’ve been kinda cool.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Yeah, because I’d really want to tell people I tripped over a sidewalk crack during a run. Very heroic.”

He leans over slightly, bumping his shoulder against hers. “Could’ve made up a better story,” he teases. “Shark attack. Saving a child from a burning building. Something dramatic.”

Y/N laughs again, but the warmth in her chest has little to do with the joke. She had almost forgotten how easy it was to talk to him, how effortlessly charming he was.

Before she can think of a response, Harry shifts slightly, glancing down at his cup as if debating something. Then, without looking at her, he says casually, “I was kinda hoping you’d text me.”

Y/N freezes, her grip tightening slightly around her coffee. She had thought about it—more times than she wanted to admit. But she never knew what to say, never wanted to overstep, never wanted to assume that he had wanted to see her again.

Her face heats as she looks down at her drink. “I wasn’t sure,” she admits. “Didn’t want to bother you.”

Harry exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “You wouldn’t have.”

She peeks up at him, and for the first time, his teasing smirk is gone. There is something softer in his expression now—something genuine.

Poppy, who has been silently sipping her coffee but watching the exchange like it is the best show she has ever seen, suddenly clears her throat.

“Well,” she says dramatically, clapping a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “I think I’m gonna go check out that bakery next door. Y/N, why don’t you stay here and catch up?”

Y/N shoots her a look, but Poppy just grins, winking before practically skipping toward the door.

Harry chuckles, watching her go before turning back to Y/N. “Subtle.”

“She has no shame,” Y/N mutters, shaking her head.

Harry lifts his cup toward her. “So… catching up?” he prompts. “What do you say?”

Y/N bites her lip, trying to fight back the smile threatening to take over her face. “I think I can stick around for a little bit.”

[thereceptioniststyles]

It’s You

Where Y/N’s chaotic energy clashes with her grumpy, tattooed neighbor, her mission to get on his good side turns into stolen glances, quiet moments, and a connection she never expected.

Au Harry

Word count: 13,395

Content warning: Cursing, smut, alcohol.

The warm glow of string lights illuminated Y/N’s cozy Los Angeles apartment as the sound of laughter filled the air. The small space was a mix of bohemian chic and personal touches—a gallery wall of polaroids, a cluttered coffee table covered with open bags of snacks, and a few empty wine bottles standing like trophies from their earlier indulgence.

Y/N flopped back onto the couch, a glass of red wine in hand, her cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and nonstop giggling. Her two best friends, Harper and Lila, sat cross-legged on the floor, snacking on popcorn and chips, fully embracing the childlike joy of their adult sleepover.

“This feels so right,” Y/N said, her voice slightly tipsy. “Why don’t we do this more often?”

“Because we’re responsible adults now, remember?” Harper teased, adjusting her oversized hoodie. “Nine-to-five, bills, and pretending we know what we’re doing.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lila quipped, popping a gummy bear into her mouth. “I’m thriving in my chaos era.”

Y/N snorted, and Harper rolled her eyes with an affectionate grin. Lila was the wild card of the group, always coming up with unpredictable ideas. And she didn’t disappoint tonight.

“You know what we should do?” Lila suddenly said, sitting up straighter. “Karaoke.”

“Yes!” Harper exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Oh my God, yes. Do you still have that mic we bought for New Year’s Eve?”

Y/N groaned dramatically, but her smile betrayed her fake reluctance. “You mean the mic that nearly got us evicted? Of course, I still have it.”

Lila grinned wickedly. “Perfect. Let’s wake up the entire building with our stunning renditions of 2000s throwbacks.”

Without waiting for further approval, Lila dashed to the hall closet and pulled out the karaoke mic, triumphantly waving it in the air. Harper grabbed her phone, already scrolling through a playlist.

“You’re starting,” Harper declared, pointing the mic at Y/N.

“What? No!” Y/N laughed, holding her hands up defensively. “I’m not ready!”

“Too bad,” Lila said, shoving the mic into Y/N’s hands. “You can’t escape destiny. Pick your song.”

Y/N sighed theatrically before smirking. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when your ears bleed.”

As Y/N queued up Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson, the room erupted in cheers. The first few notes played, and soon enough, Y/N was belting out the lyrics with unrestrained enthusiasm, her friends joining in for the chorus. It didn’t matter that they were slightly off-key; in that moment, they were superstars in their own private concert.

Wine glasses were forgotten, snacks spilled, and every lyric was sung at full volume. It was the kind of night they’d remember for years—a reminder that no matter how grown-up they pretended to be, some things never lost their magic.

The girls were in full swing, harmonizing (poorly) to “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. Lila stood on the couch holding the mic as if she were performing at Madison Square Garden, while Harper played air guitar with a half-empty wine bottle. Y/N was doubled over in laughter, her cheeks aching from smiling so much.

Just as they hit the iconic, “Tell me why—” part, a loud knock echoed through the apartment, cutting through their drunken fun like a record scratch. The girls froze, their voices trailing off mid-note. Y/N straightened up, exchanging wide-eyed looks with Harper and Lila.

“Uh… did someone order pizza?” Lila whispered, her voice unsure.

“Nope,” Y/N said, setting her wine glass on the coffee table. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”

With a mix of nerves and annoyance, Y/N padded to the door. She peered through the peephole and groaned. It was her new neighbor, Harry. She’d only exchanged a polite “hello” with him in passing, but he’d already struck her as the brooding, grumpy type.

Bracing herself, she opened the door.

There he stood: tall, disheveled hair pushed back in a lazy attempt at taming it, wearing a faded gray hoodie and black joggers. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he took in her flushed face and the muffled chaos behind her.

“Good evening,” he started, his British accent dripping with sarcasm. “I just wanted to say how much I’ve been enjoying your concert tonight. It’s like living next door to a live music venue. Only… worse.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned by his dry humor. “Oh. Uh, sorry about that. We didn’t realize how loud we were being.”

Harry crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I figured. Thought I’d come over before I lost the ability to hear entirely.”

From behind her, Lila’s voice chimed in drunkenly. “Is it a noise complaint? Tell him to sing with us!”

Y/N turned and shot Lila a glare. Harper muffled a laugh.

Y/N sighed and looked back at Harry. “We’ll keep it down. Promise.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching into the faintest smirk, though his tone remained gruff. “Appreciated. Just… try not to turn it into a full-on festival.”

With that, he turned to leave, but Y/N couldn’t help herself. “You know, you could’ve just sent a passive-aggressive text or something.”

Harry glanced back over his shoulder, one brow arched. “I thought this had more impact.”

And then he was gone.

Y/N closed the door, leaning her forehead against it for a moment. When she turned around, Lila and Harper were staring at her like she’d just walked off the set of a rom-com.

“Um, who was that?” Lila asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Harry. My new neighbor,” Y/N replied, walking back to the couch.

“And Mr. Grumpy Pants is cute,” Harper added, grinning.

Y/N rolled her eyes, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah, yeah. He’s cute and cranky. Now can we please move on before you two start planning a love story?”

But the mischievous glint in her friends’ eyes told her they weren’t letting this go anytime soon.

The karaoke mic had been put away, and the girls now lounged in the cozy living room, passing a bottle of wine between them. The earlier buzz of excitement had mellowed, but the energy was still warm and lively. Lila was sprawled on the couch with her legs dangling over Harper’s lap, while Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping from her glass.

“I mean, let’s just talk about him for a second,” Lila began, her voice dramatic. “The mopey neighbor with the accent? And did you see those tattoos? They were peeking out, Y/N. He’s giving mysterious bad boy energy.”

Y/N groaned, her cheeks warming instantly. “Oh my God, Lila. He was literally just here to tell us to shut up.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not hot,” Harper chimed in, grinning. “He has that whole ‘I’m grumpy but secretly charming’ vibe. Like, did you see the way he smirked when he made that little joke?”

Y/N tried to hide her flustered reaction by taking another sip of wine, but she couldn’t stop the blush creeping up her neck. She’d noticed too—his smirk, his sharp jawline, the tattoos curling up his forearm, just barely visible under his hoodie sleeves. She’d noticed everything.

“I mean, he’s okay, I guess,” Y/N mumbled, keeping her tone nonchalant.

“Okay?” Lila shot up, nearly spilling her wine. “You’re lying. You’re the worst liar ever.”

“Shut up,” Y/N said, laughing as she buried her face in her hands. “Fine, he’s cute. So what? He’s also my neighbor, and he’s probably annoyed with me forever now.”

“He’s not annoyed,” Harper said, nudging her with her foot. “If he were, he wouldn’t have made the effort to come over himself. He would’ve sent an email to management or something. He wanted an excuse to see you.”

“Right,” Y/N said, rolling her eyes. “Because nothing’s more attractive than a drunk girl singing Backstreet Boys at full volume.”

“Exactly!” Lila exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air. “You’re memorable. He’ll never forget you now.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing despite herself. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Harper said, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But I bet he thinks you’re cute too.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed deeper, and she quickly changed the subject. But as the night went on, she couldn’t shake the image of Harry standing in her doorway, his messy hair, his smirk, and those tattoos. Maybe her friends weren’t entirely wrong.

The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds of Y/N’s apartment, illuminating the chaos left behind from the night before. Wine glasses, half-eaten snacks, and the abandoned karaoke mic were scattered around the living room. The girls were tangled up in blankets, sprawled across the couch and the floor like a scene from a sitcom.

Y/N was the first to stir, groaning as she rubbed her eyes and sat up. Harper was curled up on the couch with a throw pillow over her head, while Lila lay on the floor in a makeshift nest of cushions, one arm dramatically draped over her face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Y/N teased, nudging Lila with her foot.

Lila groaned. “Why are you awake? It’s illegal to be this alive right now.”

Harper peeked out from under her pillow, her voice muffled. “What time is it? Do we even have the energy to exist today?”

“Barely,” Y/N replied, standing and stretching. “But I’m starving, so I’m making breakfast. Come help me.”

Harper and Lila grumbled but eventually dragged themselves up and into the kitchen, where Y/N was already cracking eggs into a bowl. Together, they whipped up a chaotic but delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, and a mountain of coffee.

The girls sat around the small dining table, eating in comfortable silence at first. Then Lila broke the quiet with a wicked grin.

“So… Harry.”

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, covering her face. “Not again.”

“Listen, I was just thinking,” Lila said, smirking. “Next time we do this, we should make it even louder. Really make him come back over.”

Harper snorted into her coffee. “Yes! Like, full-blown karaoke night but with amps and disco lights.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You two are the worst.”

“But you love us,” Harper said, nudging her with an elbow.

After breakfast, the girls cleaned up and packed their things before heading out. Harper hugged Y/N tightly. “We definitely need to do this again.”

Lila nodded enthusiastically. “Louder next time. You know, for research purposes.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she walked them to the door. “You’re both insane, but I love you. Drive safe.”

Once they were gone, Y/N flopped onto the couch and opened their group chat. Almost immediately, messages started flooding in.

Lila: Next sleepover, let’s bring a fog machine. If Harry shows up, we’ll just act like it’s a concert.

Harper: Or we could rent a spotlight. Make it an event

Y/N: You guys are unbelievable. No more wine for you next time.

Lila: Admit it, you want him to show up again.

Y/N: …maybe.

Harper: KNEW IT.

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her phone, her cheeks warming yet again. As ridiculous as her friends were, they weren’t entirely wrong.

The day passed in a blur of cleaning and tidying as Y/N tried to get her apartment back to its usual organized state. By the time the sun started to dip low in the sky, the chaos from the night before had been erased, leaving her apartment looking like a picture of calm domesticity. Feeling accomplished, Y/N decided to check her mailbox before settling in for a quiet evening.

She padded down to the mailroom in her building, dressed in a casual but presentable outfit—high-waisted jeans and a simple white top. As she rifled through the usual junk mail and a couple of bills, the sound of someone entering the room caught her attention.

Glancing to the side, she saw Harry walking in, his hoodie replaced by a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. His tattoos were on full display now—intricate designs that wound up his forearm and disappeared under the sleeve of his shirt. He barely glanced at her as he moved to his mailbox, unlocking it with practiced ease.

Y/N swallowed her nerves and decided to seize the moment. It was better to make a proper introduction now than to let the awkwardness from last night linger. Turning slightly toward him, she cleared her throat.

“Hey, neighbor,” she began, keeping her tone light. “Figured I should introduce myself officially now that I’m not, you know, half-drunk and screaming karaoke at midnight. I’m Y/N.”

Harry turned his head, his green eyes locking onto hers. His expression was neutral, almost unreadable, as he gave her a quick once-over. “Harry,” he said simply, his voice low and clipped.

Y/N bit back a grin, determined not to let his gruff demeanor throw her off. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Sorry again about last night. I promise we don’t usually host impromptu concerts. Unless, of course, you’re a fan of boy band throwbacks.”

Harry let out a soft exhale that could’ve been a laugh—or just a sigh. “I’ll survive.”

Encouraged by the hint of amusement, Y/N decided to keep the conversation going. “You know, if you’re ever feeling nostalgic, you’re welcome to join us. We could use a fourth member for our extremely off-key girl group.”

Harry’s lips twitched slightly, but his expression remained mostly stoic. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Y/N tilted her head, giving him a mock-serious look. “You’re really hard to read, you know that? Most people at least chuckle at my jokes.”

Harry glanced at her, his gaze steady and calm. “Maybe I’m just not most people.”

For a moment, Y/N didn’t know how to respond. There was something almost challenging in his tone, but it wasn’t harsh. If anything, it piqued her curiosity even more.

“Well, Harry,” she said finally, flashing him a bright smile. “Challenge accepted. I’ll make you laugh one of these days.”

He didn’t respond right away, instead closing his mailbox and tucking the letters under his arm. As he moved to leave, he paused, looking over his shoulder.

“We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing there with her stack of mail and a strange mix of frustration and intrigue swirling in her chest. One thing was for sure—Harry might be grumpy, but he was far from boring.

As soon as Y/N got back to her apartment, she tossed her mail onto the counter and grabbed her phone, already smirking to herself. She opened the group chat with Harper and Lila, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

Y/N:

Guess who I just ran into in the mailroom?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with replies.

Lila:

Was it… oh, I don’t know… Mr. Grumpy Hot Neighbor?

Harper:

Harry! Tell us everything right now.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, typing out her reply.

Y/N:

Yes, it was Harry. I introduced myself properly. You know, as a fully functional adult and not a drunken mess.

Lila:

And? Did he swoon? Did he drop all his mail and propose on the spot?

Harper:

Or at least crack a smile?

Y/N sighed and leaned back against the counter, smirking to herself as she typed.

Y/N:

Absolutely not. He was… well, Harry. Polite but distant. He might’ve almost smiled, but I can’t be sure.

Lila:

Ugh, he’s really sticking to the mysterious moody thing. It’s so hot. What did you say to him?

Y/N:

I told him he was hard to read and said I’d make him laugh one day.

Harper:

Bold move, I love it. What did he say?

Y/N:

He said, ‘We’ll see about that.’

Lila:

STOP. That’s basically flirting.

Harper:

Right? That’s flirty! Subtle, broody flirting.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. It wasn’t flirting. He’s just… like that.

Lila:

Y/N, this is your rom-com moment, and you’re living in denial. Grumpy guy + sunshine girl is literally a trope for a reason.

Harper:

Exactly. Next step: get him to join us for karaoke.

Y/N:

Oh, sure, because he definitely seems like the kind of guy who wants to sing ‘Toxic’ with us.

Lila:

You never know. Maybe he has a secret karaoke voice that’ll blow us all away.

Y/N laughed to herself, shaking her head. Her friends were relentless, but she couldn’t deny that their enthusiasm made her smile. As much as she tried to brush off the encounter, she couldn’t stop replaying it in her head—the way Harry’s green eyes lingered just a second too long, the faintest hint of a smirk on his lips. 

It had been a couple of weeks since Y/N’s encounter with Harry in the mailroom, and she’d managed to push him to the back of her mind. Between work, friends, and her usual routine, she hadn’t bumped into him in the halls or around the building. Life went on, and the memory of his grumpy smirk became just another amusing anecdote to share with Harper and Lila.

Until one night.

Y/N was jolted awake by the blaring sound of the fire alarm. Disoriented and groggy, she stumbled out of bed and grabbed a sweatshirt, pulling it over her pajama tank top. She shoved her feet into sneakers, grabbed her phone, and headed for the door. The hallway was chaotic, filled with neighbors in various states of sleepiness and confusion, all heading for the exits.

Once outside, Y/N joined the crowd of residents gathering on the sidewalk. The chilly night air bit at her skin, and she crossed her arms to keep warm. She craned her neck, scanning the crowd to see if there was anyone she knew—until her eyes landed on a familiar figure leaning against a lamppost.

It was Harry. His hair was a mess, sticking out in every direction, and he wore a hoodie over loose sweatpants. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, which, to be fair, he probably had. His expression was pure exhaustion, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he yawned.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She made her way over, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. “Hey, neighbor,” she said, coming to a stop next to him.

Harry turned his head, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he registered her. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rough from sleep. “This is… unexpected.” He waved his hand around. 

She grinned, shifting her weight to one foot. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But hey, at least it’s the fire alarms being obnoxiously loud this time and not me.”

Harry’s lips twitched, and for a second, she thought she’d finally gotten him to crack a smile. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” he asked dryly.

“Never,” Y/N replied, a teasing lilt in her voice. “It’s too good of a story.”

Harry exhaled softly, almost like a laugh, and shook his head. “Fair enough.”

They stood in silence for a moment, watching as a fire truck pulled up and a couple of firefighters headed inside to investigate. The air was crisp and carried a faint chill, but Y/N barely noticed. She glanced at Harry out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you think it’s an actual fire?” she asked.

“Doubt it,” he said, crossing his arms. “Probably just someone burning their midnight snack.”

“Sounds like a riveting Saturday night,” Y/N joked, earning another small exhale from him.

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, glancing down at her. His gaze lingered for a moment, and Y/N could feel her cheeks warm, though she tried to play it cool.

“Well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “If it turns out to be a drill, I’m demanding a formal apology from management for ruining my beauty sleep.”

Harry’s lips quirked, just enough for her to notice. “I’m sure they’ll get right on that.”

For the first time, standing outside in the middle of the night with Harry didn’t feel awkward or forced. It was easy, natural even, despite his perpetually tired and broody demeanor. Maybe it was the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe her persistence was finally wearing him down.

Before either of them could say more, a firefighter emerged from the building, shouting to the crowd that it was a false alarm. People groaned, some laughing as they shuffled back toward the entrance.

Harry pushed off the lamppost and looked at Y/N. “Guess that’s our cue.”

“Looks like it,” she said. “Catch you later, Harry.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Night, Y/N.”

As she headed back to her apartment, Y/N couldn’t help but feel a small spark of satisfaction. Sure, he was still grumpy, but she was getting closer to breaking through. And honestly, she didn’t mind the challenge.

By the time Y/N woke up the next morning, she had already drafted the text she knew Harper and Lila would demand. Still half-asleep, she grabbed her phone and opened their group chat, typing out the full story in detail.

Y/N:

So… guess who I bumped into at 3 a.m. when the fire alarm went off?

It didn’t take long for her phone to buzz with rapid-fire responses.

Harper:

Oh my God. HARRY?

Lila:

Please tell me you were both standing there in your PJs like the meet-cute of the century.

Y/N:

 No, it wasn’t a meet-cute. We just talked. Very normal. Nothing groundbreaking.

Harper:

What did you talk about?

Y/N:

I made a joke about how this time it wasn’t me being loud, it was the fire alarm.

Lila:

YES. Classic Y/N. What did he say?

Y/N:

He just… smirked. Or sighed. I’m honestly not sure anymore. He’s so hard to read.

Harper:

Smirking counts as flirting. I’m logging it.

Lila:

Definitely flirting. He wouldn’t have smirked if he wasn’t secretly interested. Men don’t waste smirks on people they don’t like.

Y/N:

Or he was just tired and didn’t care enough to argue.

Harper:

Nope. Not buying it. He’s interested. He’s just grumpy interested.

Lila:

Exactly! Brooding types like him don’t wear their feelings on their sleeves, but trust me, he’s intrigued. You just need to keep working on him.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile.

Y/N:

You two are absolutely ridiculous. We talked for five minutes, tops. Nothing more, nothing less.

Harper:

Sure, keep telling yourself that.

Lila:

Face it, Y/N. This is your slow-burn romance, and we are here for it. We’re already planning the playlist for your wedding.

Y/N:

Oh my God. I can’t with you two.

Despite her protests, Y/N couldn’t stop replaying the interaction in her mind—the way his eyes lingered on her, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Harper and Lila were reading too much into it… weren’t they?

Shaking her head, Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She had no intention of indulging their wild theories. But deep down, a small, stubborn part of her couldn’t help but wonder. 

Y/N lay in bed, staring at the faint shadows cast by her bedside lamp on the ceiling. The city sounds outside her window were faint but constant—cars in the distance, the occasional murmur of voices. She’d been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, her brain refusing to shut off.

It didn’t help that every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was Harry.

It wasn’t intentional, or at least that’s what she told herself. She’d been trying to push him out of her mind all day, but now, in the stillness of the night, his image seemed to surface unbidden. The way his messy hair stuck out when she’d seen him by the mailboxes. The tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, the intricate designs winding across his arms like a story she desperately wanted to read.

And then there was his face—sharp jawline, green eyes that seemed to pierce through her defenses, and that faint smirk he’d given her last night when she’d cracked her fire alarm joke. It wasn’t a full smile, but it had been enough to spark something in her. Something she couldn’t quite shake.

She groaned, rolling onto her side and burying her face in her pillow. “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

But it was no use. She kept thinking about the way his voice sounded—low, calm, almost soothing in its quiet confidence. The way he seemed perpetually unimpressed but not unkind, like he was holding back a part of himself from the world. And the way, despite all that grumpiness, she felt drawn to him.

The worst part was that she barely even knew him. A few brief encounters, a handful of words exchanged—it wasn’t enough to warrant this level of overthinking. And yet, here she was, wide awake at 2 a.m., her thoughts spinning in circles around a guy who probably wasn’t thinking about her at all.

She sighed, flipping onto her back again and staring at the ceiling. “You’re losing it, Y/N,” she whispered into the dark.

But no matter how hard she tried to distract herself—counting sheep, replaying her favorite movie in her head, anything—her mind kept drifting back to Harry. How frustratingly attractive he was. How much she wanted to figure him out. And how, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she kind of liked the challenge.

The next afternoon, Y/N tied her apron around her waist and stepped onto the floor of the bustling Italian restaurant where she worked. The warm scent of garlic, fresh basil, and baking bread filled the air as the sounds of clinking silverware and cheerful conversations hummed around her. It was her favorite kind of shift—steady but not overwhelming, just busy enough to keep her energized.

She loved being a server. There was something satisfying about knowing the menu by heart, from the way the chef perfectly folded the handmade ravioli to the rich, velvety tiramisu that always left customers raving. She enjoyed the rhythm of it all: taking orders, making guests laugh, weaving between tables like she was part of a well-rehearsed dance.

