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harrystylescherry · 3 years

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In My Feelings Part Six

a/n: holy fuck. part 6 is here. she’s done. she’s long. enjoy her and pls be nice to me.

what it is: you and harry hate one another but that doesn’t stop you from fucking

warning: choking, cursing–i always feel like warnings can ruin the like, surprise or spoil the smut so im telling u now, if choking is too much for you, the other shit in this will not be for u either so read at ur own risk :)

word count: 28k --i am so sorry

pls pls pls reblog if you liked it!

i’d love to hear your feedback :)

SERIES MASTERLIST

here we go:

November 1, 2020

As you brushed your teeth, you tried your best not to get toothpaste on the little lamb’s face. You were leaning over your sink, almost bent at a ninety degree angle with the sleeves pushed all the way up to your elbows.

You had barely remembered putting on Harry’s sweatshirt to wear to bed the night before, but when you woke up that morning—fully sober—you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off. It was warm and still faintly smelled of him. You figured that your lapse in judgement the night before came from the fact that he rejected you, a fact that you tried extremely hard not to read into. Then again, how could you not? He had never rejected you before, not once. In fact, his need for you, his want for you, was the one constant thing about him. Desire was the one place you felt as though you had the upper hand and now…you had nothing.

It didn’t make sense at all. After all of it the night before: the talking, the flirting, him calling you baby, wanting to be friends, you admitting that you no longer hated him, him taking you home, he let you go upstairs alone. You couldn’t figure it out and each time you tried, you felt slightly worse about yourself.

You contemplated taking the sweatshirt off for the fifth time that morning as you dropped your toothbrush in its holder. You decided to keep it on, figuring that if you took it off, it would surely be lost in the pile of clothes covering your floor and then he would never get it back. You needed to keep it close so that you remembered to wash it later that day.

After exiting your bathroom, you pulled the sleeves back down and then rolled them up so you had access to your hands before turning on your speaker where it sat on your nightstand. Before opening up your Spotify, you checked your messages with Harry again, even though you knew there would be no message. You hadn’t gotten a single notification since he sent the smiley face in response to you telling him you were safely in your apartment the night before. As you closed the messaging app, you sighed and then hit shuffle on the new LANY album.

You sat down at the tiny dining table that also functioned as your desk (which also served as a divider between your kitchen and the rest of the small studio) and opened your laptop. You knew you could’ve texted Abby about Harry agreeing to do the interview, or even called her, but considering how angry she seemed the last time you saw her, you decided it was best to give her the news in the most professional way possible. After putting in her email address and cc-ing the appropriate people, you wrote: Harry Styles has agreed to be interviewed by me. Some bits from the interview have been attached. His team will be in contact sometime this week. After attaching the word doc you had spent the morning preparing, you quickly hit send and sat back in the old chair.

It took Abby less than five minutes to respond in the form of a text. She wanted to know when to expect contact from Harry’s management and whether or not you spoke to him about a possible cover. The second text informed you that they wanted him featured in, or on the cover of, the January issue, meaning that everything would have to get done rather quickly. Apparently, they had already figured out who would be styling him and taking the photos—if he agreed to do it.

You deflated a little in your chair and rubbed at your eyes before picking up your phone to answer. You loved your job, you really did, but it was Sunday and you were tired of thinking about Harry. You needed a break.

He had been on your mind all day yesterday, and most of the day before that, and when you woke up that morning—you just needed a few hours, maybe even a day, where he didn’t exist to you. You wanted it to be like it was when you hated him because then you never had to think about him at all. There were no confusing and conflicting feelings, there was no curiosity about what he was doing, there was no checking your phone like a pathetic idiot who hoped she had missed a text. It was ridiculous behavior—especially since you barely liked him. Maybe this was the friend thing that Harry was talking about. Maybe you did want to be friends.

If that was the case, then what was stopping you from reaching out to him? Friends could text friends—in fact, Harry had explicitly told you last night that he wished you texted him. He wanted to talk more and so if you texted him, you really would only be doing it for his benefit. It had nothing to do with you. You needed to talk to him about the interview anyway. It was for him and for business.

Before you could stop yourself, you had tapped the ‘call’ button and brought the phone up to your ear. It was a mistake. Not only did you not know what to say, but you had never called him before and so you felt awkward about it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up.

“Hello?”

“Hey!”

“(Y/N)?” He sounded both confused and surprised, despite the fact that he must have seen your name pop up on his phone.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hi, love. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing?” Your brow furrowed. “Should something be wrong?”

“No, no. Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to call me—ever.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a little weird.” There was a dull kind of panic stuck in your chest.

“S’not weird at all.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. There was an obvious tension, an obvious awkwardness, and you knew it was on you to try and break it since you were the one who called.

You cleared your throat and leaned forward in order to rest both of your elbows on the table, your right hand still holding your phone to your ear while you played with your earring with your left, attempting to distract yourself from your nervousness. “So, the interview.”

“Mhmm.” It sounded as though he was moving stuff around. For a second you thought about apologizing for bothering him, but decided against it. He would’ve told you if it wasn’t a good time, right?

“So I told my boss that you agreed and I sent her some of what we had and she liked it.”

“That’s great.”

“Uh, yeah. She wanted me to double check when you were going to contact the magazine to get everything finalized or whatever because she wants the interview in the January issue…and maybe a cover.”

“The cover, yeah?” You could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Yeah—but I told her that we hadn’t really talked about that and, like, that would be something to work out between you and her or whatever.”

“I’d love to be on the cover.” You felt a small bit of relief wash over you. “But only if you’ve got a part in planning it and all that. We’ve already talked about this, remember?”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “Yes, we did.”

“Sound a bit disappointed.”

“I’m just not sure if they’ll go for that. I’m not exactly a photographer, or a creative director, or a stylist, or—“

“But you’re my friend. And I trust you.” You didn’t say anything. “Oh, right, yeah, sorry. Forgot we weren’t friends—or at least I’m not yours.”

“No, no, that’s not it. I-I could see us being friends. I would like to be friends.”

“When do you want to continue the interview?”

You were beyond thankful that he was changing the subject. “Well, if you do end up doing the cover, the timeline will be pretty tight so, soon.”

“Yeah, okay, just let me know what day works for you and then—“

“Wednesday!” You closed your eyes and held in a frustrated sigh when you heard how eager you sounded.

“This Wednesday?”

“Uh, yeah, maybe after you’re out of rehearsals or something?” You pulled at a loose thread in Harry’s sweatshirt. “Maybe you could come over and I could, I don’t know, make dinner or something?”

“You’re going to make me dinner?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’ll be getting home from work and you’ve got rehearsals so we’ll probably both be hungry. Anyway, I think it would be weird if you just came over for the interview. Like, awkward or something.”

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. You were inviting him over to your apartment and offering to cook for him. He could hear how unsure you were, how nervous you seemed. He felt a lot more hopeful than he should’ve and fought the urge to think of it as a date. But it was, wasn’t it? You wanted to see him and you were making it happen under the guise of continuing the interview, but you could’ve easily agreed to let him know and ended the call. This was more than the interview—it was because you wanted to see him.

“Yeah, I’m free Wednesday night.” He actually wasn’t sure if he was, or how late rehearsals would go, but he wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. He had never seen your space before—his “living in a box” comment from weeks ago came from Sarah who described your place as extremely tiny. He wondered what it looked like, what your style was, and had a feeling that if he he didn’t agree to see you then, he wouldn’t get the opportunity again.

“Good, okay, yeah.”

Harry placed his empty mug in the kitchen sink before turning around and leaning against the counter. He smiled at how cute you sounded, slightly flustered and obviously nervous. “Anything else, love?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t think so. I’m not sure when you’re done with rehearsals so I guess just let me know whatever time works for you.”

“I will.” Harry pulled his bottom lip between his fingers, unsure whether or not to ask the question. He wanted to tease you, to say “it’s a date,” but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t go down well. He wanted to ask if this meant you had a crush on him, jokingly ask whether or not you ask all the guys you interview to have dinner with you, but he knew that any one of those options would absolutely ruin whatever was going on between the two of you.

“Does this mean I’ll be hearing from you more often?”

“What?”

“This call.” Harry explained. “Does this mean we’ll be talking more often?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It is, it is. Just wanted to make sure this wasn’t just a one time thing.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not a one time thing, right? Like, this isn’t just about the interview?” He cringed right after he asked it. He sounded insecure, which he hated.