By the time her shift ended, the sun was low in the sky, casting a soft golden glow over the city streets. Y/N slipped her bag over her shoulder, said goodbye to her coworkers, and began her short walk home.

The evening was warm, the kind of weather that made her glad she’d chosen this neighborhood to live in. She liked the convenience of being close to work, the charm of the old brick buildings, and the occasional vendor selling flowers or roasted nuts on the sidewalk.

But as she rounded the last corner toward her apartment building, the sky darkened suddenly. Heavy clouds rolled in overhead, and before she could process what was happening, the first fat drops of rain began to fall.

“Seriously?” Y/N muttered, looking up at the sky as if it might offer her an explanation. Within seconds, the light drizzle turned into a full-on downpour. She didn’t have an umbrella, of course—it had been sunny when she left for work—and now she was too far from the restaurant to go back.

She quickened her pace, pulling her bag closer to her body to shield it from the rain. Her hair was already plastered to her forehead, and her clothes clung to her as the rain soaked through. She groaned in frustration but couldn’t help laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

By the time her apartment building came into view, she was drenched. She jogged the last stretch, her sneakers splashing in puddles, and darted toward the lobby entrance. As she reached for the door, it opened from the inside—and there, standing in the doorway, was Harry.

Of course, it was Harry.

He was holding a takeout bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. His green eyes widened slightly when he saw her, taking in her rain-soaked appearance.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice dry but laced with faint amusement.

Y/N brushed a wet strand of hair out of her face, shaking water from her arms. “You could say that. Apparently, the weather decided I needed a shower.”

Harry stepped back, holding the door open for her. “You’re dripping everywhere.”

“Thanks for the observation,” Y/N said with a wry smile as she stepped inside, water pooling around her feet. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded toward the elevators. “You should probably get upstairs before you flood the lobby.”

“Wow, you’re so thoughtful,” she teased, her sarcasm barely masking the warmth in her voice.

Harry didn’t reply, but his lips twitched like he was holding back a comment. He stepped aside, letting her pass, and as Y/N headed toward the elevator, she couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder. He was still standing by the door, his attention now on the rain outside, but she could’ve sworn she caught him sneaking a glance at her as she walked away.

Y/N stepped into her apartment, water dripping onto the floor as she kicked off her soaked sneakers. She stripped off her rain-soaked clothes and tossed them into the laundry basket before heading straight to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower was bliss, washing away the chill of the rain and the lingering frustration of getting caught in it. By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy towel, her skin was warm and her mind was clearer.

Slipping into her favorite pair of soft pajamas—shorts and an oversized t-shirt—she towel-dried her hair and grabbed her phone from the counter. She hadn’t checked it since leaving work, and the screen lit up with a few notifications. Most were unimportant, but one text made her freeze.

Unknown Number:

Hey, it’s Harry. Got your number from the resident book. Hope that’s okay. I, uh, ordered way too much food. If you’re not busy and don’t mind eating with someone who’s terrible at small talk, you’re welcome to join me.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry had texted her? She stared at the message, rereading it a couple of times, unsure what to make of it. The grumpy, brooding neighbor had gone out of his way to invite her over for dinner?

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she thought about what to say. She could easily come up with an excuse, blame the rain, or even politely decline. But something about his message—how he’d gone through the trouble of looking up her number and even made a self-deprecating joke—made her hesitate.

Finally, she started typing.

Y/N:

Hey! I’m surprised you didn’t mention how loud I was running through the lobby earlier. I’d love to join, but fair warning: I’m in my pajamas. I’ll bring wine to make up for it.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself and immediately got up to rummage through her small wine rack. She picked out a bottle of red, grabbed her favorite corkscrew, and texted him again.

Y/N:

Give me five minutes to make myself look less like a wet dog.

His response came almost instantly.

Harry:

I wouldn’t have said anything about the lobby, but now that you’ve brought it up… five minutes works. Apartment 4D.

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. She quickly towel-dried her hair a little more, tossed it into a loose bun, and grabbed the wine. As she stood by her door, nerves fluttered in her stomach, but she pushed them aside.

Whatever this was—neighborly dinner, an olive branch, or something else—she was curious enough to find out.

Y/N stepped out of her apartment, the bottle of wine in hand, and made her way to the elevator. As she descended a floor, her nerves started to tingle, though she shook them off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just dinner with her neighbor. Her very attractive, grumpy neighbor with tattoos and a British accent. Nothing to overthink at all.

When she reached Harry’s door, she raised her hand to knock—but before she could, the door swung open. Harry stood there, leaning casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised.

“I could hear you coming down the hall,” he said, his tone dry but his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

Y/N let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I’ll take that as your way of saying you’re happy to see me.”

“Something like that,” he replied, stepping aside to let her in.

Y/N walked in, glancing around as she entered. Harry’s apartment was similar in layout to hers but had an entirely different vibe. The walls were painted a deep, moody gray, with shelves lined with books, records, and a few small plants that looked suspiciously well cared for. A guitar rested in the corner by the window, and the faint smell of takeout wafted from the small kitchen.

“Nice place,” she said, setting the wine on the counter. “Very… broody chic. Fits you.”

Harry arched a brow as he closed the door. “Broody chic? Is that a compliment?”

“Depends how you take it,” Y/N shot back with a grin.

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he moved toward the kitchen. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have overestimated how much I can eat on my own.”

She followed him, glancing at the spread on the counter. There were containers of what looked like Thai food—pad thai, green curry, fried rice, and spring rolls. Definitely enough for two, if not three.

“You weren’t kidding,” she said, grabbing a spring roll. “Planning on feeding the whole building?”

“Only the loudest resident,” he said, smirking again.

She gave him a playful glare before grabbing plates from the counter and handing him one. “Lucky for you, I came prepared,” she said, holding up the wine. “This should balance things out.”

As they settled at the small table, Y/N couldn’t help but notice how relaxed Harry seemed. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something softer about him tonight. Less guarded. And as they started eating, trading sarcastic comments and occasional small talk, she realized she didn’t mind the challenge of cracking through his tough exterior one bit.

Harry handed Y/N two wine glasses, their fingers brushing briefly as she took them. He didn’t say anything, but his lips moved slightly as if he was trying not to smirk. Y/N poured the wine, filling each glass just enough before sliding one over to him.

Meanwhile, he plated the food, carefully dividing the dishes between two plates. His movements were deliberate, almost methodical, and Y/N found herself watching him for a moment before realizing what she was doing. Shaking herself out of it, she grabbed her glass and followed him to the bar counter.

They sat side by side, the warm glow of the pendant light above them casting a cozy atmosphere. Y/N took a sip of her wine, her gaze flicking to Harry as he started eating in silence.

For a while, she stayed quiet, enjoying the food and the unspoken rhythm of their shared meal. But her curiosity got the better of her. Setting her glass down, she turned toward him slightly, resting her elbow on the counter.

“So,” she began, her tone light but probing, “why are you always so grumpy?”

Harry paused mid-bite, his fork hovering over his plate as he looked at her. His green eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but as if he were trying to decide how serious she was.

“Grumpy?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, grumpy,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “You know, the whole emo, barely-smiling, ‘I don’t have time for your nonsense’ vibe you’ve got going on. Is it like… your thing?”

Harry leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his wine as he considered her question. “Maybe I’m not grumpy,” he said finally, his voice calm. “Maybe you’re just too… cheerful.”

“Cheerful?” she echoed, laughing softly. “That’s your explanation? I’m cheerful, so that automatically makes you grumpy?”

“Something like that,” he said, his lips quirking into the faintest smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. “You’re deflecting.”

He raised his glass, meeting her gaze over the rim as he took another sip. “Maybe.”

“Come on,” she pressed, leaning in slightly. “There’s got to be a reason. I mean, you’re not actuallymiserable all the time, are you?”

Harry sighed, setting his glass down and leaning his forearms on the counter. For a moment, he seemed to be debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he shrugged.

“I’m not grumpy,” he said, his voice quieter. “I just… don’t see the point in pretending all the time. People put on this front like everything’s great, but most of the time, it’s not. I’m just… honest about it.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. There was something in his tone—something unspoken but heavy, like he was revealing more than he intended.

“Well,” she said softly, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think being happy is the same as pretending. And I’m not pretending.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “I noticed,” he said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Then Y/N picked up her glass and raised it toward him.

“To being honest,” she said with a small smile.

Harry’s eyes flicked to her glass before he picked up his own, clinking it against hers. “To being honest,” he echoed.

And for the first time that evening, his smirk softened into something closer to a smile.

Harry swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the deep red liquid for a moment before setting it down and looking at Y/N. His expression was more open now, his usual guarded demeanor softened.

“You seem nice enough,” he said, his tone casual but sincere. “I could use a friend around here.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the admission. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. Then a warm smile spread across her face.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” she said, her voice light with humor. “I thought for sure you hated me after the whole karaoke fiasco.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching in amusement. “Hated you? No. Annoyed, maybe. But hate’s a strong word.”

“Good to know,” Y/N said, laughing softly. “Because I was convinced you’d written me off as the world’s loudest neighbor.”

“I’ll admit,” Harry said, smirking now, “the karaoke was… a lot. But it’s hard to hate someone who sings ‘I Want It That Way’ with that much enthusiasm.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing harder. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you remember the song. That’s so embarrassing.”

“It’s unforgettable,” he said with mock seriousness, taking another sip of wine.

When her laughter died down, Y/N looked at him, her expression softening. “For what it’s worth, I’d be happy to be your friend. You don’t seem as scary as you pretend to be.”

“Scary?” Harry echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah,” she teased. “You’ve got the whole ‘grumpy lone wolf’ thing going on. It’s a little intimidating.”

Harry shook his head, but there was a faint smile on his face. “I’m not scary.”

“No,” Y/N said, grinning. “You’re not. You’re just… Harry.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on her for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Finally, he nodded, his tone soft but certain. “Yeah. Just Harry.”

As they continued eating, the conversation grew lighter, the initial tension between them fading into something comfortable. By the time they finished their meal, Y/N realized that beneath Harry’s gruff exterior was someone she genuinely wanted to know better. And judging by the way his smirk had softened into something warmer, she suspected he felt the same.

After finishing their plates, Harry leaned back in his chair, resting his forearm on the bar counter as he glanced at Y/N. There was a comfortable silence between them, one she hadn’t expected when she first showed up at his door.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said finally, his tone quieter but sincere. “I don’t usually… do this.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, swirling her wine in her glass. “What? Order too much food or invite people over?”

He smirked faintly, shaking his head. “The second one. I’m not exactly the ‘neighborly dinner’ type.”

“Well, I feel special then,” she teased, tilting her head at him. “Although, if you’re not usually this social, why’d you invite me? I mean, not that I’m complaining.”

Harry shrugged, glancing down at his glass. “You seemed… different. I don’t know. Most people I meet just seem fake, like they’re putting on a show. But you’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Real.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the raw honesty of his words. “Oh,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, thanks. I think.”

“I mean it,” Harry added, looking at her directly now. “You’re… not what I expected when I moved here. In a good way.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, and she tried to play it off with humor. “Careful, Harry. You’re starting to sound like you actually like me.”

“Don’t push it,” he said with a smirk, though his eyes were softer than usual.

They fell into another comfortable silence, sipping their wine and letting the moment stretch out. Y/N felt herself relax more with each passing second, realizing how easy it was to be around him now that some of his walls had come down.

After a moment, she broke the quiet. “You know, for someone who claims not to be social, you’re pretty good company.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” she said, her grin widening. “You should let yourself be social more often. You might surprise yourself.”

He scoffed softly, shaking his head. “One step at a time.”

They shared a small laugh, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel like this was a turning point. Whatever Harry had been holding back before, he was letting her in now, even if only a little. It felt… nice.

Eventually, she glanced at her phone and realized how late it had gotten. “I should probably head back,” she said, setting her empty wine glass down. “I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

Harry stood as she got up, shaking his head. “You haven’t. But… thanks for coming. I mean it.”

She smiled, grabbing the bottle of wine. “Anytime, Harry.”

As she walked to the door, he followed her, leaning casually against the frame as she turned back to face him. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at her, a softness she wasn’t used to seeing from him.

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice lighter now.

“Night, Y/N,” he replied, his smirk returning.

She headed back to her apartment, her heart unexpectedly lighter. Maybe Harry wasn’t as grumpy as he seemed—or maybe she was just getting used to it. Either way, she found herself smiling as she closed her door behind her. And for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t overthinking anything.

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sunlight filtering through her blinds and a faint smile lingering on her lips. The night before with Harry had been… unexpected, but not in a bad way. She stretched, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and immediately opened her group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

So, guess what? Harry invited me over for dinner last night.

It didn’t take long for her phone to explode with notifications.

Lila:

WHAT. DETAILS NOW.

Harper:

DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!

Y/N rolled her eyes, her cheeks warming despite being alone.

Y/N:

No, I didn’t sleep with him. Calm down.

Lila:

Boring. But continue.

Harper:

Okay, but like, did it feel like it was going there?

Y/N:

No! It wasn’t like that. He said he had too much food and could use a friend, so I brought wine, and we had dinner. That’s it.

Lila:

You brought wine. That’s a date move.

Harper:

Right? Totally a date.

Y/N:

It wasn’t a date. We ate at his bar counter, talked a little, and that’s all. But…

Lila:

BUT WHAT?!

Harper:

Spill, Y/N. Don’t make us beg.

Y/N sighed, biting her lip as she typed out her next message.

Y/N:

Okay, fine. I wouldn’t mind if something happened, but it’s not like I know much about him. I don’t even know what he does for work.

Lila:

Oh my God. You want to bang the mysterious, tattooed neighbor. I KNEW IT.

Harper:

This is your grumpy/sunshine romance, and we are living for it.

Y/N:

You two are ridiculous. I’m just saying he’s attractive, okay? That doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.

Lila:

It’ll happen. The sexual tension alone is probably unbearable.

Harper:

Agreed. You just need to ask him questions about himself. What he does for work, what his favorite food is, if he’s single—

Lila:

Definitely ask the last one. For research purposes.

Y/N groaned, shaking her head but smiling despite herself.

Y/N:

You two are impossible. But fine, if the opportunity comes up, I’ll try to find out more about him. Happy?

Harper:

Ecstatic.

Lila:

Can’t wait to hear how this unfolds. We’re already planning the wedding playlist.

Y/N laughed, tossing her phone onto the bed. Her friends were relentless, but they weren’t wrong about one thing—she was curious about Harry. And as much as she tried to deny it, she wouldn’t mind getting to know him better… or seeing where this strange connection between them might lead.

Later that month Y/N walked into her apartment after a long day, expecting the usual cozy warmth to greet her. Instead, an icy chill hit her the moment she stepped inside. She frowned, rubbing her arms and heading straight for the thermostat. She fiddled with it for a minute, but no matter what she did, the heater refused to turn on.

“Great,” she muttered, pulling her jacket tighter around her shoulders. It wasn’t unbearably cold outside, but inside her apartment, it felt like a freezer.

With no other options, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She didn’t know many people in the building—just Harry, really. And as much as she hesitated, her fingers hovered over his name before she finally sent a text.

Y/N:

Hey, random question. Do you happen to have a small heater or something I can borrow? My heater’s broken, and it’s freezing in here.

A few minutes later, her phone buzzed.

Harry:

Why don’t you just stay here tonight? I’ve got heat, and I don’t own a portable heater.

Y/N stared at the message, her heart skipping a beat. She hadn’t expected that. Borrowing something was one thing, but staying at his place? She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the screen. Before she could overthink it, she typed out a response.

Y/N:

Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

His reply was quick.

Harry:

You’re not intruding. Besides, it’s better than you freezing to death in your apartment. Bring whatever you need.

She bit her lip, a mix of nerves and curiosity swirling in her chest. Finally, she grabbed a bag and threw in some essentials—pajamas, a toothbrush, and a few other things—before bundling up and heading out.

When she reached his door, she knocked softly. It opened almost immediately, and there was Harry, leaning against the frame with his usual calm demeanor.

“Figured you’d take me up on the offer,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

“Yeah, well, hypothermia didn’t sound appealing,” Y/N replied with a small smile, brushing past him into the warmth of his apartment.

As she set her bag down by the couch, she glanced at him. “Thanks for this, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

He shrugged, closing the door. “No problem. It’s just one night.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Wow, Harry. That almost sounded like you’re happy to have me here.”

He gave her a dry look but didn’t respond, instead gesturing toward the couch. “You can take the couch if you want, or I can grab some extra blankets for the guest room.”

She looked at the couch, then back at him. “Guest room? You have a guest room?”

“Barely,” he said with a shrug. “It’s more of a storage room, but there’s a bed in there.”

“Well, as long as it’s warmer than my apartment, I’ll take it.”

Harry nodded, heading toward the hallway. “I’ll grab some blankets.”

As Harry disappeared down the hallway to grab blankets, Y/N called after him, her voice light and teasing. “By the way, I brought some wine as a thank-you! You know, for saving me from my frozen wasteland of an apartment.”

She heard him chuckle faintly, his voice drifting back from the other room. “Thoughtful of you. What kind?”

“Red. A classic, nothing too fancy,” she replied, smirking as she started to take the bottle out of her bag. “Figured you’d prefer something a little understated, given your whole ‘mysterious and broody’ vibe.”

Harry reappeared in the doorway, carrying a thick blanket over one shoulder. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I think you enjoy calling me broody a little too much.”

“Well, it fits,” she shot back, grinning. “Speaking of which, I realized something earlier—I don’t even know what you do for work. So, enlighten me, oh mysterious one. What is it that you do?”

Harry paused for a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I own an art gallery,” he said simply, setting the blanket on the couch.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “You own an art gallery?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning casually against the back of the couch. “Small place over in Silver Lake. Nothing flashy, just local artists and smaller exhibitions.”

She stared at him, her curiosity piqued. “I didn’t see that coming.”

“What did you see coming?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, laughing softly. “Something more… I don’t know, corporate? Like sitting at a desk all day and brooding at spreadsheets.”

Harry actually laughed at that, a low, warm sound that surprised her. “Sorry to disappoint. No spreadsheets involved.”

“No, it’s not disappointing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s just… unexpected. I mean, you own an art gallery. That’s cool. Artistic and grumpy? You’re full of surprises, Harry.”

He shook his head, but there was a faint warmth in his expression, like her enthusiasm had caught him off guard. “It’s just a business.”

“Just a business?” she repeated, tilting her head. “Don’t undersell yourself. That’s impressive.”

He looked at her for a moment, his gaze steady. “Thanks.”

They fell into a brief silence, and Y/N felt the air shift slightly. It wasn’t awkward—if anything, it felt… comfortable. She gestured to the wine. “So, should we open this or what?”

Harry nodded, stepping into the kitchen to grab two glasses. “Why not? You’re my guest, after all.”

As he poured the wine, Y/N couldn’t help but think that for someone who seemed so guarded at first, Harry was slowly becoming an open book—one she was eager to keep reading.

Y/N leaned against the counter, swirling her glass of wine as she watched Harry pour his own. “So, how did you end up owning an art gallery?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I mean, that’s not exactly the most common career path.”

Harry took a sip of his wine, his gaze thoughtful as he set the glass down. “I’ve always loved art. Painting, sketching… that sort of thing. But it’s not exactly the easiest way to make a living.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the struggle. “So, the gallery was a way to stay involved in the art world?”

“Something like that,” he said, leaning his hip against the counter. “I came into some money after my mom passed a few years ago. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was enough to make me think about what I really wanted to do. I didn’t want to sit in an office or work for someone else. I wanted something that felt… personal. The gallery felt like the right choice.”

“That’s incredible,” Y/N said, her voice soft. “I mean, turning something you love into a business? Not many people can say they’ve done that.”

Harry shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “It has its challenges, but I don’t regret it.”

Y/N smiled at him, feeling a new layer of respect for her neighbor. After a moment, he tilted his head, his eyes flicking to her. “What about you? What do you do?”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Oh, nothing nearly as impressive as you,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a server. I work at an Italian restaurant a few blocks from here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was holding back a laugh. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, frowning.

“Like it’s nothing. You said you’re ‘just’ a server,” he said, taking another sip of his wine. “You’re in food service, right? That’s an art in itself. Just… a different kind.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his perspective. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

He nodded, gesturing with his glass. “Think about it. You’re part of creating an experience for people. The way the food’s presented, the way you interact with customers—it’s all part of the artistry. Doesn’t matter if it’s a painting on a wall or a plate of pasta. It’s still something people connect with.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over her. “That’s… actually really nice of you to say.”

“It’s true,” Harry said simply, his green eyes meeting hers. “Stop selling yourself short.”

She smiled, feeling unexpectedly lighter. “Thanks, Harry. I guess I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time someone complains about their breadsticks not being warm enough.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “Breadsticks or not, it sounds like you’re good at what you do.”

Y/N sipped her wine, the corners of her lips curving up. 

Y/N swirled the wine in her glass, glancing at Harry over the rim. She hesitated for a moment, then decided to push the conversation a little further. “You know,” she began, her voice softer now, “you have a really nice way of thinking about things. The way you look at art, even food… it’s kind of impressive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter with an amused expression. “Is that your way of saying I’m not just a grumpy neighbor?”

“Maybe,” she said with a small grin, her tone almost teasing. “But seriously, you’ve got a smart mind, Harry. You see things in a way most people don’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, his green eyes studying her as if trying to figure out her angle. “Are you flirting with me, Y/N?”

She laughed, feeling her cheeks flush slightly. “And if I was?”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smirk, but he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze never leaving hers. “Then I’d say it’s about time you stopped pretending you find me intimidating.”

“I never said you intimidate me,” she shot back, her grin widening. “I said you have a grumpy vibe. Totally different.”

“Right,” he said, his tone dry but his smirk giving him away. “Good to know I’m not scaring you off.”

“Not even close,” Y/N replied, her voice confident now. She leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her hand as she looked at him. “You’re not as scary as you think, Harry. In fact, I think you’re kind of… interesting.”

Harry chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

“Right back at you,” she said, her gaze warm.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful banter was still there, but beneath it was something quieter, something unspoken. Y/N didn’t know what exactly was happening, but she wasn’t in a hurry to break the moment.

Harry finally set his glass down, his expression softening just slightly. “Careful, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement. “You keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like having me around.”

“Maybe I do,” she said simply, holding his gaze.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and for the first time, he didn’t deflect her comment. Instead, he just looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. Y/N felt her heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t look away.

The mood in the room shifted as Harry leaned forward, his green eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down Y/N's spine. 

He tilted his head slightly, his voice low and teasing as he said, "You wouldn't be able to handle me."

Her breath caught, but she wasn't about to let him have the last word.

 "Try me," she challenged, her voice steady but laced with anticipation.

Harry's eyes darkened, the playful smirk on his lips giving way to something deeper, something more raw. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and placed his hand lightly on her throat-not gripping, just resting, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. The warmth of his touch made her heart race, and she felt her breath hitch as he leaned in closer.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to disappear, the only sound her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. Then, without another word, Harry closed the gap between them, capturing her lips in a deep, searing kiss.

It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't rushed either-it was deliberate, like he'd been holding himself back and was finally letting go. His lips moved against hers with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, and Y/N melted into the kiss, her hand instinctively reaching out to grip the edge of the counter for balance.

She kissed him back just as fervently, tilting her head to deepen the connection. His fingers slid from her throat to the back of her neck, pulling her closer as though he couldn't get enough of her. The heat between them was undeniable, and in that moment, nothing else mattered-not the chill of her broken heater, not the wine, not the playful banter that had led them here.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their foreheads nearly touching. Harry's green eyes searched hers, and for once, his usual guarded expression was nowhere to be found.

"Still think I can't handle you?" Y/N whispered, her voice a little breathless but tinged with humor.

Harry smirked, his hand still lingering at the nape of her neck. 

"Guess I underestimated you," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "But l'm not done yet.”

Harry's hand slid down from Y/N's neck to her wrist, his grip firm but careful as he led her through his apartment toward his bedroom.

Her heart pounded in anticipation, her breath catching when he opened the door and gently but deliberately pushed her onto the bed.

Y/N gasped softly, propping herself up on her elbows as she looked up at him. The intensity in his green eyes made her pulse race, and the energy between them was electric, the room feeling heavier with every passing second.

Harry stepped closer, his movements slow and controlled, like he was savoring the moment.

He placed a hand on her throat again, this time with a gentle but deliberate squeeze that sent a shiver down her spine. His thumb brushed along her jawline as he leaned in, his voice low and commanding.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he asked, his tone dripping with authority and heat.

Y/N's breath hitched as she nodded slowly, unable to look away from his piercing gaze.

Her voice was caught somewhere in her throat, so she let her actions speak for her, tilting her head slightly into his touch.

Harry smirked, leaning down until his lips were just a breath away from her ear. His voice dropped even lower, a whisper that made her skin prickle with anticipation.

"I knew you would be," he murmured, his tone both teasing and possessive.

The words sent a jolt through her, and she felt her body react instinctively, her cheeks flushing as she surrendered to the moment.

Harry's lips brushed against the corner of her jaw, trailing down her neck as his hand stayed firmly but gently in place. Every movement felt deliberate, like he wanted her to feel every second of his attention.

Whatever control Y/N thought she had going into this was slipping fast, and the way Harry's touch consumed her made it clear—he knew it, too.

Harry paused, his intense green eyes meeting Y/N’s as he leaned over her. His hand lingered on her throat, his grip light but enough to hold her attention completely. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, didn’t move any closer. He just looked at her, his gaze softening slightly, as if he were silently asking her a question.

It wasn’t just a look—it was a pause, a chance for her to stop him if she wanted to. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now open and searching, silently asking for her consent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she looked back at him, feeling the weight of his unspoken question. She swallowed, her breath shallow as she gave him the answer he was waiting for. Slowly, purposely, she nodded.

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, a mixture of relief and satisfaction crossing his face. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with an edge of tenderness.

He leaned down again, his lips brushing hers as his hand on her throat tightened just slightly, enough to make her feel both safe and completely at his mercy. And as the space between them disappeared, Y/N felt herself giving in fully, her trust in him unwavering.

Harry's piercing gaze never left Y/N's face, his touch as light as a butterfly's wings. He slowly pulled her to the edge, his hands on her hips. The soft rustle of sheets filled the room as she sank into the bedding, eyes darting up to meet his.

Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him undoing his pants, revealing his hardness beneath. She gulped audibly as he climbed onto the bed with her, their bodies pressed together from chest to knees. His hand trailed down her side, stopping just above her thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. His touch sent shivers of anticipation up and down her spine.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered against her earlobe, his hot breath causing goosebumps to form on her skin.

She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before whispering back, "I want you to take control."

Harry's smirk was both predatory and reassuring as he nodded once in understanding. His hand slid underneath her shirt, tracing patterns across her stomach before moving higher till it reached its destination: her lacy black bra. He palmed one of her breasts through the fabric, eliciting a moan from deep within her throat that echoed around them. His thumb circled her nipple roughly, making it harden into a tight bud underneath his touch.

His lips followed suit, kissing along her jawline and trailing down towards that erect nipple. He flicked it with his tongue teasingly while simultaneously tug

His smile was wicked as he leaned back, a glint in his eye. "Is that so?" He trailed kisses down her neck, his stubble grazing against her sensitive skin, making her shudder with pleasure. His hand slid between their bodies and brushed against her center, indulging in the wetness there. She gasped at the sensation, arching into his touch.

"You're so ready for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He pushed her shorts aside and slid one finger inside her slowly, feeling the tightness surrounding him. Y/N moaned softly, her hips grinding against his hand in encouragement.

Harry removed his finger, teasing her as he lowered his head to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He growled softly against her skin, sucking gently as he began to thrust two fingers inside her in short, quick motions that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. She cried out softly, gripping the sheets beneath her as he continued his ministrations. He quickly undressed her and stared at her body. Y/N felt hot under his eyes. 

They quickly lost themselves in each other's touches. The squeak of the bedframe echoed in the room as Harry positioned himself at her entrance and pushed inside her slowly. She gasped at the fullness but welcomed it, urging him on with a nod of encouragement.

He slowed down, taking deep breaths to regain control as he braced himself above her. "Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked hoarsely, gaze locked onto hers.

Y/N nodded fiercely, signaling him to continue. With a low growl of approval, he began moving inside her slowly but steadily, their 

bodies meeting in a dance of desire. Every thrust sent ripples of pleasure through them both, their skin slick with sweat under the dim light of the bedside lamp. The air was thick with an almost palpable tension as they moved together, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room.

Harry's grip on her hips tightened, his rhythm becoming faster and harder, mirroring the desire that flared in his eyes. Y/N met him stroke for stroke, their eyes locked on each other as if they were the only two people in the room. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the silence beneath the duvet, broken only by their heavy breathing and soft moans.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulders as she neared her climax, his name falling from her lips in a whispered plea. Without missing a beat, he quickened his pace, his cock driving into her with urgency. Their connection was intense, overwhelming, everything she could have asked for and more.

As she cried out in ecstasy beneath him, feeling her orgasm wash over her like a wave, Harry followed close behind. His body tensed as he groaned loudly, filling her with his warmth and love. Their hearts raced in unison as they finally collapsed onto each other, panting heavily but content.

He rolled off her slowly, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead before rolling onto his back beside her. 

Harry lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he looked down at Y/N. His green eyes were softer now, a flicker of mischief dancing in them as he smirked. 

"So," he said, his voice low and teasing, "are you going to text your little girl chat and tell them we fucked?" Y/N let out a surprised laugh, turning her head to look at him. 

"What? No! They'd never let me live it down."

Harry raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. 

"You should. Tell them the hot, mysterious guy was really grumpy the whole time."Y/N laughed even harder, covering her face with her hand. 

"Oh, right. That'll really sell it. 'Hey, girls, just an FYl, my grumpy neighbor is not only hot but also excellent in bed. Highly recommend.'"

Harry chuckled, his grin widening. "Not bad. Make sure you add in the part about how I stayed in character the whole time-grumpy and all."

She rolled her eyes, still smiling as she nudged him playfully. "Fine. I'll throw in that your scowl is even sexier up close. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," he said dryly, though the amused glint in his eyes gave him away. YN shook her head, the laughter subsiding into a warm smile.

 "You know," she said, her tone softening, "you might be mysterious and grumpy, but you're also a little cocky. Just saying."

Harry leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Maybe," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "But I think you like it."

Her cheeks flushed as she looked up at him, biting back a grin. "Maybe I do."

"Good," he said simply, before capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss that made her forget about everything else-including her friends waiting for updates in the group chat.

The week passed in a blur of near-misses and brief encounters between Y/N and Harry. She saw him in the mailroom once, where he gave her a small nod and the faintest hint of a smirk before disappearing upstairs. Another time, they crossed paths in the hallway, exchanging quick hellos but nothing more.

Neither of them brought up the night they spent together, and while Y/N tried to brush it off as a casual hookup, part of her couldn’t help but wonder if he was deliberately avoiding the topic. She didn’t want to push, figuring Harry would open up if and when he was ready.

Then, one evening, as she was curled up on her couch with a glass of wine and her laptop, her phone buzzed with a text.

Harry:

Hey. Sorry I’ve been so distant this week. The gallery is getting ready for a new showing, and it’s been… a lot.

Y/N stared at the message for a moment, her stomach fluttering. She hadn’t expected him to reach out, let alone apologize.

Y/N:

Hey, no worries. I figured you were busy. New showing sounds exciting though!

A moment later, her phone buzzed again.

Harry:

It is. Stressful, but worth it. You should come by. It’s this Saturday night. Bring your friends if you want.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Harry inviting her to his gallery? That felt… significant.

Y/N:

I’d love to. Are you sure you want me to bring my friends? They’re a little… loud.

Harry:

If they’re anything like you, I’m already prepared for chaos.

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

Y/N:

Fair warning: chaos is guaranteed. But I’ll be there.

Harry:

Good. I’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Y/N set her phone down, a small smile tugging at her lips. For all of Harry’s grumpiness and guarded demeanor, this felt like his way of extending an olive branch—a step toward something more. And she couldn’t deny that the idea of seeing him in his element, at the gallery, intrigued her.

She grabbed her phone again and opened the group chat with Harper and Lila.

Y/N:

Ladies, clear your schedules for Saturday night. We’re going to an art gallery.

Predictably, her phone exploded with responses almost immediately.

Lila:

Wait, is this Harry’s gallery?

Harper:

The grumpy tattooed neighbor has an art gallery?

Y/N:

Yes. He invited me. And before you ask—no, we’re not talking about the other night.

Lila:

Boring. But fine, we’re in. Is there wine?

Harper:

And snacks?

Y/N:

I’ll ask. But behave yourselves. He already thinks I’m loud.

Lila:

Oh, honey, we’re just getting started.

Y/N laughed, already imagining the chaos her friends would inevitably bring. But deep down, she was looking forward to Saturday more than she cared to admit. 

The week crawled by as Saturday approached, each day slower than the last. Y/N found herself obsessing over small details—whether Harry would be too busy to notice her, what kind of people attended art gallery showings, and most importantly, what to wear. She wanted to look effortlessly put-together, like someone who appreciated art but wasn’t trying too hard.

By Saturday afternoon, her room was a battlefield of discarded outfits. Finally, she settled on a sleek black jumpsuit paired with a cropped denim jacket and ankle boots—stylish but not over the top. She added a few gold accessories and a swipe of lipstick before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

On the way to Silver Lake, she picked up Harper and Lila, who were already buzzing with excitement when they climbed into the car.

“You look hot,” Lila said, eyeing her outfit. “Very ‘I like art but I’m too cool to talk about it.’”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, laughing as she started the car. “I’m going for low-key, not intimidating.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Harper chimed in, adjusting her blazer. 

Y/N glanced at them in the rearview mirror, grinning. Harper wore a bold red jumpsuit, while Lila had opted for a metallic skirt and leather jacket. 

By the time they pulled into Silver Lake, the sun had set, and the neighborhood was alive with energy. The gallery came into view, its windows glowing warmly against the evening sky. People were milling about on the sidewalk, chatting in small groups with glasses of wine in hand, while others filtered in and out of the bustling space.

“This is it,” Y/N said, parking the car and taking a deep breath.

“It’s so fancy,” Lila said, practically bouncing in her seat. “Look at all these people!”

Harper leaned forward, peering out the window. “I’m already picturing Harry brooding in a corner, glaring at anyone who talks too loud.”

“Probably,” Y/N muttered, her heart fluttering as she got out of the car. She grabbed her bag and adjusted her jacket before turning to her friends. “Okay, let’s not embarrass me too much, yeah?”

“No promises,” Harper said with a grin, looping her arm through Y/N’s as they headed toward the gallery entrance.

Inside, the space was even more vibrant. The walls were adorned with bold, eclectic pieces of art—paintings, sculptures, and mixed-media pieces that immediately drew attention. Soft music played in the background, and servers wove through the crowd with trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The hum of conversation filled the air, blending with the occasional burst of laughter.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room, searching for Harry. She didn’t spot him right away, but she noticed how carefully curated the space felt—each piece arranged with intention. It was a reflection of him, she realized, meticulous and thoughtful.

“This is amazing,” Harper said, grabbing a glass of wine from a passing server. “He really knows what he’s doing.”

Lila nudged Y/N. “Speaking of, where is Mr. Grumpy Art Dealer? I want to see him in his element.”

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, glancing around again. “He’s probably—”

Before she could finish, her gaze landed on him. Harry stood near the back of the room, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showcasing his tattoos. He was talking to a small group of people, but his eyes flicked toward her as if he could feel her presence.

Their gazes locked for a moment, and he gave her a subtle nod before turning back to his conversation. Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, and she felt Lila squeeze her arm.

“Oh, he definitely saw you,” Lila said, grinning. “And I’m not imagining the way he looked at you.”

“Stop,” Y/N hissed, her cheeks flushing. But she couldn’t deny it—there was something in his gaze that felt personal, even in the middle of the crowd.

“Go say hi,” Harper urged, giving her a nudge.

“Not yet,” Y/N said, grabbing a glass of wine for herself. “I’ll wait until he’s free. Let’s just look around first.”

As they wandered through the gallery, admiring the artwork, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Harry’s eyes were on her—even when she wasn’t looking his way.

Y/N wandered through the gallery, sipping her wine as she admired the artwork. Each piece was so different—some abstract, others intricate and detailed—but all of them carried a sense of purpose. It was easy to see that Harry had a good eye for curating.

She glanced across the room and saw Harper and Lila chatting animatedly with a group of women, likely bonding over their outfits or the wine. Typical, she thought with a smile, shaking her head.

As she moved to the next painting—a striking piece of layered colors and textures—she felt someone step up beside her. There was a shift in the air, a quiet presence that made her turn her head.

It was Harry.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the painting. His black shirt, with the sleeves still rolled up, contrasted sharply against the warm tones of the art, and his tattoos seemed to blend seamlessly into the aesthetic of the space.

“It’s acrylic and resin,” he said, his voice low but steady. “The artist used palette knives for the texture and then poured resin over it to give it that shine. Took weeks to cure properly.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard for a moment before she found her words. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, turning her attention back to the piece. “I love the depth in it. It feels like you could reach in and get lost.”

Harry glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That’s the idea. The artist wanted it to feel immersive, like stepping into an emotional landscape.”

She looked at him, her curiosity piqued. “Do you know all the details of every piece in here?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted, his smirk growing. “Part of the job. I like to understand the process—it helps me connect with the artists and explain it to people who come through.”

Y/N smiled, sipping her wine. “It’s impressive. You’ve created something really special here.”

Harry looked at her again, his green eyes studying her for a moment. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “It means a lot, coming from you.”

She tilted her head, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Why me?”

He shrugged slightly, his gaze flicking back to the painting. “Because you actually look at the art. Most people just see it, but you’re trying to understand it.”

Her cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, and she turned back to the painting to hide her flustered expression. “Well, you make it hard not to appreciate it. The way you talk about it… it’s obvious how much you care.”

He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between them felt comfortable, almost intimate. Finally, he leaned in just slightly, his voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Y/N turned to look at him again, her heart skipping a beat at the closeness between them. “Me too,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the bustling crowd around them faded into the background, leaving just the two of them standing there, the art surrounding them as if it were part of their story.

Harry slipped his hand into Y/N’s, his fingers warm and steady as he gently tugged her through the gallery. She followed without question, her curiosity mounting as they weaved between groups of people. He didn’t say a word, just led her down a quieter section of the space where fewer people were lingering.

When they stopped, Y/N noticed the piece in front of them was a painting—bold yet delicate, with strokes that somehow conveyed both strength and softness. She tilted her head, studying it, drawn to the way the light and shadows played across the figure in the painting. There was something familiar about it, something that tugged at her memory.

She took a step closer, her heart beating faster as the realization slowly dawned on her. The painting wasn’t just beautiful—it was her.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned to Harry, her eyes wide. “Is this…?”

He nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “It’s you.”

Y/N stared at the painting again, her mind racing. The details were unmistakable—the way her hair fell, the soft curve of her face, the hint of a thoughtful expression she’d never realized she wore. But it wasn’t just her likeness; it was the way the he had captured something deeper, something vulnerable and raw.

“How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “I started it a few weeks after I moved in. I didn’t even know your name then. I just… saw you.”

Her chest tightened as she turned to him again. “You saw me?”

He nodded, his green eyes softer now. “In the mailroom. In the hallway. On your balcony once, drinking coffee. I didn’t know why, but there was something about you that I couldn’t get out of my head. So, I painted.”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, a mix of emotions swirling inside her—flattery, disbelief, and something she couldn’t quite name. “Harry, this is… incredible. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I just thought you should see it. This is the first time I’ve shown it to anyone.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she took a step closer to him, her voice soft. “Why me?”

Harry’s gaze locked on hers, his expression open and sincere. “Because it’s you, Y/N. I couldn’t have painted this if it wasn’t.”

The noise of the gallery faded around them as she stood there, her hand still in his, staring up at the painting of herself. For the first time, she saw herself through someone else’s eyes—not as the loud, chaotic neighbor, but as something worthy of being captured in art.

And Harry, the grumpy, mysterious neighbor, was the one who had done it.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Love Bites

A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Word Count: 6,956

Content Warning: mentions of blood and biting.

The rain poured steadily, creating rivers along the curbs and a persistent rhythm against the asphalt. Y/n pulled her coat tighter around her, the cold seeping through the damp fabric. The dim glow of streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, casting distorted halos that barely lit the way. Her shoes squished with every step, water seeping through the soles as she navigated the uneven sidewalk.

She glanced around, the city that never sleeps unusually subdued in the downpour. The occasional car splashed by, headlights cutting through the darkness, but the streets felt eerily empty. Her apartment was still several blocks away, and the thought of the warmth inside kept her moving despite the chill that gripped her.

The rain masked the usual cacophony of the city, leaving only the sound of water and her own breathing. As she rounded a corner, a faint light from a bodega sign flickered, offering a brief sense of orientation in the endless maze of shadows and slick surfaces.

“Almost there,” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain. But with every step forward, the night seemed to grow darker, the path more uncertain.

Y/n barely noticed the bodega’s door swinging open until a figure stepped out into the rain. She flinched slightly, startled by the sudden movement. A man stood there, pulling up the hood of his coat, his face half-lit by the flickering neon sign above.

“Bit of a miserable night, isn’t it?” he said, his accent soft and distinctly British, cutting through the rain like a warm thread.

Y/n blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The man’s green eyes seemed to hold an unusual brightness despite the gloom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges where it peeked out from under his hood.

“Yeah, you could say that,” she replied, clutching her coat a little tighter, the chill biting at her fingertips.

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile, the kind that didn’t quite belong on someone standing in the middle of a downpour. “You alright? Look like you’ve had a bit of a rough one.”

Y/n hesitated, unsure why she felt compelled to answer. There was something disarming about him, his tone unassuming, as if they’d crossed paths a thousand times before. “Just trying to get home,” she finally said, her voice soft but steady.

He nodded, glancing down the street as if considering her path. “Not too far, I hope?”

“A few more blocks,” she said, motioning vaguely in the direction she’d been heading.

He tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. “This time of night, in this weather… mind some company? At least until you’re closer to home?”

Y/n studied him for a moment, weighing her options. He didn’t seem threatening—just someone caught in the same rainstorm, maybe trying to make it a little less lonely. After a pause, she gave a slight nod.

“Alright,” she said, her voice quieter now. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, I’m Harry by the way,” he replied, falling into step beside her. The rain continued its steady rhythm, but somehow, the darkness didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

The rain softened to a mist as Y/n and Harry walked side by side, their footsteps splashing lightly against the wet pavement. The quiet lull of the city made their conversation feel intimate, as though the rest of the world had faded away.

“So,” Y/n began, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His hood had slipped back slightly, revealing more of his damp curls. “What were you doing out so late in this weather?”

Harry smiled faintly, his hands buried in his coat pockets. “Needed a walk. Clears my head, y’know? And the rain… well, it’s peaceful in its own way.”

Y/n hummed in agreement, noting the melodic lilt of his voice. She found herself glancing at him more often than she meant to. There was something otherworldly about him—his pale complexion almost luminous under the faint glow of the streetlights, his features sharp but softened by a kindness in his eyes.

“And you? What’s got you out here braving the elements?” he asked, turning his gaze toward her.

“Long day at work,” she admitted, sighing. “I usually take the subway, but it was packed, and I just… needed some air.”

Harry nodded, as if he understood completely. “Fair enough. Sometimes the chaos down there feels worse than the storm up here.”

As they walked, Y/n noticed how his presence seemed to ease her nerves. She didn’t normally trust strangers—especially not in a city like this, and especially not on dark, rainy nights. But with Harry, it felt different. She couldn’t explain it, but she felt safe, as though he was someone she’d known for years rather than minutes.

They reached the corner of her street, and she glanced at him again. His coat clung to his frame, and she realized he wasn’t shivering despite the cold. In fact, he seemed entirely unaffected by the weather, like he belonged to the rain and the darkness surrounding them.

“You live nearby?” she asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He nodded, gesturing vaguely down the street. “A few buildings that way. Looks like we’re practically neighbors.”

She smiled, a small warmth blossoming in her chest. “Small world.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, a softness there that made her cheeks heat despite the cold. “It is,” he said quietly, his tone almost wistful.

As they stopped in front of her apartment building, Y/n hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t want the moment to end, even though they were still practically strangers.

“This is me,” she said finally, gesturing toward the door.

Harry nodded, his smile faint but genuine. “Glad I could walk you home, Y/n.”

She blinked, her heart skipping. “How did you know my name?”

For a split second, his expression flickered—something unreadable passing across his face—but then his smile returned. “You told me earlier, didn’t you?”

Y/n frowned, certain she hadn’t. But before she could question it further, Harry gave a slight nod.

“Get inside before you catch a cold,” he said gently. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, he turned and disappeared into the misty rain, leaving Y/n standing there, heart racing, wondering why she felt so drawn to him. 

The next day

The bell above the bookshop door jingled as Y/n worked behind the counter, the steady hum of espresso machines and soft chatter creating a comforting background noise. She loved her job, it was the perfect blend of cozy and bustling, surrounded by books and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

She glanced up as a familiar figure caught her eye. Harry was sitting at a corner table in the café, a book open in front of him. His damp curls from the night before were now dry, but he still had that same ethereal look about him—pale and strikingly beautiful, like he’d stepped out of a painting.

Y/n hesitated for a moment, then decided to approach him. She grabbed a clean cloth and pretended to wipe down the nearby table before stopping beside his.