“No, it’s not. I mean, probably not—I mean—“ You sighed. “I do kind of like spending time with you and so I guess I kind of could maybe want to be friends.” Your words were rushed, but he caught every single one.

“Good.” Harry’s phone started buzzing in his hand, and when he pulled it away from his ear, he saw that he had an incoming call from Jeff. “I’ve, uh, got to go, but I’ll talk to you soon, yea? Before Wednesday.” He didn’t like the idea of hanging up, but Harry needed to take Jeff’s call since it was to discuss the exact thing you had called about.

“Okay. Text me whenever. Bye.”

Harry said goodbye before hanging up and answering Jeff. They spent the next forty-five minutes to an hour discussing what Harry’s terms would be—there was really only one and it was the condition of your involvement. When Jeff asked why it was so important to him that you be involved (besides the “obvious reasons”), he admitted, without even thinking, that it was because you knew him.

Harry knew that this mostly wasn’t true. It had only been the past two months that the two of you had even started talking. You had only hung out together on your own once or twice (if the morning after a hookup could even be considered hanging out). Neither of you really knew much about each other yet—he knew where you came from, but only to the extent that you grew up in New York. He knew close to nothing about your family—or what kind of music you listened to, what you did in your spare time (besides going out), who your other friends were, if you were a sweet or salty person, what kind of movies you were into, what kind of guys you were into—if it was just guys you were into. You knew just as little about him.

That being said, he had a feeling that you understood him in some weird way. You would know what he was comfortable with and what he wasn’t. Also, you never had a problem telling people what you really thought, whereas Harry never wanted to come off as controlling or ungrateful in situations such as photoshoots. If he told you he didn’t like something, he knew you would absolutely make it known. One of the things he did like about you was that you always seemed to be looking out for the people you cared about—and he was kind of looking forward to being in that position, even if it was only for a few hours.

You spent the rest of the day going over that call in your mind. As you worked on the article and answered emails that couldn’t wait until tomorrow, your own words played back in your mind. Your invitation was too quick and too eager. Making him dinner? Telling him you wanted to be friends? Telling him you enjoyed spending time with him? What was wrong with you?

You couldn’t figure out why you were so eager, why you would even want him in your space, why you would want to make him dinner--but you did want those things. That was the scariest part. It took the entire day for you to convince yourself that it was because you did want to be friends and so you were simply being friendly. You had cooked for Sarah and Charlotte before—even Adam. The only difference was that Harry was the only one you had had sex with, which maybe changed things a little. No, you decided, it changed nothing. Harry could be a friend in the same way—and this was you trying.

November 4, 2020

You spent the entire day nervous at your desk. It was ridiculous and frustrating because what you were nervous for should’ve been the last thing to make you feel that way. It was Harry—Harry—the person you hated, then heavily disliked, then kind of tolerated, and then—well, now—someone you actually kind of enjoyed being around.

It was going to be a professional night—at least that’s what you kept promising yourself. He would come over, you would make him dinner and ask him some questions, and then he would leave. That’s it. There would be no kissing, no touching, no giving into him—if he even tried anything. You still hadn’t forgotten the fact that he rejected you a few nights ago.

It was also something you had kept to yourself. You knew you could’ve talked to Charlotte about it, but you were kind of embarrassed. You also didn’t want to sound pathetic, which was how you felt, because it shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. So what if he didn’t want to go up with you? Maybe he was way too drunk, too tired, or had an early morning. It shouldn’t have mattered regardless because you weren’t supposed to care. Whatever was happening with Harry was happening casually, randomly, without any kind of feeling involved. That’s how it started and that’s how it would continue.

But why did you need so much convincing? Why did you spend the entire day distracted by the idea of him in your apartment, in your kitchen, in your bed (again, this was not going to happen, but it was an intruding thought)?

Harry was the reason you had fallen behind schedule that day and why, at 5:30, you were just starting to get ready to go home. Usually, you were out of the office by five the latest, and that day, you had even planned on finishing a bit early so that you would have ample time to go to the store and change before Harry arrived at yours around 7:30. You were sure that you could still get it all done (especially the quick tidy you planned on doing) as long as you left right then and took a cab to the store because the tube during rush hour was impossible.

As you were pushing your desk chair in, you heard Abby’s voice call your name from behind you. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before turning around.