“Well, well,” she said, crossing her arms with a teasing smile. “Are you following me now, or is this just a coincidence?”

Harry looked up from his book, his lips curving into a small smile. “Caught me,” he replied, his tone playful. “Couldn’t resist the coffee.”

Y/n chuckled, leaning slightly against the back of a chair. “You know, most people come here for the books and the coffee. It’s kind of our thing.”

He raised a brow, amusement dancing in his green eyes. “Is that so? What if I’m just here for the company?”

She rolled her eyes, suppressing the grin tugging at her lips. “Smooth.” Gesturing to the menu board, she asked, “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry? We’ve got these killer croissants today.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t really eat…”

Y/n blinked, her smile faltering. “Oh. Uh… okay. Just coffee, then?”

He shook his head, his gaze steady but kind. “I’m good with this.” He tapped the book in front of him, avoiding her curious stare.

A strange vibe settled between them, and Y/n felt a small prickle of unease. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the way he’d said it—so casual, yet so odd—stuck with her.

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m just over there,” she said, forcing a smile as she nodded toward the counter.

“Thanks, Y/n,” Harry said softly, his voice carrying that same calm warmth that had put her at ease the night before.

She walked away, glancing back once to find him already immersed in his book again. The unease lingered, though, as if there was more to Harry than he was letting on.

Y/n lingered behind the counter, her hands busy with a towel as she wiped down the espresso machine. But her thoughts kept drifting to Harry, sitting so calmly at his table like he belonged there, as if their encounter last night hadn’t been strange at all. The question that had nagged her since then resurfaced, and before she could overthink it, she walked back over to his table.

“Alright,” she said, stopping in front of him, her arms crossed over her apron. “I need to ask you something.”

Harry looked up from his book, his brow lifting slightly. “Go on.”

She hesitated, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under his calm, steady gaze. “Last night, when you walked me home, you said my name. But I never told you what it was. How did you know?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. His lips parted as if he were about to speak, but he seemed to think better of it. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“You sure you didn’t tell me?” he asked lightly, though there was something unreadable in his tone.

“I’m sure,” Y/n said firmly, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not exactly something I forget.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe I overheard someone else say it.”

“There was no one else around,” she countered, crossing her arms tighter.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. “You’re very observant, aren’t you?”

“It’s a fair question,” she pressed, feeling a mix of curiosity and frustration. “It’s not every day a stranger magically knows your name.”

Harry’s smile faded slightly, his gaze softening. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Y/n felt her breath hitch at his tone, the way it seemed to hold more weight than his casual demeanor suggested.

“So?” she prompted, leaning closer. “How?”

Harry glanced down at his book for a moment, his fingers brushing the edges of the pages. Then he looked back up at her, his green eyes almost glowing under the café’s warm lights.

“Let’s just say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m very good with names. Especially when they belong to people I’d like to remember.”

Y/n blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his words. There was something cryptic in his answer, something that left her feeling like she was only scratching the surface of a much larger mystery.

She straightened, unsure of how to respond. “That’s… vague.”

Harry smiled again, softer this time. “Maybe some things are better left that way.”

Y/n studied him for a moment longer, her unease mixed with an undeniable curiosity. Finally, she nodded, stepping back. “Alright, mystery man. But don’t think I’m letting this go.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, his smile returning, though his eyes seemed to hold a secret he wasn’t quite ready to share.

The days slipped by, and the bookshop settled back into its usual rhythm—customers browsing shelves, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the steady hum of conversations drifting through the café. But Y/n’s thoughts kept wandering to Harry.

She hadn’t seen him since that day. No quiet figure tucked into the corner with a book, no knowing smiles or cryptic comments. She found herself glancing toward the door whenever the bell jingled, half-expecting him to walk in with that calm, unreadable expression. But he didn’t.

“Everything okay?” her coworker, Ellie, asked as she restocked a display of mugs.

Y/n blinked, realizing she’d been staring at the café’s empty corner table for too long. “Yeah,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just zoning out.”

Ellie gave her a knowing look. “You’ve been weird lately. Is this about the guy who was here the other day? The tall one with the curls?”

“What? No,” Y/n said, maybe a little too defensively.

Ellie smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Y/n sighed, brushing a stray hair from her face. “It’s not like that. He’s just… interesting. And I haven’t seen him around. I might’ve scared him off.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What’d you do? Grill him on his life story?”

“Maybe,” Y/n muttered, heat rising to her cheeks.

Her coworker laughed. “Relax. If he’s worth it, he’ll come back. Guys like that always do.”

But as the hours ticked by and the café emptied out for the night, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry wasn’t just any guy. There was something different about him—something that made her want to figure him out, even if she couldn’t explain why.

Later, as she locked up the shop and stepped out into the crisp evening air, she found herself looking down the street toward the direction of his building. The thought crossed her mind: What if I went to see if he’s around?

She shook her head, pushing the idea away. It was silly. He was a stranger, practically. But even as she walked home, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d see him again or if she’d scared him away for good.

The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, leaving the streets slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. Y/n pulled her jacket tighter around herself as she walked, the familiar route past the bodega feeling strangely empty tonight.

She hadn’t planned to take this way home, but her feet had carried her here anyway, as if some part of her was hoping to see him again. The corner bodega’s neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a pale light on the pavement. The door was open, a faint clink of glass bottles and low conversation spilling out, but Harry wasn’t there.

Y/n lingered for a moment, pretending to check her phone as she glanced around. The street was quiet except for the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the dimness.

What are you even doing? she thought, feeling a little ridiculous. It wasn’t like Harry had promised to meet her here or even hinted at being nearby. For all she knew, he was off doing something completely unrelated to her.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something—or someone.

With a sigh, she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and started walking again, her shoes clicking softly against the wet pavement. The night felt heavier than usual, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

When she finally reached her apartment building, she paused on the steps, casting one last glance down the street. Nothing. No sign of him, no flash of dark curls or the quiet intensity of his gaze.

Maybe he really is gone, she thought, a pang of disappointment settling in her chest.

As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she resolved to let it go. Harry was just a stranger who had crossed her path briefly—nothing more. 

The weeks passed in a blur of routine. Y/n poured herself into her work at the café, stacking books, crafting perfect cappuccinos, and chatting with regulars. But her mind often drifted to Harry—his mysterious air, his cryptic comments, and his sudden absence. Every night she took the same route past the bodega, hoping for even a glimpse of him, but the streets remained empty of him.

Until one night.

The air was biting as she walked, her breath visible in the faint glow of the streetlights. The bodega’s sign buzzed faintly in the distance, and she was about to pass it when a shadow shifted in her peripheral vision.

“Y/n.”

The voice was unmistakable—low, soft, and tinged with something that made her heart skip. She turned quickly, and there he was.

But he wasn’t the same Harry she remembered. His usually radiant complexion looked pale and dull, his dark curls messier than before. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and his shoulders seemed to sag as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

“Harry,” she breathed, a mix of relief and concern flooding her. “Where have you been?”

He offered a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Around.” His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken much in days.

Y/n took a hesitant step closer, her worry growing. “You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering down the street as if he were debating whether to stay or leave. “I’ll be fine,” he said finally, though the words felt hollow.

She frowned, crossing her arms. “That’s not convincing.” Without thinking, she added, “Come back to my place. You look like you need… something. Rest, food, whatever.”

Harry’s eyes snapped to hers, wide with surprise. For a moment, he seemed frozen, as if the idea of being taken care of was foreign to him. “Y/n, I—”

“No arguments,” she interrupted, her voice firmer than she expected. “It’s cold, and you look like you’re about to keel over. My apartment’s just a few blocks away.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening as if he were about to refuse. But then something in his expression softened, and he gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Lead the way.”

The walk to her apartment was quiet, the sound of their footsteps the only noise between them. Y/n kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to piece together what had happened in the weeks since she’d last seen him. He looked strung out.

When they reached her building, she opened the door and gestured for him to follow her inside. “It’s not much,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “but it’s warm.”

Once inside, she flipped on the lights, casting the small living room in a cozy glow. Harry stepped in hesitantly, his gaze sweeping over the space.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, shrugging off her coat. “I’ll grab you something to drink.”

He nodded, sinking onto the edge of her couch as if he didn’t quite belong there. As Y/n moved to the kitchen, she couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him and why, despite his mysterious nature, she felt so compelled to help him.

Y/n filled a glass with water in the kitchen, the sound of the tap running filling the quiet apartment. She glanced toward the living room, where Harry sat on the edge of the couch, his posture stiff, his hands loosely clasped between his knees.

“Here,” she said, walking over and holding the glass out to him. “You look like you could use this.”

Harry glanced at it but didn’t move to take it. “I’m not thirsty,” he said softly, his tone calm but firm.

Y/n frowned, lowering the glass slightly. “You sure? You look—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupted gently, offering a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She hesitated, the glass still in her hand. The refusal wasn’t rude, but there was something about it that felt… off. Her instincts prickled again, the same way they had back at the café when he’d made that odd comment about not eating food.

To ease the tension building in her chest, she forced a nervous laugh and said, “What, are you a vampire or something?”

The room fell silent.

Harry’s faint smile vanished, and his gaze locked on hers, unblinking and intense. The air seemed to shift, the cozy warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling.

Y/n’s heart thudded in her chest as the seconds stretched on, her own laugh fading into the stillness. “I was just kidding,” she said quickly, her voice quieter now.

Harry’s expression softened slightly, but there was something guarded in his eyes. “That’s an interesting guess,” he said finally, his tone measured.

The way he said it sent a chill down her spine. She tried to laugh again, but it came out shaky. “Well, you’re pale, you don’t eat, you’re… mysterious. You kind of fit the stereotype.”

Harry leaned back slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And would it scare you if I were?”

Y/n froze, her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not—and that uncertainty was the most unsettling part of all.

“Harry,” she said carefully, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re kidding, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting hers again. “Maybe,” he said quietly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The room felt heavier now, the unspoken tension crackling in the air. Y/n clutched the glass tighter, her mind racing. She couldn’t decide if he was messing with her or if there was something she was better off not knowing.

Y/n blinked, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “What?” she asked, her voice a little unsteady.

Harry tilted his head slightly, his green eyes steady and unreadable. “If I were a vampire,” he said softly, his tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather, “would you let me… drink your blood?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she continued to tighten her grip on the glass of water, unsure whether to laugh, run, or… stay. The question was absurd, yet the way he asked it—so direct, so quiet—made her pulse quicken in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“I—uh…” Y/n stammered, shifting on her feet. She tried to gauge his expression, but it was impossible to tell if he was serious or just teasing her.

“You’re nervous,” Harry said, leaning forward slightly. His voice was low, but it wasn’t threatening. If anything, it sounded… curious. “But you’re not afraid.”

Y/n swallowed hard, her breath catching as she realized he was right. Her nervousness wasn’t from fear—it was from something else entirely. A strange mix of curiosity and anticipation coursed through her, leaving her unsure of how to respond.

“Well,” she said finally, trying to keep her voice light, “I think most people would be nervous if someone asked to suck their blood, Harry. Hypothetically or not.”

His lips quirked into the faintest of smiles, though his gaze remained fixed on her. “Fair point,” he murmured, his tone almost playful. “But you haven’t answered the question.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind racing. Was he joking? Was he testing her? Was this just another layer of his cryptic nature, or was there something more?

“I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “Would it hurt?”

The question escaped her before she could stop it, and her cheeks burned as she realized what she’d just said.

Harry’s smile grew slightly, the intensity in his eyes softening just a fraction. “Not as much as you’d think,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, the air thick with an unspoken tension. Y/n’s mind screamed at her to break the silence, to laugh it off, to do something—but all she could do was stand there, caught in the strange pull of his gaze.

Harry’s gaze darkened, his lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile. “So,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Would you let me do it?”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her pulse pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She didn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, but after a moment, she nodded—slowly, hesitantly.

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite place, and before she could second-guess herself, Harry closed the distance between them. His hands cupped her face with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension in the air, and then his lips were on hers.

The kiss was soft at first, exploratory, but it quickly deepened, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her closer. Y/n felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them, every thought and worry drowned out by the electric connection sparking between them.

Before she realized it, Harry’s lips left hers, trailing a line of featherlight kisses along her jaw, down to the curve of her neck.

“Trust me,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm and sending shivers down her spine.

Y/n barely had time to process his words before she felt the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth breaking the surface of her skin. The pain was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by a strange, heady warmth that spread through her like liquid fire. Her knees wobbled, and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself, her mind spinning.

Harry held her firmly, his grip strong but careful, as if he were afraid of breaking her. She could feel the pull of his mouth on her neck, the sensation both terrifying and intoxicating.

When he finally drew back, his lips red and his breathing heavy, Y/n swayed slightly, her vision hazy.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

Y/n blinked up at him, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She nodded, though her words came out shaky. “Yeah… I think so.”

Harry’s expression softened, his hand brushing her cheek. “Good,” he murmured. But there was something in his eyes—an intensity, a hunger—that made her heart race all over again.

Y/n leaned back against the armrest of the couch, her hand still pressed lightly to her neck. The room felt brighter, sharper—her senses alive in a way they had never been before. She wasn’t scared; if anything, she felt a strange, almost blissful calm.

“Is this…” she began, her voice dreamy, “going to turn me into a vampire or something?”

Harry let out a low laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said, his tone amused but gentle. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s a bit more… complicated than in the stories.”

Y/n tilted her head, her curiosity piqued despite the haze of euphoria swirling through her. “So, how does it work?”

Harry’s eyes softened as he looked at her, though the faint hunger lingering in them hadn’t entirely disappeared. “You’d have to drink from me, for one,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “But it’s not something I’d let happen. Not to you.”

She frowned slightly, her fingers absently tracing her neck where she could feel the faint warmth from the bite. “Why not?”

He smiled faintly, leaning closer, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Because I like you the way you are,” he said simply, his voice carrying an honesty that made her heart skip.

The faint flush in her cheeks deepened, and she looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re… different,” she murmured, unsure if it was a compliment or an observation.

“So are you,” Harry countered, his voice soft but serious. “More than you know.”

Before she could respond, he added, almost to himself, “You taste… sweet. Like nothing I’ve ever had before.” His gaze met hers, his lips curving into a sly smile. “I could find myself addicted to you, Y/n.”

Her heart thudded at his words, a mix of excitement and trepidation flooding her. “Is that… a bad thing?”

Harry’s smile faltered for a moment, and his expression grew darker, more thoughtful. “It could be,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “For both of us.”

The weight of his words hung between them, but Y/n found herself unable to look away from him. Despite everything—his mysterious nature, his cryptic answers, and now, the undeniable truth of what he was—she didn’t feel afraid.

Instead, she felt drawn to him even more.

Harry’s gaze held hers, an intensity in his expression that made Y/n’s breath catch. He leaned back slightly, running a hand through his tousled curls as if weighing whether or not to speak.

Finally, he sighed, his voice low and deliberate. “The first night I saw you… outside the bodega,” he began, his green eyes locking onto hers, “it wasn’t by chance.”

Y/n tilted her head, confusion flickering across her face. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, a faint flicker of guilt flashing in his expression. “I… I caught your scent,” he admitted, his tone softer now. “As I walked out, it hit me like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.”

She blinked, stunned by his words. “You smelled me?”

Harry gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “It’s a… heightened sense. Part of what I am. Your scent—it was unlike anything I’d ever encountered. I couldn’t help myself. I followed it.”

Y/n’s pulse quickened, her thoughts racing. “You followed me?”

“To your apartment,” he admitted, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “And then… to your job the next day. I couldn’t stay away. I needed to understand why I felt so drawn to you.”

Y/n stared at him, her mind swirling with questions. “So… when you showed up at the café, that wasn’t a coincidence either?”

He shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “No. It was intentional. But when I met you, when we talked… it wasn’t just your scent anymore. You were…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “You were magnetic. I was… enamored.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt her stomach flip at his confession. “Then why did you stop coming around?”

Harry looked away, his jaw tightening briefly. “Because I was afraid you’d catch on. That you’d figure out what I am, or worse… that I’d lose control.” He met her gaze again, his voice softer now. “But when I saw you taking that same route every night, I knew you were looking for me. And I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. “You came back… for me?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his tone unwavering. “I tried to stay away, but you… you make that impossible.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, the weight of his words settling over her. She should’ve been frightened—by the revelation, by the intensity of his feelings but instead, she felt a strange sense of relief, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Y/n,” Harry continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “But you’ve pulled me in, and I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to.”

Y/n took a shaky breath, her hand still resting on her neck where his teeth had pierced her skin. Her heart was racing, but not from fear. She looked at him, meeting his gaze, and finally admitted, “I feel it too. Like… there’s some kind of connection between us. I can’t explain it, but it’s there.”

Harry’s eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’ve felt it from the moment I saw you,” he murmured.

She hesitated, her fingers curling into her lap as she worked up the courage to ask the question lingering in her mind. “Do you… do you drink from other people?”

Harry shook his head, his expression turning serious. “No,” he said firmly. “We have other ways to get blood. Hospitals, banks, sources that… don’t involve hurting anyone. Feeding directly from someone—it’s rare for my kind, and we don’t take it lightly.”

She studied him for a moment, her chest tightening as a strange mix of emotions swirled within her. “But you drank from me,” she said quietly.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “I did. I shouldn’t have, but… I couldn’t resist. You’re—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching slightly before he continued. “You’re different, Y/n. I’ve never wanted someone’s blood like I wanted yours. But it’s not just that. It’s you.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she glanced away, unsure how to process his words. After a moment, she looked back at him, meeting his gaze directly. “So… you’re a vampire.”

Harry blinked, and then a low laugh rumbled from his chest. He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “That’s such a dramatic word,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But yes, I suppose that’s what you’d call it.”

Y/n arched an eyebrow, her nervousness fading slightly as his humor eased the tension in the room. “I mean, it is what you are, isn’t it?”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “It just sounds… cheesy, doesn’t it? Like I’m straight out of some old gothic novel.”

“Well,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips, “you did just bite me and drink my blood, so… maybe the label fits.”

Harry grinned, his fangs briefly flashing in the light, and Y/n couldn’t help but laugh softly. 

Y/n shifted on the couch, her curiosity burning brighter than ever. She tucked her legs beneath her, leaning forward slightly. “I have so many questions,” she admitted, her voice trembling just a little, but more with excitement than fear.

Harry smirked, resting his arm on the back of the couch as he watched her. “Then ask,” he said smoothly. “I’ll answer—within reason.”

She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. “Within reason? That sounds suspicious.”

His smirk grew, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “There are some things you might not be ready to hear yet, love. But I’ll do my best.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Fine. First question: how old are you? Like, really?”

Harry laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Straight to the point, I see. I’m… older than I look. A little over a century.”

Her eyes widened, and she couldn’t help but lean back in disbelief. “A century? You’re over a hundred years old?”

“Give or take a decade,” he said, his tone light. “Though I stopped counting after the first fifty or so.”

Y/n shook her head, trying to process that. “Okay, next question: can you go out in the sun, or is that a no-go?”

Harry chuckled. “I can, but I don’t recommend it. It’s uncomfortable—think of it like a really bad sunburn that happens almost instantly. That’s why you usually won’t find me out during the day unless I absolutely have to be.”

She nodded, her mind buzzing with possibilities. “Do you sleep in a coffin?”

That earned her a full laugh, Harry throwing his head back slightly. “No, I don’t. I have a perfectly comfortable bed, thank you very much.”

Y/n grinned. “Alright, what about garlic? Crosses? Holy water?”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Garlic’s just food. Crosses don’t bother me unless someone shoves one in my face, which is just rude. And holy water? Let’s just say it’s not my favorite thing, but it’s not going to make me burst into flames either.”

She laughed, relaxing a little more as she listened to him. “Okay, serious question now,” she said, her tone softening. “Is it… lonely? Living so long?”

Harry’s expression grew thoughtful, the teasing edge fading from his features. “It can be,” he admitted quietly. “You watch people come and go. You lose people. It’s part of the deal, but it doesn’t make it easier.”

Y/n felt a pang of sympathy in her chest. “That sounds… hard.”

“It is,” he said simply. “But then, sometimes you meet someone who makes it worth it.”

Her breath caught at the way he looked at her as he said it, his gaze steady and warm. She quickly diverted her attention to her next question, her cheeks flushing. “Alright, last one—for now. Why me?”

Harry smiled softly, leaning closer. “I wish I knew,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But whatever it is, Y/n, I’m not sure I want to question it.”

Y/n hesitated before asking her next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “Would you ever… turn someone? So you could stay with them?”

Harry’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to his hands as he thought about her words. The air in the room grew heavy with the weight of the question, and Y/n could see the conflict flickering in his eyes.

He finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “It’s not a decision I’d take lightly,” he admitted. “Turning someone… it’s not as simple as just giving them eternal life. It changes everything—your body, your mind, your world. There’s no going back.”

Y/n watched him carefully, her heart thudding as she tried to read his expression. “But if it meant being with someone you loved… forever?”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he met her gaze. “I’ve thought about it,” he said honestly, his tone raw. “And I won’t lie—it’s tempting. But it’s also selfish.”

“How is it selfish?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Because it’s not my life I’d be changing. It’s theirs. I’d be asking them to give up so much—the sun, the ability to grow old, to live a normal life. It’s a lot to ask of someone, and it’s not something I could do lightly. Especially to someone I care about.”

Y/n felt a lump form in her throat at the sincerity in his voice. “So… you wouldn’t do it?”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d want to say no. To let the person I love live their life the way they were meant to. But if I knew I was going to lose them…” He trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I’d be strong enough to let go.”

Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, and she reached out, placing a hand over his. “Harry,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside her, “I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

He gave her a faint, almost bittersweet smile. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But with you… I think I’d have to be.”

Y/n’s hand lingered on his, her touch grounding him. She looked at him, her eyes soft but filled with determination. “I want to see you again, Harry.”

His jaw tensed, and he glanced away, as though wrestling with his thoughts. “Y/n,” he started, his voice low and measured, “this… this might not be a good idea. For you.”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Why not?”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back against the couch and running a hand through his hair. “Because the more time you spend with me, the harder it’ll be for both of us to walk away. And you might have to one day. For your own good.”

Y/n’s chest tightened, but she shook her head, her voice unwavering. “I don’t want to walk away. I don’t care how complicated this is—I want to see you. I feel… connected to you, Harry. I can’t just ignore that.”

His green eyes met hers, a flicker of something raw and unguarded passing through them. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said softly, almost sadly. “Being close to me… it’s not safe. It’s not normal.”

“I don’t want safe or normal,” she replied firmly. “I want you. Whatever that looks like.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself, before opening them again. “You’re making this harder than it already is,” he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension in his voice.

Y/n leaned closer, her hand still on his. “Then stop fighting it. You want to see me again too, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, but the way his gaze softened told her everything she needed to know. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. I do.”

Her lips curved into a small, hopeful smile. “Then let’s not overthink it. Just… let’s see where this goes.”

Harry’s expression remained conflicted, but he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her. “Alright,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but firm. “But we take it one step at a time. No promises, no expectations.”

Y/n nodded, her smile widening slightly. “One step at a time,” she echoed.

Y/n’s heart was racing, but she didn’t hesitate. Slowly, she leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. Harry’s breath hitched, his conflicted expression softening as she closed the distance between them.

Her lips met his, soft and tentative at first, but the electricity between them was undeniable. Harry responded almost immediately, his hand coming up to cup her cheek as he deepened the kiss. There was a gentleness in the way he touched her, as though he was afraid she might break, but there was also an intensity—an unspoken longing that neither of them could deny.

The kiss was slow but full of meaning, every moment stretching as though time itself had paused for them. When they finally pulled back, Y/n’s cheeks were flushed, her breathing unsteady.

Harry’s green eyes searched hers, a mix of wonder and restraint in his gaze. “You’re going to ruin me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

She smiled softly, her fingers brushing against his. “Maybe,” she whispered, “but you’re worth it.”

For a moment, Harry looked like he might protest, but instead, he leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re making it impossible for me to stay away,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.

“Good,” she said with a small smile, her confidence growing. “Because I don’t want you to.” 

[thereceptioniststyles]

Love Bites: Part Two

A bookstore barista catches the attention of a vampire drawn to her scent, and everything changes when she invites him in.

Word Count: 7,906

Content warning: mentions of drinking blood and biting.

Part One

Morning sunlight filtered softly through the blinds, painting stripes of gold across the bedroom walls. Y/n stirred beneath the sheets, her body slowly adjusting to consciousness. It took her a moment to shake off the heaviness of sleep—and the lingering rush of last night’s memory.

She let out a small yawn and headed for the bathroom, flicking on the overhead light before grabbing her toothbrush. The usual morning routine felt almost surreal today. As she brushed her teeth, her mind drifted back to Harry: his midnight-green eyes, the cool feel of his lips, the firm press of his fangs…

She spat out the toothpaste and reached for the faucet, then paused. In the mirror, two faint puncture marks stood out on her neck—tiny, but undeniably there. Her heart gave a little flutter of recognition. Slowly, almost reverently, she lifted her free hand and brushed her fingers over the marks.

A wave of warmth flooded her chest, dissolving into something that bordered on pure euphoria. It was like reliving the moment he bit her, only this time she felt no fear or shock—just a pulse of lingering pleasure that made her knees feel weak. Even standing there in the bright, ordinary light of day, she could feel him.

After a few heartbeats, she lowered her hand, forcing herself to finish rinsing her mouth. Her thoughts were a jumble of curiosity and a strange, heady excitement. She wanted to see him again. Or maybe needed to see him. At the same time, her reflection reminded her that this was hardly normal—waking up with vampire bites that invoked a delicious thrill instead of terror.

Gently toweling off her face, she took one more glance in the mirror. The marks wouldn’t be obvious to anyone who wasn’t looking for them… but she knew they were there. And she knew exactly who had put them there, too.

She ran her fingers through her hair, exhaling slowly. One step at a time, she reminded herself. That had been Harry’s promise—and her own. It was equal parts exhilarating and nerve-racking to feel so drawn to someone she barely knew. But as she moved back into her bedroom and began pulling on her clothes for the day, her mind was already drifting to the possibility of seeing him tonight.

Would he come by the café? Show up again on her walk home? Or would she find him waiting outside her building like some dark, romantic secret? The thrill surged again at the thought of it. Despite all the unknowns, she couldn’t help but smile. There was no going back to the life she had before Harry—whether she understood it or not, her world had changed.

She glanced at her phone on the bedside table, an itch of impatience tugging at her. There were so many unanswered questions. Yet, as she thought of him—of his cryptic little smiles and careful, tender concern—she felt certain about one thing: she wanted more.

Gathering her bag and keys, she headed out, locking the door behind her with a steady hand. The city beckoned, the promise of another routine day overshadowed by the electric hum in her bloodstream. The marks on her neck might have been small, but they were a reminder of their night together. 

Y/n bustled into the café, shrugging off her coat as she made her way behind the counter. The scent of fresh coffee beans and warm pastries instantly surrounded her, a comforting backdrop to the electric undercurrent of her own thoughts. She couldn’t keep the small smile off her face—even hours after waking up, she still felt that residual rush every time she remembered Harry’s bite.

“Someone’s in a suspiciously good mood,” Ellie teased, eyeing Y/n over a tray of blueberry scones. “Care to explain?”

Y/n’s cheeks heated despite her best efforts to remain cool. “Oh, you know,” she said, forcing an air of casualness, “just enjoying the simple things. Good sleep, coffee in the morning… that kind of stuff.”

Ellie gave her a look that said, “ I’m not buying it.” “And this has nothing to do with that ridiculously attractive guy who visited a while back?” She set down the tray and crossed her arms, a smirk already forming at the corners of her lips.

Y/n tried to stifle a laugh but ended up smiling even wider. “What are you talking about?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in mock confusion. “Surely you don’t mean the one with the hair that absolutely doesn’t make me weak in the knees—or the accent that definitely doesn’t make my heart race?”

“Uh-huh. Right.” Ellie rolled her eyes, grabbing a clean rag to wipe the countertop. “So you’re telling me you’re all sunshine and smiles for no reason at all?”

Y/n shrugged, lifting a coffee mug to hide her grin. “Maybe I just woke up on the right side of the bed today.”

Ellie let out a laugh, then lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Look, if there is something going on, you know I’m here for it, right? I need details.”

Y/n pretended to think it over, tapping a finger against her chin. “Well…” she began, fighting another blush, “maybe I am seeing him again. Maybe soon. But I’m not giving any details just yet.”

Ellie groaned in playful exasperation. “You’re killing me here!”

“Trust me,” Y/n quipped, sliding a to-go cup across the counter to a waiting customer, “you’re better off not knowing all the details.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, picking up on the mischievous gleam in Y/n’s eyes. “Fine,” she said, tossing the rag onto the counter. “But don’t be surprised if I keep an eye out for tall, dark, and mysterious. A girl needs to know what she’s up against.”

Y/n just laughed, feeling a renewed flush spread across her cheeks. Even if she couldn’t tell Ellie the whole truth, it felt good that someone was rooting for her. It was as if her happiness had become something tangible, woven into her every move. And no matter what complications might arise with Harry’s secret, Y/n couldn’t stop that buoyant feeling from spilling over into everything she did. She went about her day with a faint smile plastered on her face. 

When her shift was finished, Y/n stepped outside the bookshop, the sky a sullen gray as rain drizzled in cool sheets. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head, adjusting her bag as she started her walk home. Her mind buzzed with all the questions she still hadn’t asked Harry—like how on earth he managed to track her by scent alone, or what his own home looked like. Was it as old-world and mysterious as he was? Or maybe minimalistic, a contrast to his ageless presence?

She’d only walked a block before the rumble of a sleek engine broke through the steady patter of rain. A black car glided to the curb, shadowy windows nearly imperceptible behind the droplets. Y/n slowed, her heart thumping in sudden alarm as the passenger window whirred down.

She was about to snap at whoever was inside—city instincts kicking in—until she realized it was Harry,leaning across the seat. His dark curls were damp but still artfully mussed, his green eyes flicking to hers with the slightest hint of a smile.

“Hop in,” he said, his voice calm through the drizzle, as though offering a simple courtesy.

Y/n hesitated, water already soaking the edges of her shoes. Normally, she’d never climb into a stranger’s car—rain or not. But Harry was not “normal,” and—truth be told—not much of a stranger anymore. Still, she couldn’t stop the wry grin that tugged at her lips.

“You know,” she called over the noise of the rain, “your car could’ve been anyone’s. I was about to tell you to fuck off.”

Harry laughed, the low sound almost lost in the hiss of tires on wet pavement. “I’ll try not to take it personally,” he said smoothly. “Now get in before you catch pneumonia.”

She hesitated just a moment more, scanning his features. There was concern in his gaze, mingled with that sense of quiet confidence she was quickly getting used to. With a sigh—part exasperation, part anticipation—she relented, stepping off the curb and opening the passenger door.

The interior was warm and smelled faintly of leather and something else, something uniquely Harry.She slid onto the seat, closing the door behind her. Outside, the rain drummed against the car’s exterior, but in here, it felt cocoon-like, almost intimate.

Harry pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly into the city’s damp evening traffic. Y/n pushed back her hood, shaking out droplets of rain from her hair. She snuck a quick glance at him, noting how his profile looked even sharper under the dim overhead light of the dashboard.

“Fancy ride,” she mused, tapping one finger lightly on the immaculate dashboard. “I was half expecting you to roll up in a horse-drawn carriage or something.”

He shot her a sideways smirk. “I save the carriage for special occasions.”

She chuckled, settling into the seat. “And what’s this then? A spur-of-the-moment kidnapping?”

“More like a rescue,” Harry said, slowing at a traffic light. The neon glow of signs outside washed momentarily over his features, enhancing the hint of a smile that played on his lips. “Figured you’d appreciate a ride home in this weather.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered at the casual way he spoke, like they’d done this a thousand times. She cleared her throat. “Well, thanks,” she said softly. “But I warn you: I still have about a million questions.”

He turned toward her, the light catching his eyes. “Ask me anything.”

She tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, wondering where to begin. “For starters… you tracked me by scent? That still blows my mind.”

Harry’s gaze flicked back to the road. “Our sense of smell is heightened,” he explained. “Most of us can track a scent for miles if it’s distinct enough. Yours was… very distinct.” His tone dipped slightly on those last words, as though remembering the allure she carried.

Y/n’s cheeks warmed. “I guess I’m flattered? A little creeped out, but mostly flattered.”

He laughed softly, the sound sending a pleasant shiver across her skin. “I don’t blame you. It’s not exactly normal. But I hope you’re getting used to the idea that I’m… not exactly normal.”

She bit her lip, unable to hold back a small smile. “Trust me, I’m getting there.”

Another question spilled to her tongue, but before she could ask it, the traffic light changed and Harry turned down a quieter street. She glanced at the passing rows of buildings, illuminated in fuzzy halos from the rain-slick streetlights.

“Are we… heading toward my place?” she asked, noticing they were slightly off her usual route.

Harry hesitated. “I thought—maybe—we could go somewhere else first,” he said, his voice careful. “If you’re up for it.”

A spark of curiosity flickered in her chest. “Where?”

“My place,” he replied simply, his hands steady on the wheel. “I realized you’ve never seen it, and… you said you had questions.”

Y/n’s pulse skipped. His place. She’d wondered what it might look like—had even pictured it in her head. Would it be old-world, filled with antiques? Or sleek and modern? The mere thought of stepping into his private space sent a thrill through her.

She glanced at him, her hand resting unconsciously on the small puncture marks hidden beneath her scarf. “I’d love that,” she murmured, voice colored by equal parts excitement and nerves.

Harry gave a small nod of acknowledgment. “Then it’s settled.”

The rain intensified outside, the roads glistening under the amber glow of streetlamps. Y/n sank back into the seat, stealing another look at Harry as he drove. Shadows played across the curve of his cheekbone, casting his features in a half-light that reminded her just how different he was—and how her world had shifted irreversibly since meeting him.

Yet she couldn’t deny the warmth growing in her chest, that tangible connection pulling her closer. She might not know what awaited her at his house—or how many more secrets she’d uncover—but as she watched the city pass by in a blur of silver and gold, she felt an undeniable rush of anticipation.

He was offering a piece of his world to her, and she was ready to step inside.

Y/n’s breath caught the moment his hand settled on her thigh. Even through her jeans, Harry’s touch felt unmistakably cool—like a whisper of winter air against her skin. She glanced down at his hand, noting the silver rings decorating his fingers, each one reflecting brief flashes of city lights through the window. Fine veins traced along the back of his hand, yet there was an otherworldly stillness to them, as though the blood beneath no longer pulsed with mortal life.

A strange mixture of comfort and curiosity bloomed in Y/n’s chest. She remembered the first time she’d become aware of his temperature—that night on her couch, when his lips had trailed across her jaw. Now that truth was plain to see in the pale, graceful lines of his hand.

She let her own fingers inch toward his, daring to rest them lightly against the back of his hand. “You’re so cold,” she said softly, the faint sound of the windshield wipers filling the silence between them.

Harry kept his gaze on the road, though his lips curved in a slight smile. “It’s… part of the package.” His voice had that gentle undertone that always seemed to let her know he was aware of how strange—how different—he must seem.

Y/n turned her eyes to the rain-blurred view outside, the streetlights bleeding into one another. “Does it ever bother you?” she asked, her voice barely above the rhythm of the wipers. “Being… this way?”

He exhaled, and she could sense the weight in that breath. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Especially when I’m reminded of how far I am from being… human.”

She glanced at him, catching the tension in the set of his jaw. Even as he guided the car through the slick streets with effortless grace, she could see something vulnerable flicker behind his eyes.

“You don’t feel inhuman to me,” she murmured, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand in a comforting gesture. “Strange, maybe. But not inhuman.”

Harry’s grip tightened just a fraction on the steering wheel, and his other hand pressed a bit more firmly on her thigh, as though silently grateful for her words. “That helps,” he said at last, the corners of his mouth curving into a shadow of a smile. “More than you know.”

She let her gaze rest on his profile, her heartbeat steady and certain despite the endless questions swirling in her mind. In that moment, the cold of his touch didn’t feel like a warning—it felt like an invitation into a world different from her own, yet somehow already tied to her in ways she couldn’t explain.

Y/n wanted to ask more, to know the story behind every ring on his finger and the centuries that might lie behind his careful eyes. But with the rain drumming on the windows and Harry’s hand anchoring her to this moment, she decided not to push. One step at a time, she reminded herself. There would be time for questions and answers—long nights and whispered truths.

She slid her hand fully over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. In response, Harry’s thumb traced a slow, reassuring circle over her leg. Outside, the lights of the city blurred and glowed, carving out a small, shared universe within the car’s warm interior.

And as the road bent, carrying them closer to wherever Harry called home, Y/n felt her heart lift. The questions she had could wait—because right now, she was happy just existing in this slice of time, his cool touch grounding them both in the present.

Harry parked the sleek black car in a small underground garage beneath an unassuming brick building. The rain still drummed on the streets overhead, but once inside, all Y/n could hear was the soft echo of her own footsteps. A freight elevator—a curious relic of the city’s past—took them to the top floor. Its cage-like doors rattled open, revealing a hallway lit by old-fashioned wall sconces.

Harry guided her down the hall until they stopped in front of a solid wooden door. Without a word, he unlocked it and pushed it open, stepping aside so she could enter first.

The moment Y/n stepped in, she felt enveloped by a warmth that was undeniably Harry. The room carried his scent—faintly musky, with a whisper of something sweet and unplaceable. She inhaled deeply, a slow sense of comfort washing over her as she took in her surroundings.

Despite the modern furnishings—plush sofa, sleek coffee table, recessed lighting—there were unmistakable touches of antiquity everywhere. A grand, intricately carved mirror hung on one wall, its edges worn in a way that spoke of centuries of use. A weathered trunk with brass fittings served as an end table, stacked with thick, leather-bound books that looked like they’d been passed down through generations. The combination was oddly harmonious: a collision of old-world charm and modern minimalism that felt just right for someone like Harry.

Y/n wandered in a few steps, lightly trailing her fingers over the back of the sofa. “This place is…” She let the sentence hang, searching for the right word.

“Different?” Harry supplied, stepping in behind her and sliding off his coat.

She turned to face him, smiling softly. “I was going to say perfect. But that works, too.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. He seemed relieved by her reaction, as though he’d worried what she might think. “I move around a lot,” Harry admitted, glancing around at the curated mix of old and new. “So, the things I keep…I keep for a reason.”

Y/n’s eyes danced across the artifacts on display. A tarnished candelabra adorned a small table near the window, its silver twisted into delicate shapes. A tall bookshelf showcased rows of volumes both ancient and contemporary, the spines scrawled in languages she didn’t recognize.

She approached the fireplace—modern, but set within a mantle that appeared to be carved from dark marble. It wasn’t lit, but the faint smell of woodsmoke lingered, hinting that Harry sometimes used it. A painting above the mantle drew her attention: a serene, old-world landscape, likely older than any museum piece she’d seen in person.

“This is incredible,” she murmured, turning to look at him. “All of it. It’s so…you.”

Harry shrugged, hands sliding into his pockets as he studied her. “I like contrast,” he said quietly. “Keeping one foot in the past, one in the present.”

She crossed the room and took his hand. His fingers were still cold, but the closeness of the apartment, and his presence, made it feel more comforting than jarring. “Thank you,” she said, her voice gentle. “For bringing me here.”

His gaze flicked down to where their fingers intertwined, then back up to meet her eyes. “I wanted you to see…” he paused, searching for the right words, “this part of me.”

Y/n squeezed his hand, a faint smile on her lips. “Well, I’m here,” she said, releasing a breath that felt like it carried away every last hesitation. “And I want to see everything you’re willing to share.”

Harry’s lips curved in a thoughtful, half-smile. “Then stay as long as you like.”

She glanced around again, letting her senses absorb the warmth, the blend of history and modern comfort, and the intangible presence that was uniquely Harry. A shiver of anticipation threaded through her—because for all the questions still on her mind, she knew with certainty she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Y/n settled onto the plush couch, leaning into the gentle warmth that permeated the apartment. Harry rose briefly and returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses—though he’d already mentioned he rarely drank anything besides blood these days. Still, he poured a small measure of wine into a glass for her, the soft clink of glass against wood echoing in the cozy space.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, accepting the glass. She took a cautious sip, letting the mellow, fruity taste linger on her tongue. Meanwhile, Harry set the bottle aside and eased onto the couch beside her, leaving his own glass untouched on the coffee table.

He reached out, brushing a few strands of hair back from her face in a gesture so tender it made her heart flutter. “You’re perfect,” he murmured under his breath, almost as if he didn’t mean for her to hear it.

Her cheeks warmed, and she lowered her gaze, shy beneath his unyielding attention. “I’m really not,” she replied, taking another sip to hide her sudden rush of nerves. “But… thank you.”

Harry’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though something in his eyes told her he found the statement too simple to convey how he truly felt. A beat of quiet followed—one of those moments that felt charged with unspoken confessions.

Finally, Y/n drew in a breath and turned fully toward him. “Ever since that night you drank from me—” She paused, conscious of how odd and intimate the words sounded, “—I’ve felt… alive in a way I never have before. It’s almost ironic.”

Harry’s eyebrow lifted. “Ironic how?”

She exhaled, struggling to describe the sensation that had been following her around since that night. “It’s like some part of me woke up. And I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s about… you, or what you did, or both. But everything is sharper. Colors seem brighter, food tastes better, I have more energy—even when I’m tired, it’s like my mind is in overdrive.”

He listened carefully, leaning in slightly. “Does it frighten you?”

She took a moment to consider that. “No,” she admitted. “Not exactly. If anything, it’s… exhilarating. But there’s something else, too. A sense of needing—wanting—to be near you. I can’t tell if it’s emotional, or if it’s because of whatever happened with the bite. Or both.”

Harry shifted closer, until there was just a whisper of space between them. “When we feed,” he said softly, “we exchange more than just blood. There’s… an energy to it. A bond that can form. It doesn’t always happen—but when it does, it’s intense. You feel a rush of vitality, and I…” He hesitated, searching her eyes. “I feel everything you feel.”

She swallowed, heart thudding. “So you know this… longing I’ve been feeling?”

He nodded, gaze skimming her features. “I do. And it’s not one-sided.”

Her breath caught, every nerve in her body suddenly aware of the nearness of him—of his faint, familiar scent, of the cool touch of his hand resting on the cushion between them. Setting her wineglass on the table, she turned so that her knees brushed his.

“You said you don’t usually bite people… that it’s rare,” she said, her voice hushed. “Why me?”

Harry reached for her hand, running his thumb softly over her knuckles. “From the first moment I smelled your scent, I knew there was something… unique about you. But it wasn’t just that.” He lifted his gaze, the intensity in his eyes making her chest tighten. “Getting to know you—talking with you—made it impossible to stay away. I couldn’t ignore the pull.”

She squeezed his hand, feeling an inexplicable surge of relief and excitement at the same time. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

His eyes traced her face as if memorizing every detail. “So am I.”

In the quiet that followed, the only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the windows and the faint ticking of an antique clock somewhere behind them. Y/n’s heart pounded, equal parts curiosity and desire swirling in her. She carefully shifted, turning more fully to him, and he let his hand drift to her knee, cool fingers just pressing through the fabric of her jeans.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, Y/n felt once again that rush of life—of every cell in her body awakening. She had a million more questions swirling in her mind, but as she watched his expression soften, she decided the answers could wait. Right now, she just wanted to bask in the warmth of being here, in his world, in his arms.

“I want to stay,” she whispered.

He leaned in, just enough that she could see the subtle shape of his fangs behind those parted lips. “Then stay,” he murmured, as though it was the simplest request in the world.

Y/n’s next breath felt shaky with anticipation as she reached out and lightly brushed the hair from his eyes. She couldn’t help but smile, heart fluttering in her chest. Leaning closer, she closed the small distance between them—letting the moment swallow them both whole.

They continued kissing, breaths mingling in the low-lit bedroom as Harry carefully lifted her into his arms. Y/n let out a soft laugh, both surprised and exhilarated by his effortless strength. Her fingers threaded through his curls as he carried her down the hallway and into a warmly lit room that felt at once cozy and steeped in untold history.

He set her gently on the edge of a wide bed layered with plush blankets. The scent of him—like aged wood and something faintly sweet—seemed even stronger here, and it sent a pleasant shiver through her. Harry sat beside her, one hand resting on her hip, his lips never straying far from hers. In between slow, languid kisses, he eased them both down until they were lying side by side, the world outside fading to insignificance.

Y/n’s hands slid up the planes of his chest, coming to rest over his shoulders. There was a coolness beneath the warmth of his skin, and something about that contrast, that blend of what he had been and what he was now, made her heart pound.

They lingered like that for a while—just quiet touches and shared breaths—until her mind, always swirling with questions, finally nudged her to speak. She drew back slightly, searching his gaze.

“I want to know everything,” she murmured, brushing a thumb over his jaw. “About you… about your life before… all this.”

Harry’s expression softened, though there was a flicker of caution in his eyes. His hand drifted up to tangle gently in her hair, as if grounding himself with her presence. “That’s a long story,” he said quietly.

Y/n’s lips curved in a small smile. “I’ve got time.”

He took a breath, an unnecessary habit for him, but it seemed to help him gather his thoughts. “I was born in the late 1800s,” he began. “England. A small town, really no big cities around, no tall buildings, no electric lights. My family worked the land. We weren’t rich, but we managed.”

She inched closer, wrapping one arm around his waist. “And you? What was life like for you back then?”