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here for a second?” She had turned around and walked back into her office before you could say anything. You put on your coat and took your bag with you, hoping it would signal that you were attempting to go home, fully knowing that it wouldn’t make a difference.

When you entered her office, your eyebrows raised in surprise when you saw that she wasn’t alone. Occupying the two chairs in front of her desk were Tyler and Camilla, a photographer and stylist for the magazine. Suddenly it dawned on you. This was meant to be Harry’s team for the shoot.

In a meeting with Abby the day before, she explained the terms of Harry’s agreement (which you already knew) and told you to expect another meeting with the people she had in mind for the shoot—apparently this was the meeting.

“Hey, (Y/N).” Tyler greeted before getting up to drag the extra chair that sat in the corner of the office in between him and Camilla. You greeted both of them before taking a seat.

“So what do you think?” Abby asked as she clasped her hands together in her lap.

“What do I think? Of what?”

“Tyler shooting and Camilla styling. For Harry’s cover.”

“Oh.” You looked between the both of them. It felt incredibly awkward and intimidating to be in that position. You were just a writer. Tyler had done some amazing shoots and Camilla never missed when it came to her styling. They both had impeccable taste. You weren’t supposed to be giving them your approval. It felt wrong. “I think they’re great.”

“You didn’t even look at their ideas.” Abby said incredulously.

You fought the urge to bite back. Ever since the whole Harry thing, she hadn’t been as nice as she once was to you—and part of you understood it. At the moment, you had too much power for your rank and keeping her bosses happy meant allowing you the power you didn’t even ask for. Abby definitely wasn’t threatened by you, but she didn’t exactly seem to like the position you were in. You probably wouldn’t either if you were her.

Tyler pulled a mood board from next to him and leaned it against the desk. He talked about Sussex, trampolines, a fake sky against the real one; there were fabric samples and color schemes pinned down next to inspo photos. Then, Camilla pulled out a small binder and showed you some of her styling ideas. The dresses and skirts were what caught your eye.

“I think he would love that.” You said as you pointed to a long kilt.

“I was thinking of maybe asking Harris Reed to participate? Harry Lambert as well, obviously. I know he’s a Gucci rep too, so I think we should include something from them.”

You nodded and smiled at her.

“Satisfied?” Abby asked.

“Do you think Harry would like it?” Tyler asked as he moved the mood board back to the floor.

“Yeah, I do. I think he would like it a lot, actually.”

“Well, you know him best.” Abby leaned back in her chair with her arms crossed over her chest, a too nice smile adorning her face.

You sent her a sheepish smile and then glanced quickly at the clock on her wall. It was already six.

“Is there anything else?” You tried not to sound impatient.

“I’ve already talked to Harry’s people. There’s going to be a fitting next week. You need to be there.”

Your brow furrowed. “I do?”

“You do. Apparently, you being involved means involved.” You didn’t particularly like the way she looked at you when she said it.

Your cheeks heated when you felt both Camilla and Tyler’s eyes on you. You could only imagine what they were probably thinking and in that moment, you wanted to suffocate Harry. The idea of being involved seemed fine in theory, but it was turning out that it was going to suck. Apparently sexism was alive and well—you were sure that’s what it was, that they were thinking exactly what you thought they were. It was the easy answer. You were sleeping with him and that’s why he wanted you to be involved, it was why you got the interview, why you would be getting one of the biggest bylines of the year.

Sure, it was true that you were sleeping with him, but it wasn’t why you got the interview. You got the interview because you were the only one Harry trusted to do it—a direct result of the magazine messing things up with him twice before. Turns out, during one meeting they tried leaning into the “ladies man/sex god” angle, which was a huge mistake. Apparently whoever the writer was meant to be hadn’t done a single bit of research on the media coverage Harry had gotten over the years. As a One Direction fan (a secret you would take to your grave), you knew all about the womanizer bullshit.

The second meeting had apparently gone fine in terms of visuals for the photoshoot, but the stylist was intent on dressing him only in suits—extremely masculine and boring suits. Again, apparently no one had done their research. They even attempted to use the same writer.

Harry wanted you involved because apparently whoever had been making those choices at the magazine couldn’t do their job right. Sleeping with him was its own thing, completely separate from all of this. It was something you did when you were drunk, and once sober. It wasn’t anything, but you had a feeling that they all thought it was. It made your stomach turn.