A wistful look crossed his features. “It was… simpler, I suppose. Harder in some ways—less medicine, less comfort but simpler, too. Days began when the sun rose and ended when the candles burned out. My main concerns were harvests and family, making sure we had enough food for the winter.” He paused, letting out a soft laugh tinged with nostalgia. “Never imagined I’d see a century turn, let alone two.”

Y/n’s fingertips moved idly across his arm, feeling the lean muscle beneath. “How old were you when it changed? When… you changed?”

He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling as if searching distant memories. “I was barely in my twenties. Not much older than you are now. I was visiting London for the first time—wide-eyed, excited to see the world beyond my village. I didn’t know… what was waiting for me in the city’s shadows.”

She swallowed, torn between fascination and an ache of sympathy. “What happened?”

His gaze flicked back to hers, and his hand resumed its gentle stroke through her hair. “I was attacked. It wasn’t romantic or… even intentional, I think. Just a creature someone like me, but feral who lost control. Left me for dead in an alleyway.” A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. “But I wasn’t exactly dead, was I?”

Y/n’s fingers tightened on his arm. “That sounds terrifying.”

Harry’s eyes darkened briefly, as if recalling the horror. “At first, it was. Waking up in a state of hunger I couldn’t comprehend… instincts tearing at me.” He paused, then shook his head with a sad, small smile. “I was alone for a long time, trying to figure out how to live… or not live… with what I’d become.”

Her heart twisted at his words, and she shifted closer, pressing the warmth of her body against his cool side. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, voice laced with genuine compassion. “No one should have to go through that alone.”

He studied her for a long moment, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “It was a different world then,” he said softly. “But I managed. Eventually, I found others like me who helped me learn control, taught me how to exist alongside humans without hurting them. Still… it leaves a mark on you.”

Y/n laid her head against his shoulder, comforted by his arm curling around her. “Have you ever wanted to be human again?”

Harry stared at the faint lines on the ceiling, silent for a moment. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Especially when I see people living ordinary lives—growing old, having children, passing on their stories. That’s something I’ll never experience.” His gaze flicked to hers, and the weight of his centuries pressed in his eyes. “But then I think about how much I’ve seen and done, how many places I’ve been, and I realize… there’s beauty in this existence too.”

She leaned up to press a gentle kiss to his jaw, then settled back against him. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, voice sincere. “I know it can’t be easy to relive all of that.”

Harry’s embrace tightened, and he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “You make it a bit easier,” he murmured. “Easier than it’s ever been, most people aren’t as understanding.”

They let a comfortable silence stretch between them, a quiet acceptance passing in glances and soft touches. His story was a glimpse of the countless tales locked behind his eyes—stories she yearned to uncover. And although those revelations carried their share of darkness, Y/n felt no fear. Instead, she felt an inexplicable pull, deepening her bond with this man who was so much more than human.

Eventually, she shifted, meeting his gaze once more. “If you don’t mind,” she said gently, “I’d like to hear more. Someday… everything you’re ready to share.”

A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “Someday,” he echoed, fingers trailing down her arm. “For now, let’s just… stay here. In this moment.”

Y/n propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze roaming over Harry’s face. He was stretched out beside her, the lines of his expression shadowed by centuries of caution and uncertainty. The longer she looked at him, the more her heart ached to close the distance that still lingered between them—those unspoken fears that came with loving someone not quite human.

She reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his. “I know it won’t be easy,” she began, her voice hushed. “That it’s dangerous. That… you move around a lot. You’re not like other guys I’ve known—”

He let out a low, almost humorless laugh. “That’s putting it mildly,” he murmured, lifting their joined hands and pressing his cool lips to her knuckles. “I’ve never exactly fit into the ‘boy next door’ category.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “That’s fine by me,” she said, inching closer. “I’m not looking for normal. I’m looking for… you.”

Harry’s expression turned solemn, and he threaded a hand gently through her hair. “You say that now, but if you knew half the dangers—” He broke off, his jaw tightening as though wrestling with words he didn’t want to voice. “There are things about my life that you might not be ready for. Having to uproot everything at a moment’s notice, hiding what I am, never really settling down because… eventually, people notice if you never age.”

Y/n’s chest twisted at the pain lacing his voice. She moved even closer, close enough that the faint warmth of her breath fell against his cheek. “I’m willing to deal with that,” she said softly. “All of it. Because I’ve never felt this connected to anyone before, Harry. I don’t even know how to explain it—you pull me in. I can’t imagine just walking away.”

He studied her, his gaze drifting from her eyes to the shape of her lips, down to the small marks on her neck where he had once bitten her. With the faintest exhale, he closed his eyes. “I don’t want you to regret this,” he said at last, voice tight with emotion. “My life… it can be dark. Lonely. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Her hand slid up to cup his cheek. “You keep saying that,” she whispered, “It’d hurt more to walk away from you now.”

Harry’s lids lifted, revealing the turmoil in his green eyes. Hesitation warred with yearning; centuries of caution battling a desire he couldn’t quite deny. “You’d have to give up so much,” he said, almost pleading with her to see the weight of her choice. “Routine, stability, your friends, your family—everything you’re used to. I’m not sure when or where I’ll have to go next. You’ll have to stay unchanged to live life. I can’t take that away from you completely.”

Y/n pressed her forehead to his, heart hammering with both fear and exhilaration. “I’m not saying it won’t be scary,” she admitted. “But it’s scarier thinking about my life without you in it, you’re what I’ve been looking for.”

A shuddering breath escaped him. His arms slid around her, drawing her closer until her head rested against his chest. He said nothing for a moment, simply letting their breathing synchronize. She could feel the cool edge of his body against her warmer one—tangible proof of the gulf between them, and yet how perfectly they fit.

“You’ll regret it if I don’t at least try,” she added gently.

He closed his eyes again, his fingers splaying across her back. “Maybe,” he murmured. “But I don’t want you to lose yourself in all this.”

Y/n swallowed, considering his words. “The only thing I’m afraid of losing,” she whispered, “is you.”

Silence wrapped around them like a fragile promise. Outside, the city hummed with its usual nighttime pulse, but here, in the glow of a single bedside lamp, it felt like they inhabited a small, separate universe. Finally, Harry kissed the crown of her head, the gesture carrying centuries of guarded emotion slowly breaking open.

“All right,” he said, voice ragged with vulnerability. “We’ll figure it out—together. Like I said one step at a time.”

Y/n exhaled in relief, her grip on his shirt relaxing now that she had his answer. She tilted her face up, and he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to her lips, quiet but brimming with all the words he didn’t know how to say yet.

In that unspoken understanding, they both knew the path ahead would be full of risks and sacrifices—but also the kind of profound connection most people never got to taste. So they clung to each other, heartbeats out of sync but souls inexplicably twined. 

When Y/n stirred the next morning, she first noticed the unfamiliar softness of the sheets beneath her cheek. A slow smile curled her lips as the events of the previous night settled over her like a warm blanket: Harry’s stories, the gentle brush of his lips, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath her hand. She drew in a breath, catching that faint, comforting scent she’d come to associate with him—woodsmoke and something sweet, a blend as mysterious as the man himself.

She pushed the covers aside and sat up, brushing hair away from her face. Through a thin slice of the drawn curtains, she could see a pale light creeping in. Morning already, she thought. Time felt like it had slipped away the moment she’d laid down in Harry’s arms.

A subtle clink of dishes from beyond the bedroom drew her attention. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, padding barefoot along the hall to find Harry waiting in the open kitchen. The space was just as eclectic as the rest of his apartment: modern appliances set against old-world touches—like a vintage spice rack and a wrought-iron pot hanger that looked centuries old.

“Morning,” she said, voice still husky with sleep.

Harry turned at the sound of her voice, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. His curls fell loose over his forehead, and he wore a simple black sweater that set off the striking color of his eyes. “Good morning,” he replied softly. “I, um… stepped out for a bit.” He gestured to a small paper bag and a to-go cup on the counter. “I don’t really—well, you know. But I wanted to make sure you had something to eat.”

Heat rushed to Y/n’s cheeks at the thoughtful gesture. “You didn’t have to do that,” she murmured, moving closer.

“Maybe not,” Harry conceded, “but you were sleeping so peacefully, and I wanted you to have breakfast.”

She peeked into the bag, finding a warm croissant and a small container of fruit. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Sliding onto a stool by the kitchen island, she offered him a grateful smile. “Thank you. Seriously.”

Harry leaned his elbows on the opposite side of the counter, watching her with quiet fascination as she took a bite of the croissant. Flaky layers melted in her mouth, and she let out a blissful hum.

“Good?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“Delicious,” she confirmed, taking a sip from the to-go cup—coffee, just how she liked it. “You remembered,” she added, a bit surprised he knew her coffee order so well.

“I’m observant,” Harry teased, then shrugged. “Plus, you always write it down for your customers at the café. I picked up a few details.”

She rolled her eyes in playful exasperation. “Stalker.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, but the affectionate warmth in his gaze spoke volumes. He let her enjoy her breakfast in comfortable silence, occasionally handing her napkins or topping off her coffee from a French press he’d warmed on the stove. She couldn’t stop smiling at how domestic it felt—a far cry from the chaotic, surreal realization that he was a vampire who’d once drunk her blood.

When she finished, Harry straightened, gesturing down the hall. “If you’d like, the bathroom’s yours. Fresh towels are on the shelf. I figured you might appreciate a shower.”

“That sounds perfect,” she admitted, sliding off the stool. She paused, glancing down at her wrinkled clothes from yesterday. “I don’t suppose you have anything else I could wear?”

Harry’s gaze flicked across her face before he nodded, lips quirking. “I’ll find you something.”

A few minutes later, Y/n was standing under the warm spray of the shower, water cascading over her shoulders. She let out a contented sigh, savoring the simplicity of this moment. Her life felt turned upside down in the most extraordinary way—yet here she was, in his apartment, feeling oddly safe. Even the scent of his shampoo, musky and faintly spicy, was a comfort.

She stepped out, wrapping herself in a thick towel, and found a neatly folded shirt and her jeans waiting on a small wooden bench. She recognized her own jeans, but the oversized shirt was definitely Harry’s—soft cotton worn in all the right places, with sleeves that hung past her elbows. Slipping it on, she inhaled discreetly, catching his lingering scent in the fabric.

I could get used to this.

When she emerged, hair still damp, she found Harry back in the kitchen, rinsing dishes. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, his gaze lingering on the way the shirt dwarfed her frame. A smile ghosted across his lips, equal parts affection and attraction.

“Looks better on you,” he offered, gesturing to the shirt.

Y/n felt a thrill race up her spine. “It’s comfortable,” she admitted, giving the hem a playful tug. “Thanks.”

He turned off the water and set aside a mug, then reached for a kitchen towel. “I forgot to ask, did you sleep okay?” he asked softly.

The unexpected concern warmed her chest. “I slept better than I have in a while.” she said, not bothering to hide the sincerity in her tone. “I always hated sleeping alone.”

Harry’s eyebrows flicked upward, and a gentle expression settled over his face. “I’m glad,” he murmured, crossing the space to her. His hand lifted as though to tuck her damp hair behind her ear, a gesture she was starting to recognize as one of his quiet intimacies. “I wasn’t sure if it’d feel too strange to wake up here.”

She looked up at him, her heart giving a little flutter. “Honestly? I’m still processing everything,” she admitted, “but I don’t regret it. Not for a second.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world outside was all rain-soaked streets and city noise, but in this apartment, everything felt warm and still. Harry’s hand lingered near her cheek, fingertips grazing the collar of his shirt where it rested against her collarbone.

“Stay as long as you want,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you need to head to work, I can drive you. Or you can… hang out here until you’re ready to go.”

She weighed the options, a small smile touching her lips. “I do have work later,” she acknowledged, “but not for a few hours. If you don’t mind the company…”

He shook his head, his own smile soft and quick. “I don’t,” he murmured. “In fact, I’d prefer it.”

Y/n felt that familiar tug of connection—the same magnetic pull that had defined their relationship from the start. Without overthinking it, she stepped closer, lifting herself just enough to brush her lips against his. He was cool against her warm skin, and the contrast sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

Breaking the kiss, she rested her forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I’m not sure how any of this is supposed to work or if it’s even going to work,” she whispered, “but I know I want to at least try.”

Harry’s arms slid around her waist, keeping her close. “So do I,” he promised quietly.

With that, they settled into the soft hush of the kitchen. The rush of the morning, the shower’s warmth still clinging to her, the taste of coffee lingering on her tongue—and his steady presence at her side. It was anything but ordinary, yet it felt wonderfully, undeniably real.

Harry slipped an arm around Y/n’s waist, drawing her close in a slow, gentle movement. The warmth of her body pressed against his cool chest made a pleasant shiver run through her. He bent his head until his nose was near the curve of her neck, and she felt him inhale—long and deep, as though savoring every note of her scent.

“You smell… so sweet,” he murmured, his voice a velvety whisper. “Almost… too good.”

She swallowed, heart thudding in her chest. “Should I be worried?” she asked, her tone light but her eyes searching his face. “About your self-control?”

Harry let a low chuckle escape him, though there was an edge of tension in his expression. “My self-control is… typically very strong. But I have to admit,” his gaze flicked to her throat, then back up to meet her eyes, “you make it difficult.”

Y/n’s heart fluttered in equal parts excitement and caution. It was easy to forget the danger underlying his nature when he was being so tender and thoughtful. But moments like this—when she could practically feel his hunger just under the surface—were a stark reminder of what he truly was.

She brushed a hand over his cheek, feeling his cool skin under her warm fingers. “I don’t want you to lose it,” she said softly, a hint of concern threading her voice. “But… I’m not scared.”

Harry’s eyes reflected a swirl of emotions—desire, conflict, gratitude. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, and she could sense how carefully he controlled his breath.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised, voice low. “It’s the one thing I refuse to do.”

Y/n’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. “I believe you.”

For a moment, they stayed like that: foreheads touching, arms wrapped around each other, letting the city’s distant hum fade into a quiet hush. Despite the tension humming just beneath his cool exterior, she felt safe in his arms.

He slowly pulled back, eyes flicking between her lips and her throat. “One day,” he murmured, almost in a self-deprecating tease, “I might have to invest in a good scent blocker—or work on my restraint even more.”

Y/n’s laugh was breathy as she stroked a thumb gently across the side of his neck. “Or, I could just keep a stash of blood bags around to distract you.”

Harry blinked, then let out a real, easy laugh—a genuine sound that lit up his eyes. “I suppose that’d be one way to go.”

She grinned. “See? Problem solved.”

His laugh subsided into a lingering smile, and he shook his head in mild wonder. “You don’t even flinch talking about that. About what I am.”

Y/n pressed her lips together, feeling the honesty in her chest. “It’s part of you, and I… want all of you.”

Harry’s grip tightened slightly around her waist, and in that moment, she glimpsed a flash of that quiet hunger in his eyes. Not just for her blood, but for her presence—no longer wanting to be alone. She moved in first, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his lips.

When they parted, she rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the city beyond.

Harry, despite the centuries he’d lived, looked at her like she was entirely new—worth every ounce of restraint. 

She felt certain of one thing: she wasn’t afraid.

[thereceptioniststyles]

Boyfriends

Based around the song Boyfriends by Harry Styles

Word count: 9,985

Content warning: fighting, cursing, mentions of alcohol and a lot of angst.

A little over two years ago

The concert was electric, every beat of the music reverberating through Y/N’s chest as she moved through the press pit with her camera. She’d already taken dozens of photos—Harry under the spotlight, interacting with the crowd, lost in the music but she knew her best work came from capturing the moments no one else saw.

As the final notes of the encore rang out, she noticed the security team starting to guide photographers toward the exit. Her mind raced. She couldn’t leave yet. Not when there was a chance to get the kind of candid shots that would set her portfolio apart from the rest of her competitors. 

She slung her camera strap tighter over her shoulder and approached one of the large security guards standing near the backstage entrance.

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. “I know I’m supposed to head out, but I’d really love to capture some candid shots of Harry as he comes off stage. It would tell such a story.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “Not sure that’s allowed. Press isn’t usually permitted back there. Private.”

“Please,” Y/N insisted, her tone earnest. “I promise I won’t get in the way. Just a few quick shots, and I’ll be out of there. I promise.”

The guard hesitated, studying her for a long moment before sighing. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I didn’t see you.”

“Thank you!” she said, already slipping past him toward the backstage area.

She hurried down the dimly lit hallway, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. The muffled roar of the crowd faded behind her, replaced by the sounds of crew members breaking down equipment and distant chatter. This is what she lived for. 

Just as she rounded a corner, the door to the stage swung open, and there he was towel slung over one shoulder, his face glowing with sweat and adrenaline. Y/N froze, momentarily stunned.

Harry’s eyes landed on her, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Well, aren’t you persistent? Must’ve made a pretty convincing case to the security team.” he said, his voice warm and teasing.

Y/N blinked, her grip tightening on her camera. “I just… I wanted to get some shots of you coming off stage. It’s where the magic happens, right?”

He chuckled, running a hand through his damp curls. “Magic, huh? I don’t know about that. Mostly sweat and bad jokes back here.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” she quipped, raising her camera slightly as if to ask for permission.

Harry tilted his head, his smile softening. “Go ahead, photographer. Show me what you’ve got.”

Y/N didn’t waste another second. 

A few weeks later 

The small Italian restaurant was tucked into a quiet corner of New York, dimly lit with candles flickering on each table. It was the kind of place where conversations were hushed, and the aroma of garlic and fresh bread filled the air. Y/N sat across from Harry, her hands wrapped around a glass of red wine, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest as he leaned back, effortlessly relaxed.

“So,” Harry began, a faint smirk on his lips. “I have to ask, do you always beg security guards to let you backstage, or was that just a one-time thing?”

Y/N laughed, her cheeks warming. “I wasn’t begging. I was persuading. There’s a difference and hey! It worked.”

“Right,” he said, drawing out the word playfully. “Well, whatever it was I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so determined to take pictures of me covered in sweat.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “I was trying to capture the moment—the real you. Not the polished, on-stage version.”

Harry tilted his head, his gaze softening. “That’s what caught my attention, you know. I mean, I’ve had photographers at shows before, but you…  had this fire. Like you weren’t just there for the job, you cared about it.”

Y/N’s fingers traced the stem of her wine glass as she looked at him, surprised. “You noticed all that?”

“Of course,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You were practically sprinting down the hallway to get the shot. I remember thinking, ‘Who is this girl, and why is she running so fast?’”

She laughed, trying to play it cool. “It’s my job. I just wanted to do it well.”

Harry’s smile widened. “Well, you did. The way you didn’t hesitate to push for what you wanted. Most people don’t do that around me. I liked it.”

 Y/N raised an eyebrow, her confidence returning. “And what about you? Most people would’ve just walked past me, but you stopped. Why?”

He took a sip of his wine, considering her question. “Maybe I liked the challenge. You didn’t seem fazed by all the… ‘Harry Styles’ stuff. You were just yourself. It was refreshing.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered at his words, but she kept her tone light. “So, basically, you’re saying I charmed my way into your good graces?”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a grin. “And now, here we are. A photographer and her subject having pasta in a little New York restaurant. Life’s funny like that.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” he teased, his voice low. “But I’m glad you begged that security guard. Makes for a good story.”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile. 

Present day

The faint sound of an alarm broke the quiet of the early morning, its persistent buzz pulling Y/N from sleep. She groaned, rolling over and burying her face into the pillow, trying to block out the noise. At the foot of the bed, her chubby orange cat, Teddy, stretched lazily, his tail flicking in mild irritation at the disturbance.

The bed shifted slightly as Harry moved beside her. She peeked one eye open to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging on a pair of flare jeans. His hair was a tousled mess, and he was moving with the sluggishness of someone who hadn’t had enough coffee yet.

“Harry?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”

He glanced back at her, already reaching for a hoodie draped over the chair. “Studio,” he said simply, his tone casual.

Y/N sat up slightly, blinking at him in confusion. “The studio? But… we were supposed to go to the market today. Remember? We talked about it all week.”

Harry froze for a moment, his hand paused mid-reach for his phone on the nightstand. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Oh, right. Sorry, love. Totally slipped my mind.”

She stared at him, the sting of his words sinking in. “You forgot?”

“It’s just been busy,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation—not at her, but at himself. “You could still go, though. Pick up a few things for us?” He gave her a small smile, as if that would smooth things over.

Y/N frowned, leaning back against the headboard. “So, you want me to go alone? After we planned this together?”

“It’s not that I want you to,” he replied, clearly sensing her frustration. “I just can’t get out of the session. It’s important.”

Her chest tightened, the hurt creeping in despite her best efforts to brush it off. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. Lately, the studio seemed to take priority over everything else.

“Right,” she said quietly, her tone laced with disappointment. “I’ll go. Don’t worry about it.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, and he stepped closer to her side of the bed. “Y/N, I’m not trying to upset you. I just need to get this done.”

She looked up at him, her expression guarded. “I know. I get it. You’re busy. It just… feels like you’re always too busy these days.”

His face softened, guilt flashing in his eyes. He opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it, instead leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Y/N forced a small smile, watching as he grabbed his keys and slipped out of the room, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing in the quiet.

She let out a sigh, glancing at Teddy, who had barely stirred from his spot at the foot of the bed. “Looks like it’s just you and me today, buddy.”

Teddy let out a sleepy meow, as if in agreement, and Y/N pulled the covers closer, wondering how long she could keep pretending this didn’t bother her as much as it did.

After getting dressed and going solo to the market Y/N sat on the couch in their London apartment, absently scrolling through her phone. The soft hum of the city filtered through the windows, but inside, the space felt eerily quiet. Teddy, her ever-loyal orange cat, was curled up beside her, his rhythmic purring the only sound in the room.

For weeks now, it had been the same routine. Harry would wake up early, leaving the house before she’d even fully opened her eyes, and come home late, exhaustion etched across his features. He was always kind, always apologetic in his soft-spoken way, but the words “I’m sorry, love” were beginning to feel hollow.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand. She did. Harry was driven, passionate about his music, and that was one of the things she loved most about him. But lately, his determination felt more like a wall between them than something to admire.

She let her phone drop onto the coffee table and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. Every time she tried to bring it up—how distant he seemed, how much she missed him—she felt silly, selfish even. His work was important, and she didn’t want to be the needy girlfriend who couldn’t handle his busy schedule.

But it hurt.

It hurt to feel like she was always the second priority, to have their plans constantly pushed aside for another recording session, another photoshoot, another promotional event. It hurt to go to bed alone and wake up to an empty side of the bed, save for Teddy’s occasional company.

She ran her hands through her hair, letting out a slow breath.

Y/N didn’t need grand gestures or romantic getaways. She didn’t need a fancy dinner or expensive gifts. She just wanted Harry—the Harry who used to stay up late talking with her about anything and everything, the Harry who’d pull her into his arms for a kiss in the middle of the kitchen, the Harry who used to make her feel like the center of his world.

But now? Now it felt like she was living with a ghost of him, someone who passed through their apartment in a blur of schedules and commitments.

Teddy shifted beside her, his big green eyes blinking up at her as if sensing her mood. She scratched behind his ears, her lips tugging into a faint smile.

“I don’t know, Ted,” she said softly. “How do you tell someone you love them, but you’re starting to hate how they make you feel?”

The cat let out a small chirp in response, and she let out a half-hearted laugh.

Y/N shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. But deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before everything boiled over. She could only hold it in for so long. She did what any girl would do and called her best friend for a girls night. 

Y/N paced back and forth in the kitchen, her phone pressed tightly to her ear. Teddy watched her from his spot on the counter, his tail flicking lazily as if he could feel the tension radiating from her.

“Addy, are you busy tonight?” Y/N asked, trying to keep her voice steady but failing miserably.

“Not particularly,” Addy replied, the faint clinking of dishes in the background suggesting she was doing something mundane. “Why? What’s up?”

“I need to rant,” Y/N said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Like, properly rant. Maybe cry a little. You free for a sleepover? I’ll bring wine.”

Addy didn’t hesitate. “Of course, babe. Get over here. I’ll grab the blankets and make a snack spread. You know I never say no to wine and a vent session.”

Y/N felt a small smile tug at her lips, a flicker of relief breaking through her frustration. “You’re a lifesaver, Addy. Seriously.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Addy said, her tone warm. “Now hurry up. We’ve got wine to drink and whining to do.”

Y/N laughed lightly, though her chest still felt heavy. “Be there soon.”

She hung up the call and turned to Teddy, who was now licking his paw as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Alright, buddy, you’re in charge while I’m gone,” she said, grabbing his food bowl and refilling it. Teddy let out a small meow of approval, hopping down to inspect his meal.

Y/N moved quickly, tossing a few essentials into an overnight bag: her favorite pajamas, a toothbrush, her phone charger. She grabbed the bottle of wine she’d been saving and gave Teddy one last scratch behind the ears before locking the door behind her.

The short walk to Addy’s flat was brisk and refreshing, the cold London air biting against her cheeks. She tried to let the walk clear her head, but her thoughts kept circling back to Harry, to the way things had been lately, to how exhausted she felt.

By the time she reached Addy’s building and knocked on the door, she was ready to collapse. Addy flung the door open, already in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, her face lighting up when she saw Y/N.

“There she is!” Addy exclaimed, pulling Y/N into a tight hug. “Come in, wine queen. We’ve got a couch, snacks, and a whole lot of ranting to do.”

Y/N laughed, the warmth of her best friend’s embrace melting away some of the weight she’d been carrying. “You have no idea how much I need this.”

“Trust me, I do,” Addy said, ushering her inside. “Now, start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”

As Y/N sank into the couch, wine glass in hand and Addy by her side, she felt a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—she could figure this out. But for now, she was grateful to have someone who would listen without judgment. Someone who just got it.

The first glass of wine went down smoothly, maybe too smoothly. Y/N poured herself another before Addy even finished her first, and by the time they’d gotten halfway through the second bottle, the conversation had turned raw and unfiltered.

Y/N leaned back into the couch, her cheeks flushed—not just from the wine, but from the surge of emotions she’d been bottling up for weeks. She swirled the last bit of wine in her glass and sighed.

“I don’t even know why I’m so upset anymore,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s not like it’s new. Harry’s been… distant. Detached. Nonchalant, even. Like, I could’ve told him I was leaving tonight, and I swear he wouldn’t have noticed.”

Addy frowned, pulling her knees up onto the couch. “Are you serious? He didn’t even ask where you were going?”

Y/N shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Nope. He probably assumed I’d just be home when he got back—like always. That’s the thing, Addy. He doesn’t notice anything anymore. It’s like I’m… invisible to him.”

Addy’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Y/N, that’s not okay. You’re not a piece of furniture. You’re his girlfriend. He should be noticing you.”

Y/N stared at her glass, her voice quieter now. “We barely even talk anymore. It’s all ‘Sorry, love, the studio ran late,’ or ‘Can you handle this for me?’ It’s like I’m his roommate, not his partner. And the worst part?” She swallowed hard, her chest tightening. “We haven’t been… close. Like, at all. No hugs, no kisses, no… sex. It’s been weeks, Addy. I don’t even know if he wants me anymore.”

Addy’s mouth fell open. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Y/N muttered, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. “And I’ve tried, you know? I’ve dropped hints, I’ve made plans, I’ve even dressed up when he’s home just to get his attention. But it’s like he’s so caught up in everything else that I’m… I’m not even on his radar.”

Addy put her wine glass down and scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “Hey, listen to me. This isn’t about you. Harry is clearly drowning in his own world, and he’s taking you for granted. That’s on him—it’s just what boys do.”

Y/N leaned her head against Addy’s shoulder, her voice breaking. “I just miss him. I miss us. The way we used to be, you know? When we’d spend hours talking, when he’d grab me and kiss me just because. I miss feeling like I mattered to him.”

Addy tightened her hold, her voice firm. “You do matter, Y/N. He’s just too wrapped up in himself to see it right now. But you deserve better than this—better than feeling like you’re waiting around for scraps of his time.”

Y/N sniffed, her tears finally spilling over. “I don’t even know how to talk to him about it without feeling like I’m nagging. What if he’s just… over it? Over me?”

Addy pulled back slightly, looking Y/N in the eyes. “If he’s over it, then he’s a bloody idiot. But you need to talk to him, Y/N. You can’t keep holding all this in. It’s going to eat you alive.”

Y/N nodded slowly, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You’re right. I just… I’m scared, Addy. What if I say something, and it doesn’t change anything?”

“Then you’ll know where you stand,” Addy said softly. “And you can decide what’s next. But no matter what, I’ve got you. Always.”

Y/N managed a small smile, her heart aching but lighter knowing she didn’t have to face this alone. For tonight, though, she let herself sink into the comfort of her best friend and another glass of wine, the weight of her worries just a little easier to bear.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains in Addy’s living room, waking Y/N from a restless sleep. The pull-out couch wasn’t exactly luxurious, but after the wine and emotional exhaustion from the night before, she hadn’t cared.

She rubbed her eyes and reached for her phone on the coffee table, squinting at the screen. A notification from Harry stared back at her, and her heart sank as she opened the text.

Harry:

Would’ve been nice if you told me you weren’t coming home last night.

The words were short and clipped, and Y/N could almost feel the passive-aggressive undertone seeping through. She stared at the screen for a moment, a mix of guilt and frustration bubbling up in her chest.

“Seriously?” she muttered under her breath, sitting up and running a hand through her hair.

Teddy’s bowl had been full, the apartment was clean, and it wasn’t like she had disappeared without a trace. But still, Harry managed to make her feel like she was the one in the wrong.

She typed out a response, her fingers hesitating for a moment before hitting send.

Y/N:

I stayed at Addy’s. I forgot to let you know. Sorry.

She tossed the phone onto the cushion beside her and let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the couch. Her chest tightened with the familiar ache that had been building for weeks.

“Everything okay?” Addy’s voice came from the kitchen. She appeared moments later, a mug of coffee in hand, still in her pajamas.

Y/N looked up and gave her a weak smile. “Harry texted me. He’s annoyed I didn’t tell him I wasn’t coming home.”

Addy raised an eyebrow as she handed Y/N the coffee. “He’s annoyed? The same Harry who’s been barely speaking to you and blowing off plans left and right?”

Y/N shrugged, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “Yeah, that Harry.”

Addy flopped onto the armchair across from her. “Honestly, I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. He has no right to guilt-trip you after how he’s been acting. He sure knows how to get under your skin.”

Y/N sighed, taking a sip of her coffee. “I don’t think he meant to guilt-trip me. It’s just… I don’t know, Addy. Everything feels so off between us. Even little things like this turn into a thing.”

“Because he’s not giving you what you need,” Addy said bluntly. “You wouldn’t feel this way if he was showing up for you. Instead, he’s putting all this effort into everything else and leaving you with scraps. It’s not fair, Y/N.”

Y/N bit her lip, staring down at the coffee in her hands. “I know it’s not fair. But I still love him, Addy. I just… don’t know how to fix this.”

Addy leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You shouldn’t have to fix this alone, babe. He’s your partner. He should be just as invested in making things work. If he’s not, that’s on him, not you.”

Y/N nodded, but the knot in her stomach didn’t ease. She glanced at her phone again, tempted to say more, but decided against it. Instead she got herself together and said goodbye to Addy before making the short trip back to her home. 

Y/N unlocked the door to her apartment, still groggy and in her pajamas, her head pounding from last night’s wine. She stepped inside and was greeted by Teddy, who meowed loudly as if scolding her for being gone.

“Morning, Teddy,” she muttered, bending down to scratch his head before kicking off her shoes.

When she looked up, she froze. Harry was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, his phone in his hand. It was rare to see him home at this hour, and for a moment, she was too surprised to say anything.

He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. “Nice of you to finally come home,” he said, his voice calm but with a cutting edge. “I thought maybe we could’ve done something today, but you were gone and by the looks of it, hungover.”

Y/N blinked at him, her exhaustion giving way to irritation. “Are you serious right now?”

Harry leaned back into the couch, raising an eyebrow. “What? I’m just saying, it would’ve been nice to know where you were.”

Her frustration boiled over, the tension that had been building for weeks finally snapping. “Oh, you mean like all the times we made plans, and you bailed on me? Is that what you’re talking about, Harry? Because if we’re keeping track, you’ve canceled on me more times than I can count.”

Harry rolled his eyes, his tone dismissive. “Here we go again.”

“No, seriously,” Y/N said, her voice rising. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be constantly put second? To have you forget about us because you’re busy with your career? And then you have the nerve to act like I’m the one in the wrong because I stayed at Addy’s for one night?”

Harry set his phone down, looking at her with a mix of annoyance and exasperation. “I don’t have time for this right now. You’re blowing things out of proportion. I’m working hard and you’re acting selfish.”

Y/N stared at him, her mouth falling open. “Selfish? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve been here, Harry. I picked up my life and moved here. To be with you. To be close to you. I am here waiting for you, supporting you, picking up the pieces of this relationship while you put me on the back burner. And now I’m selfish because I’m upset that you don’t seem to care anymore?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “I never said I didn’t care. But I can’t drop everything just to make you happy. I have obligations, Y/N. I thought you understood that.”

“I do understand,” she snapped, her voice trembling. “But what about your obligation to me? Or does that not matter anymore?”

The room fell silent, her words hanging in the air like a challenge. Harry looked at her, his expression softening just slightly, as if he hadn’t realized how deep the cracks had gotten.

Y/N swallowed hard, her voice quieter now. “I’m not asking you to drop everything, Harry. I’m asking you to show me that I matter to you. That we matter, even if it’s only for a few hours.”

Harry opened his mouth to respond but hesitated, the weight of her words settling over him. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t have a quick answer, and that silence spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

With that, she turned and walked toward the bedroom, leaving Harry sitting on the couch. 

Y/N scooped Teddy up on her way to the bedroom, the orange fluffball letting out a small chirp of protest before settling into her arms. She pressed her face into his fur, taking comfort in his warmth as she turned back to look at Harry, still sitting on the couch.

“Well,” she said bitterly, her voice carrying just enough to make her point, “at least Teddy will spend time with me.”

Harry didn’t respond, his face unreadable as she turned away and headed down the hallway. She pushed open the bedroom door, setting Teddy down gently on the bed. He immediately curled up in his usual spot, his tail flicking as Y/N climbed in beside him.

Pulling the blankets around her, she stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling. The fight had drained her, but her mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything—Harry’s dismissive tone, the way he had rolled his eyes at her, the frustration and sadness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her chest.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to think of something better, something good. Slowly, her thoughts drifted to the earlier days of their relationship, when everything felt effortless and magical.

Like the time Harry had surprised her with a trip to Disneyland Paris.

She smiled faintly at the memory, her heart aching with nostalgia. It had been just over a year into their relationship, and she’d mentioned in passing one night how she’d always dreamed of going but never had the chance. She hadn’t thought much of it—just another drowsy late-night conversation between them—but Harry had clearly been paying attention.

He’d woken her up early one morning, a mischievous grin on his face. “Pack a bag,” he’d said, barely able to contain his excitement. “We’re going on an adventure.”

She’d laughed, confused but thrilled as he refused to give her any details. It wasn’t until they were at the airport, with two tickets to Paris in his hand, that she realized what he had planned.

“You didn’t,” she had whispered, staring at him in disbelief.

“I did,” he’d replied, his grin widening. “What’s the point of dreaming if you don’t make it happen?”

The trip had been everything she’d hoped for and more. They’d spent the days running from ride to ride, indulging in too many churros, and taking pictures in front of the castle. He’d bought her a pair of Minnie Mouse ears, which she’d worn the entire time despite teasing him for wearing his matching Mickey ears.

And at night, under the glow of the fireworks, he’d wrapped his arms around her and kissed her like they were the only two people in the world.

It was one of the most thoughtful, romantic things anyone had ever done for her, and it had cemented her belief that Harry was someone special—someone who truly saw her.

Now, lying in bed, those memories felt like they belonged to a different time, a different version of them. She glanced down at Teddy, who had dozed off at her side, his soft purring filling the silence.

“How did we get here, Ted?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Teddy didn’t respond, of course, but his presence was steady, a small comfort in the midst of her swirling emotions.

She rolled onto her side, clutching a pillow to her chest as tears silently slipped down her cheeks. She missed the Harry from those days—the one who surprised her with trips, who laughed with her over burnt pancakes, who made her feel like the center of his world.

Y/N stirred slightly when she heard the quiet creak of the bedroom door opening. She kept her eyes closed, her breathing steady, even as she felt the bed shift under Harry’s weight. He laid down beside her, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled in.

The faint scent of alcohol hit her almost immediately, making her chest tighten. Her eyes opened just a fraction, though she remained on her side, facing away from him. Had he been drinking?

Her heart sank further. Of course, he had every right to do what he wanted—he was an adult, after all. And after the way she’d walked home hungover this morning, she didn’t exactly have the moral high ground to say anything about it.

But still.

The thought of him out, drinking alone or with people who weren’t her, only deepened the ache that had been gnawing at her all day. It wasn’t about the drinking itself—it was about the growing distance between them, the choices they both seemed to be making that pushed them further apart.

She lay there in silence, staring at the faint shadows dancing across the wall. Part of her wanted to roll over, to ask him where he’d been or why he smelled like tequila. But another part of her—the tired, frustrated, heartbroken part—couldn’t muster the energy for another confrontation.

Instead, she stayed still, her hand resting gently on Teddy’s fur as he purred softly in his sleep. She could feel Harry’s presence beside her, close enough to touch, yet it felt like there was an ocean between them.

After a moment, she heard him exhale deeply, the bed shifting slightly as he adjusted his position. She wondered if he was awake, if he was thinking about the fight they’d had earlier, if he even realized how much she missed him.

But no words came. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unyielding.

The next morning, Y/N forced herself out of bed despite the heaviness that still lingered from the night before. Teddy trailed behind her as she shuffled around the apartment, gathering her gear for the day’s photo shoots. She threw on a comfortable outfit, pulled her hair into a loose bun, and grabbed her camera bag, trying to shake off the lingering ache in her chest.

Photography had always been her escape. It didn’t matter if she was capturing sweaty concerts or snapping portraits of families; behind the lens, she felt purposeful. Grounded.

The day passed quickly as she moved between locations, her subjects ranging from a young couple celebrating an anniversary to a family of five with a rambunctious toddler. She smiled, laughed, and gave her all to each session, momentarily forgetting the tension waiting for her at home.

When the shoots were done, she wandered the streets of London, her camera still slung over her shoulder. The city was alive with people, the winter air crisp as she strolled past cafés and flower shops. She pretended to savor her independence, stopping to snap a few shots of the bustling streets, but the nagging loneliness in her chest was impossible to ignore.

By the time she returned home, the sun had set, and the apartment was dark and quiet. She dropped her bag by the door, kicking off her shoes as Teddy padded over to greet her.

“Hey, buddy,” she murmured, scooping him up for a quick cuddle. The silence in the apartment felt heavier than usual, and she sighed as she put him down and reached for her phone.

She typed out a quick text to Harry:

Y/N:

Hey, are you going to be home for dinner? I was thinking of ordering Chinese.

She stared at the screen for a moment, willing the typing bubble to appear. But it didn’t. After a few minutes, she gave up and placed the order anyway, opting for her usual dishes.

By the time the food arrived, Harry still hadn’t responded. She ate quietly at the table, Teddy perched on a nearby chair, his curious gaze following every bite.

It wasn’t until later that night that she heard the front door open. Harry walked in, his jacket slung over one arm and his keys jangling in his hand. She turned to look at him from the couch, immediately catching the faint scent of alcohol.

“Hey,” she said softly, trying to keep her voice even. “I texted you earlier. I was going to order Chinese. Thought maybe we could eat together.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression neutral. “I was with the band,” he said, his tone casual as he set his keys on the counter.

Her chest tightened. “I would’ve liked to come out with you,” she said, standing up and crossing her arms. “It’s been ages since we’ve done something together, Harry.”

He looked at her, an edge of defensiveness in his eyes. “It wasn’t a big deal, Y/N. Just me and the guys. You wouldn’t have wanted to sit around and listen to us talk about music all night.”

Her frustration bubbled to the surface. “You don’t know that! You didn’t even ask. I would’ve loved to just… be there with you. Spend time with you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not like I’m trying to exclude you. I just—”

“You just don’t think about me anymore,” she interrupted, her voice quieter now but no less hurt. “Do you even realize how lonely it’s been, Harry? You come home late, you barely talk to me, and now you’re out drinking with the band while I’m here eating takeout by myself.”

He stared at her, his jaw tightening. “I’m doing the best I can, Y/N. You think this is easy for me?”

“No, Harry, I don’t think it’s easy,” she shot back. “But it’s not supposed to be just you. It’s supposed to be us. And lately, it feels like I’m the only one trying to hold onto that.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line, and she felt the familiar ache in her chest grow heavier.

Without another word, she turned and headed toward the bedroom as she had been night after night, and of course with Teddy trailing behind her. 

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, trying to steady the rush of emotions building inside her. Teddy rubbed against her legs, offering silent comfort, but her chest still felt impossibly heavy. She heard Harry’s footsteps approaching and tensed, unsure if she had the energy for yet another argument.

When the door opened, she glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, his hand gripping the frame. For a moment, she thought he might apologize—finally acknowledge the hurt he’d been causing her.

But instead, his tone was sharp. “You’re always making this about you, Y/N. Do you ever stop to think about the pressure I’m under? Or is it just easier to sit here and point fingers or bitch at me?”

Her jaw dropped, the sting of his words hitting harder than she expected. “Are you serious right now?” she asked, her voice trembling with both anger and disbelief. “Did you come in here just to insult me?”

Harry’s expression shifted, the fire in his eyes dimming as her words seemed to sink in. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he said quietly, his voice faltering. “That’s not… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you said it,” she replied, her tone cold as she stood and faced him. “If you’re under so much pressure, why don’t you talk to me about it instead of shutting me out and turning to alcohol? Why am I the one who has to sit here, waiting, wondering if you even care anymore?”

Harry looked at her, guilt flashing across his face, but he didn’t have an answer. His silence spoke volumes.

Y/N nodded slowly, her mind made up in that moment. She couldn’t keep living like this, caught in the limbo of his neglect and her own heartache. “You know what? I think I need some space. I think weneed some space.”

His brows furrowed, his lips parting as if to argue, but she cut him off.

“I’m going to fly home and spend some time with my family,” she said, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “You need to figure out what you really want, Harry. Because this—” she gestured between them—“this isn’t working. And it’s not just on me to fix it.”

Harry hesitated, his expression torn. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “I do. And you need to do some real soul searching while I’m gone. Drinking in secret, shutting me out… that’s not going to help you or our failing relationship. You can’t keep running from whatever it is that’s eating away at you.”

He didn’t protest, didn’t argue. Instead, he simply nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor.

The lack of resistance stung more than she cared to admit, but it also solidified her decision. If he wasn’t willing to fight for them, she couldn’t keep fighting alone.

Y/N took a deep breath, stepping past him and grabbing her suitcase from the closet. As she started packing, she felt a strange mix of sadness and relief.

The next morning, Y/N woke up with a knot in her stomach. The decision she had made the night before still felt right, but that didn’t make it any easier. She moved through the motions quietly, packing her suitcase and making sure Teddy had enough room in his carrier. The orange fluffball meowed pitifully as she zipped him inside, his big eyes watching her with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“I know, buddy,” she said softly, rubbing a hand over the top of the carrier. “We need this. Trust me.”

The cab ride to the airport was quiet, the city slipping past in a blur. She avoided looking at her phone, unwilling to see if Harry had texted or called. She doubted he had.

Hours later, she landed in upstate New York, the cold January air biting at her as she stepped outside the small airport. Her cousin Mia was already there, leaning against her car, arms crossed and a scarf wrapped snugly around her neck.

As soon as Y/N walked over, dragging her suitcase and holding Teddy’s carrier, Mia’s sharp gaze zeroed in on her. “Okay, spill. What the fuck happened? And why did you just up and leave your international pop star boyfriend?”

Y/N sighed, her breath fogging in the icy air as she loaded Teddy into the backseat. “Can we maybe not do this in the parking lot?”

“Nope.” Mia slammed the trunk shut after tossing in Y/N’s suitcase and leaned against the car door, refusing to budge. “You flew across the Atlantic with your cat. That screams big drama, and I need the tea, like, yesterday.”

Y/N groaned, running a hand through her hair as she leaned against the car next to Mia. “It’s complicated, okay?”

“It always is,” Mia replied, her tone both sarcastic and supportive. “But I’m gonna need more than that. Did he cheat? Is he secretly married? What’s the deal?”

Y/N shot her a glare. “No, nothing like that. He’s just… he’s been distant. Forgetting plans, working all the time, barely talking to me. It’s like I don’t even exist to him anymore.”

Mia tilted her head, studying her cousin. “Okay, so he’s an idiot. Got it. But why leave? Why not just, I don’t know, call him out on his bullshit?”

“I did,” Y/N said, her voice cracking slightly. “I tried, Mia. I tried so many times. And last night, he…” She paused, swallowing hard. “He came home smelling like alcohol again, and when I told him I would’ve liked to go out with him, he said it wasn’t a big deal, like I didn’t matter. And then he had the nerve to call me selfish when I got upset.”

Mia’s jaw dropped, and she raised a hand. “Oh, hell no. He did not.”

Y/N nodded, her chest tightening as the memory of the fight replayed in her mind. “So, I told him I needed space. That I was coming home for a bit, and he needed to figure out what he wants. And he just… let me go.”

Mia let out a long whistle, shaking her head. “Okay, first of all, good for you for leaving. Second of all, what an absolute dumbass. Like, I’m sure he’s charming and hot and whatever, but damn, girl, he doesn’t deserve you acting like this.”

Y/N let out a small laugh despite herself. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to know him,” Mia said with a shrug. “I know you. And if he’s making you feel like shit, then he’s not doing his job as your boyfriend.”

Y/N nodded, her heart feeling a little lighter for the first time in days. “Thanks, Mia.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mia said, opening the car door. “We’re gonna fix this. Either he pulls his head out of his ass, or we find you a hot new boyfriend who actually knows how to treat you right. Deal?”

Y/N smiled, climbing into the passenger seat. “Deal.”

As Mia started the car and pulled out of the lot, Y/N leaned back in her seat, gazing out at the snowy landscape. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was exactly where she needed to be.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N poured herself into rediscovering the things she loved, the parts of herself that had been lost in the haze of her strained relationship. She spent her days hiking the trails of upstate New York, taking in the crisp air and breathtaking views, her camera always in tow. At night, she indulged in greasy slices of pizza from her favorite childhood spot, the simple comfort of it reminding her of easier times.

She found herself smiling more, laughing louder, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was living for herself again. The weight that had pressed on her chest back in London had begun to lift, replaced with a growing sense of independence and self-assurance.

One night, Mia announced that it was time for a proper girls’ night out. “You’ve been hiking and taking artsy photos long enough,” Mia teased, rummaging through Y/N’s suitcase. “We’re hitting the clubs tonight. You, me, and some dangerously overpriced cocktails.”

Y/N laughed, watching as Mia held up a dress she hadn’t worn in months. “I don’t know, Mia. I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of scene again.”

Mia rolled her eyes, tossing the dress at her. “Nonsense. You need this. Trust me.”

Hours later, Y/N found herself in a crowded club, the bass thumping so hard she could feel it in her chest. She’d forgotten how freeing it felt to just let go, to dance without a care in the world, the swirl of neon lights and the buzz of tequila making everything feel lighter.

Mia kept her entertained with her usual wit, sharing hilarious, sometimes borderline chaotic stories about her own life. Y/N laughed until her sides hurt, her worries melting away with every sip of her drink.

“Okay, okay,” Mia said, holding up her hands as they stood by the bar for a breather. “You remember that guy I told you about—the one with the weird obsession with his bonsai trees?”

Y/N snorted into her drink. “How could I forget?”

“Well,” Mia continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “turns out he didn’t just have bonsai trees. He had dollhouses. Like, full-on, hand-painted dollhouses. I walked into his apartment, and it was like stepping into a miniaturized version of my nightmare.”

Y/N burst out laughing, nearly spilling her drink. “You’re kidding!”

“I wish I was,” Mia said with a dramatic sigh. “Anyway, that’s why I’ve sworn off dating guys who call themselves ‘artists.’”

The two of them dissolved into laughter, the kind of deep, genuine laughter that made Y/N’s cheeks ache. She hadn’t felt this carefree in months.

As the night went on, Y/N found herself dancing again, her body moving instinctively to the rhythm of the music. She felt alive, untethered, and—for the first time in a long time—free.

Mia nudged her at one point, grinning mischievously. “See? I told you this was a good idea.”

Y/N nodded, her smile wide as she looked around the room. “Yeah. You were right. I needed this.”

And in that moment, as she twirled on the dance floor with her best friend cousin by her side, she realized that she was falling in love again—not with someone else, but with herself.

The morning light streamed through the windows as Y/N stood over the stove, flipping bacon while Mia chopped fruit at the counter. The apartment smelled of coffee and breakfast, the comforting sounds of sizzling and light chatter filling the space.

A sudden knock at the door broke the rhythm.

Both girls froze, glancing at each other. “You expecting anyone?” Y/N asked, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” Mia replied, setting the knife down. “Probably Amazon or maybe bonsai guy finally returning to plead his case.” She smirked and tossed the dish towel over her shoulder.

“Go see who it is,” Y/N said, flipping the bacon. “And hurry back before this burns.”

“On it.” Mia walked to the door, muttering about early-morning interruptions as she swung it open.

She froze, her hand gripping the door, her mouth falling open. “Holy fuck,” she said, her voice loud and full of shock.

“What?” Y/N called, turning away from the stove, confused by Mia’s tone. “Who is it?”

When Mia didn’t answer, Y/N wiped her hands on her pajama pants and walked toward the door. Her heart started to race, a strange tension settling in her chest.

As she reached the entryway, she saw him.

Harry.

He stood there in the hallway, looking slightly disheveled, his hair messy, his coat hanging open. His expression was a mix of determination and something softer, something that made Y/N’s breath catch in her throat.

Their eyes met, and for a long moment, the world seemed to stop.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of everything left unsaid.

She froze, her hands still at her sides, her mind racing as she tried to process the fact that he was here—standing on the doorstep of Mia’s apartment in upstate New York.

From the kitchen, Mia called out, “Do I keep the bacon going, or are we about to have a soap opera moment?”

But Y/N didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed locked on Harry, her chest tightening as she waited for him to say something more.

Y/N’s shock quickly gave way to a mix of confusion and irritation as she stared at Harry, standing there like he belonged on her cousin’s doorstep in the middle of upstate New York. Her arms crossed instinctively, and she narrowed her eyes.

“What are you doing here, Harry?” she asked, her tone sharper than she intended. “How did you even find me?”

He shifted on his feet, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. “You still had your location on,” he said simply, his voice calm. Y/n felt a little dumb for not realizing she forgot to turn that off. Even then, he had connections and could’ve easily found out where she was. 

Y/N’s jaw dropped, her confusion boiling with frustration. “You tracked me?”

“You didn’t answer my calls or texts and your phone went straight to voicemail,” he replied, his voice soft but steady. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, anger bubbling up. “If you’re here to try and convince me to come home. I’m not going back.”

“I’m not asking you to come home,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze. “I just want to talk. That’s all.”

She stared at him, searching his face for any sign of an ulterior motive, her mind racing. Before she could respond, Mia’s voice cut through the tense silence.

“Y/N, for the love of God, if you’re going to yell at him, do it outside,” Mia called from the kitchen, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I have neighbors, and I don’t want them thinking we’re hosting some kind of reality TV reunion in here.”

Y/N clenched her jaw, letting out a frustrated breath as she glanced back at Mia, who was leaning against the counter, arms crossed with an amused expression.

“Fine,” Y/N muttered, turning back to Harry. She grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and stepped outside, letting the door click shut behind her. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she barely noticed as she faced Harry again.

The cold morning air hung around them as they walked down the quiet, woodsy street, the crunch of gravel under their shoes the only sound at first. Y/N kept her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her jaw clenched as she waited for Harry to speak. He walked beside her, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, his head slightly bowed.

Finally, after a few minutes, he broke the silence. “I royally fucked up,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I took you for granted, Y/N. I thought… I thought you’d always be there, no matter how much I messed up, no matter how distant I got. And that was wrong.”

His words lingered in the crisp air, but Y/N didn’t respond. She kept her eyes ahead, her steps brisk and determined.

When he didn’t say more, she stopped abruptly and turned to him, her voice sharp with frustration and hurt. “You’re right it was wrong, Harry. Do you even realize how much you’ve hurt me? How lonely I’ve felt these past few months?”

Harry stopped too, his gaze dropping to the ground.

Y/N took a deep breath, her words spilling out in a torrent. “You’ve been more intimate with the studio than you’ve been with me. Do you know how humiliating it is to feel like you’re competing with someone’s job? To watch you pour your passion into everything else?”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And the worst part,” she continued, her voice breaking, “is that I thought… I thought we were heading toward something real, Harry. I thought maybe you’d propose soon, that we’d start building a life together or a family. But now? Now it feels like we’re just heading for a breakup.”

Her words hung heavy between them, the raw honesty of her pain hitting like a punch to the gut. Harry finally looked up, his expression anguished, but he still didn’t speak.

“You didn’t even fight for me when I left,” Y/N said, her voice quieter now but no less hurt. “You just let me go, like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.”

“I—” he started, but she held up a hand.

“No. Don’t say anything yet. Just… listen.”

He nodded silently, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I love you,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I can’t keep doing this if you’re not going to meet me halfway. And if you can’t give me that, then maybe we shouldn’t be together.”

The words came out heavier than she expected, the weight of them settling in her chest as she stared at him. For the first time since they’d started walking, Harry’s eyes locked on hers, a mix of guilt and something else—something she couldn’t quite place—flickering in his gaze.

But he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, listening, the gravity of her words sinking in. And for once, Y/N felt like he truly heard her.

Harry shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his hands still buried deep in his coat pockets. He looked at her, his jaw tightening for a moment before he let out a long breath.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he admitted quietly, his voice heavy with guilt. “Except that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly, her arms still crossed as she waited for more. She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook so easily.

He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been… I’ve been a bloody idiot, Y/N. I didn’t realize how much I was messing this up until you left. And even then, I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I’d already lost you.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t speak. She wanted him to get it all out.

“So, I—” He hesitated, his cheeks reddening slightly as he looked back at her. “I talked to my mum.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “You talked to your mum about us?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t know who else to go to. She called me clueless—which, fair enough—but she also gave me some advice.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching despite her frustration. “Oh, yeah? What’d she say?”

Harry’s gaze softened, his voice dropping. “She told me to stop thinking about what’s easy for me and start thinking about what’s right for us. She said if I couldn’t figure out how to show you how much you mean to me, then I don’t deserve to have you in my life.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart twisting at the honesty in his voice.

“She also told me I’m a terrible communicator,” he added with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “And that I’ve probably made you feel like shit more than once without even realizing it.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” Y/N said, her voice tinged with both irritation and something softer.

Harry nodded, his expression serious again. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, Y/N. I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. But I’m here because I don’t want to lose you. I want to be better—for you, for us. I just… I need a chance to prove it.”

She stood there, the cold air biting at her cheeks as she searched his face. There was something different about him now, something that felt raw and unguarded. She wasn’t sure if it was enough, but for the first time in weeks, she felt like he was truly seeing her.

She didn’t reply right away, letting his words hang in the air as she turned them over in her mind. Finally, she sighed and looked down at the ground. “You’ve got a lot to prove, Harry. And I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair as the tension in her shoulders began to ease. She looked at Harry, his eyes still searching hers with an intensity that made her heart twist. Despite everything, despite the hurt and frustration, she couldn’t deny how much she missed him.

“I really missed you,” she admitted softly, her voice trembling just enough to make him lean closer. “Even when I was mad at you—even when I thought I couldn’t stand the sight of you—all I wanted to do was just… jump on you and kiss you. Hug you.”

Harry’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of surprise and relief washing over his face. “You mean that?”

“Of course, I do,” she said, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “I love you, Harry. That’s why this hurt so much. You’ve always been my person, and for a while there, I didn’t feel like yours anymore.”

His face softened, and he took a tentative step closer, his voice low. “You are, Y/N. You’ll always be my person. I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t.”

The sincerity in his voice melted the last of her defenses, and she let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her eyes. “You’re so lucky I love you. But you better believe I’m going to make you work for it.”

“I’m ready,” Harry said with a soft smile.

Y/N tilted her head, her smile widening as a thought crossed her mind. “You know, I’m a little embarrassed now.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” she said, letting out a laugh, “I have to go back inside and tell Mia that we made up. And trust me, she was rooting for full-blown drama. She’s probably already drafting a speech about why I should dump you.”

Harry chuckled, his first genuine laugh of the morning. “Think she’ll let me stay for breakfast, or is that asking too much?”

Y/N smirked, shaking her head. “Don’t push your luck. But if you charm her enough, she might give you a piece of bacon.”

“Well, I’m pretty good at charming people,” he teased, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her.

Y/N rolled her eyes but leaned into him, finally letting herself relax in his embrace. She rested her head against his chest, inhaling his familiar scent, and for the first time in weeks, she felt like things might actually be okay.

“Come on,” she said after a moment, pulling back slightly. “Let’s go face the dragon.”

Harry grinned, threading his fingers through hers. “Lead the way.”

As they approached the house, Y/N noticed a familiar figure standing in the window. Mia was leaning against the sill, a mug of coffee in her hands, her face a mix of amusement and curiosity as she stared out at them.

“Looks like she’s already got commentary locked and loaded,” Y/N muttered, glancing at Harry with a smirk.

“Should I be scared?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Always,” Y/N replied with a grin.

When they stepped onto the porch, Mia was already opening the door, one hand still clutching her coffee. She looked them over, her eyes flicking between Y/N’s flushed face and Harry’s sheepish expression.

“So,” Mia began, drawing out the word with a smirk. “I’m guessing you two worked it out, considering the lack of yelling and door slamming.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yeah, we talked. You’re not getting the drama you were hoping for.”

Mia shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “Honestly? I’m kind of happy. As much as I love you, Y/N, I also really love walking around my house in my underwear. Having you here has seriously cramped my vibe.”

Harry stifled a laugh as Y/N gawked at her cousin. “Oh, my God, Mia!”

“What?” Mia said, grinning as she stepped aside to let them in. “I’m just saying, you two reconciling works out for everyone. Love wins, and I get my space back. It’s a win-win.”

Y/N shook her head, laughing as she stepped into the house with Harry following behind. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you love me,” Mia said with a wink, heading back to the kitchen. “Now, who’s hungry? And Harry, if you’re sticking around, you better pull your weight. Bacon doesn’t flip itself, pop star.”

Y/N glanced at Harry, who was clearly trying not to laugh as he hung up his coat. “Welcome to the family,” she said with a grin.

“Thanks,” Harry replied, leaning closer to whisper, “I think I’m more scared of Mia than I was of losing you.”

Y/N smacked his arm playfully, but the smile on her face lingered as they followed Mia to the kitchen. 

[thereceptioniststyles]

Alone Together

On a chilly New Year’s Eve, Y/N, seeking an escape from loneliness, finds herself unexpectedly swept into a night of warmth, fireworks, and romance when longtime crush Harry shows up at her bar table.

Word Count: 2,297

Content Warning: mentions of alcohol.

Y/N swirled her drink absentmindedly, the ice clinking against the glass as she took a slow sip of her rum and coke. The bar was alive with laughter, music, and the countdown buzz of New Year’s Eve, but she felt strangely detached from it all. Alone, tucked into a shadowed corner booth, she watched the revelry through tired eyes.

People clinked glasses and kissed cheeks, confetti already beginning to litter the floor as the clock edged closer to midnight. The bubbly fizz of her drink stung her throat, grounding her in the moment, though her mind was far away. Why had she even come here? The idea of ringing in the new year surrounded by strangers had felt less lonely than staying at home, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

Her phone buzzed on the table—a message from someone she wasn’t ready to read. Instead, Y/N set the glass down with a sigh and glanced toward the bar. Maybe she’d get one more drink before the ball dropped… or maybe she’d finally leave the past year behind for good.

Y/N sighed, her hand hesitating over her phone as it buzzed again. The text notification glowed on the screen:

Sarah Jones: Hey! Mitch and Harry are nearby. Mind if they join you at the bar?

Her heart skipped. Harry. That Harry. It wasn’t like she didn’t know Sarah’s friend—she’d met him a handful of times through her bestie and her boyfriend Mitch, but those encounters were fleeting, polite. And now, Sarah was offering to send him her way, along with Mitch?

Y/N glanced around the crowded bar. The thought of company, especially familiar faces, was tempting. She didn’t know if she could handle starting the new year completely alone, but the idea of sitting at a table with Harry Styles brought its own kind of pressure.

She took another sip of her rum and coke and typed back:

Y/N: Sure, why not?

Her thumb hovered over the send button before she hit it. The text went through, and she exhaled deeply.

Y/N barely had time to second-guess her decision before Mitch and Harry appeared at the entrance, their tall frames instantly recognizable even in the dim, crowded bar. Mitch spotted her first, grinning as he nudged Harry and pointed toward her table. Y/N felt her heart race as they wove through the throng of people, her grip tightening on her glass.

Harry was dressed effortlessly, of course—black jeans, a slightly unbuttoned shirt under a blazer, his signature rings catching the light as he waved at her. Her stomach flipped. He was unfairly charming, his presence commanding yet easygoing, and it only heightened the fluttery feeling she’d been trying to suppress for years.

“Happy almost New Year!” Mitch greeted, sliding into the seat across from her. Harry followed, his warm smile lighting up his face as he settled in beside Mitch.

“Hope we’re not crashing your night,” Harry said, his voice smooth and low. He leaned slightly forward, his green eyes locking with hers in a way that made her pulse quicken.

Y/N shook her head quickly, hoping her voice didn’t betray her nerves. “Not at all. I could use the company.”

Mitch ordered drinks for himself and Harry while they chatted about the chaos of the night. Y/N tried to focus on the conversation, but Harry’s easy laughter and the occasional brush of his hand against hers on the table were distracting. She stole glances at him, thinking about the secret she’d kept from everyone except Sarah—her quiet, hopeless crush on him.

“Been here long?” Harry asked suddenly, drawing her attention back to him.

“Uh, not too long,” she said, fidgeting with her glass. “Just long enough to people-watch and second-guess my choice of drink.”

He chuckled, tilting his head. “Rum and coke’s a classic. Solid choice.”

She smiled, feeling her shoulders relax a little.

Y/N took another sip of her drink, feeling a small surge of confidence as the rum warmed her chest. She tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she turned to Harry.

“So,” she began, her voice teasing, “are you out tonight looking for a New Year’s kiss?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, a sly smile spreading across his face as he leaned back in his seat, the dim bar lights reflecting in his eyes. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone laced with humor, but his gaze lingered on her for a beat too long, making her stomach flip.

Mitch, clearly sensing the tension, let out a chuckle and raised his glass. “Don’t let him fool you—he’s hopelessly romantic under all that charm.”

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly, but his smirk didn’t fade. “I don’t know about that,” he said, his gaze flicking back to Y/N. “Just seems like a nice way to start the year off right, don’t you think?”

Y/N felt her cheeks warm, and she quickly looked down at her drink to hide her flustered expression. “Yeah, I guess so,” she murmured, trying to sound nonchalant.

But the way Harry’s eyes stayed on her made her wonder if there was more to his words than just idle flirting.

Mitch excused himself a moment later, claiming he needed to grab a drink at the bar and leaving Y/N alone with Harry. She tried not to overthink it, but the second Mitch was gone, the atmosphere between them seemed to shift. The crowded bar faded into the background, leaving only the two of them in their little corner.

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he studied her. “You’re not one of those people who hates New Year’s Eve, are you?” he asked, his tone curious but light.

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not exactly. I just… don’t really know what to do with it. It’s a lot of hype for one night, you know?”

“I get that,” he said, nodding. “Sometimes it feels like everyone’s trying too hard to make it perfect. But, every once in a while…” He paused, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Something surprising happens, and it makes the night worth it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you always this cryptic, or is that just a New Year’s Eve thing?”

Harry chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Maybe it’s the rum,” he joked, nodding toward her drink. “Or maybe it’s just me trying to impress you.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she tried to play it cool, leaning back in her seat. “Impress me? That’s a tall order, Styles.”

He grinned, leaning forward even more, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, I do love a challenge.”

Before she could respond, Mitch returned with a fresh drink, breaking the moment. But even as they all settled back into conversation, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted between her and Harry. And with the countdown to midnight inching closer, she wondered just how far he was willing to take his “challenge.”

The noise inside the bar grew louder as the countdown neared, voices chanting in unison as the energy reached a fever pitch. Y/N glanced at Harry, who gave her a slight nod toward the door.

“Fireworks are better outside,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her coat and followed him. The cool night air hit her as soon as they stepped out, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bar. The street was quieter, though the distant sound of music and cheers still carried through the night. Above, the sky was clear, stars faint against the glow of the city lights.

She crossed her arms, shivering slightly as a gust of wind swept past them. “I didn’t realize it would be this cold,” she muttered, trying to rub warmth into her arms.

Harry chuckled softly beside her. “London is cold, huh?” he teased.

Before she could respond, he slipped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer. The move was so natural, so easy, that it took her breath away. His warmth enveloped her, and for a moment, she forgot about the chill altogether.

“Better?” he asked, his voice soft, his chin just barely brushing her temple.

She nodded, leaning into him slightly. “Much better.”

They stood like that for a moment, the sounds of the crowd inside muffled as the first distant boom of a firework lit up the sky. Bright colors burst above them, painting the night in shimmering light. Y/N tilted her head up to watch, but she couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of her heart, the way it seemed to sync with the rhythm of Harry’s breathing.

“One minute,” he said quietly, his voice rumbling against her ear.

She swallowed hard, her pulse quickening. Was this really happening? She’d dreamed of moments like this but never thought they’d feel so… effortless. So real.

The countdown began in the distance—ten, nine, eight—and Harry loosened his hold just enough to turn her toward him.

“Seven, six…”

Her eyes met his, and she saw the question there, the unspoken tension that had been building all night.

“Five, four…”

Her breath hitched as he leaned in closer, the world around them fading away.

“Three, two…”

And then, with the final chime of “one,” Harry closed the distance, his lips brushing hers as the first firework exploded above them. The kiss was soft and tentative, a perfect beginning to what felt like something more.

It was gentle at first, almost hesitant, as if Harry was giving her a chance to pull away. His lips were soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cool night air that bit at her skin. The fireworks overhead painted fleeting bursts of color across their faces, but Y/N barely noticed. All she could focus on was the way his hand cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing her cheek in a delicate, reassuring motion.

As the initial surprise melted away, she leaned into him, her hands instinctively finding their place on his chest. The kiss deepened slightly, still unhurried but charged with a quiet intensity. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic—it was tender, meaningful, as though he wanted to savor every second.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together, and Harry’s breath mingled with hers in the cold air. His green eyes searched hers, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N felt a laugh bubble up, her cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from the realization that this moment, this kiss, was better than anything she’d imagined. “Happy New Year,” she whispered back, her voice catching slightly as her heart raced.

Harry pulled back slightly, his arms still resting loosely around her. The fireworks overhead cast fleeting shadows across his face, but it was his smile that caught Y/N’s attention—a soft, almost boyish grin that made her heart flutter all over again.

“So…” he began, his voice warm and teasing. “That kiss seemed pretty good, yeah?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she looked up at him. “I mean, I’ve had worse,” she teased, though her smile gave her away.

Harry chuckled, his thumb brushing lightly against her shoulder. “Well, if you’re not busy sometime soon… maybe we could test it out again? You know, under more proper circumstances. Like a date.”

Her breath caught, the playful glint in his eyes making her pulse quicken. “A date?” she repeated, as if she needed to confirm it wasn’t just her imagination.

He nodded, his expression softening. “Yeah. Dinner, drinks… whatever you like. Just you and me.”

Y/N smiled, her cheeks warm despite the chill in the air. “I think I’d like that,” she said, her voice quieter now, the weight of the moment settling over her.

Harry’s grin widened, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Good,” he said, his tone almost triumphant. “It’s a date, then.”

They lingered there for a moment longer, the fireworks still bursting in the sky above them, but all Y/N could think about was the way the new year had already surprised her in the best possible way.