“I can be there.” You tried to smile again.

“I know you will.” Abby stared at your for a moment before sighing and standing up from her chair. “Well, that’s all. I’ll send an email out once we’ve got an exact date and time for next week. You’re all dismissed.”

You stood up quickly and clumsily dragged the chair back into its corner as Tyler and Camilla got their stuff together. You walked out after Tyler and exchanged goodbyes with them before you power walked out of the office. For a second you thought about taking the stairs, but you were in heels and the idea of falling down several flights didn’t really entice you. So you tapped your foot in impatience as you took the elevator down what felt like a million floors and huffed in annoyance when it took just a little bit too long for you to hail a black cab.

Once you were tucked inside, you sent Harry a quick text telling him that you were running late. You asked if he would be okay to come over at eight instead and felt yourself relax when a small thumbs up appeared above the message.

Harry didn’t know what to wear. He was being stupid and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring into his closet blankly for over twenty minutes. He wasn’t sure what the vibe was. It wasn’t a date—or maybe it was but he knew you would never call it that—but it wasn’t something entirely professional either, as much as you probably wanted to pretend it was.

In his mind, it was something akin to date. He planned on kissing you and flirting with you and trying to make you like him back. He didn’t like that his feelings were one sided. His teenage boy crush was in fact not a crush and he was pretty sure that if he really got to know you, it would be over for him. Which he had decided was fine.

He spent at least two hours the night before staring at his ceiling thinking about you and the way that he felt about you. He had known that he was pretty fucked for a while, but the way he had been thinking about tonight had more than convinced him that he was a goner. He had been for a while, but his constructed version of you got in the way of him seeing it.

He was meant to be at yours in a little over thirty minutes, which was exactly how long it would take him to get there. He sighed in annoyance before settling on one of his usual t-shirts, a pair of slightly distressed jeans, and one of his favorite cozy sweaters.

He spent the drove over debating whether or not he should pick up some flowers. He hadn’t thought about bringing anything beforehand, but the second he settled himself into the driver’s seat, it was all he could think about. It wasn’t a date, but it felt wrong to show up empty handed. If he brought a bottle of wine, it would be less romantic than flowers, but he wasn’t sure what kind of wine you preferred. He didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked either, but surely it was the safer option.

When he was only a few streets away from your place, he decided to stop at a small shop. He slid on a pair of sunglasses despite how dark it was outside and pulled his hood up. Thankfully, the shop was pretty much empty except for two people and the workers. He lingered in front of the wine section for far too long, picking up reds, then whites, reading the labels and trying to figure out what you would probably like. He finally settled on pinot noir, deciding that it was a pretty safe choice.

There was a small section of flowers towards the front of the shop where the self checkout machines were. He couldn’t get roses. They were too much, too romantic and would surely give away the fact that he saw this as a kind of unspoken date. The sunflowers didn’t seem to be very you, as much as he loved them and lilies reminded him too much of funerals. The mixed bouquets were extremely bright and ugly looking. So he settled on the pink peonies. They were pretty, not too much, and if he remembered correctly, were part of the small bouquet tattoo that was on your ribcage.

When his finger landed on the button next to your name, he was officially fifteen minutes late. Harry hoped you didn’t mind, especially since you had been running late first but still felt slightly bad about it. He had the flowers tucked into the crook of his left elbow and the bottle in his left hand while his right fiddled with his rings nervously.

He hated that he was nervous. It felt both lame and overdramatic. The two of you had hungout before, had sex, and hurled awful insults at one another with what felt like extreme comfort. Why should this be any different?

He knew exactly why. This was a date—he knew that you knew it was too. This wasn’t getting coffee, or being out with friends, or kissing because you were drunk. It was spending time together sober, in an intimate way. You had to know it was a date.

When his buzz got no response, he hit the button again and held it for a little longer.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Sorry, sorry. I had…stuff all over my hands. Come up.” You sounded distracted even through the fuzzy intercom.

When Harry heard the door unlock, he pulled it open and walked quickly to the elevator. He knew he was eager, but he didn’t really care much. He was excited to see what your place looked like, what you looked like in it. That was always interesting to him: the way people behaved in their own spaces versus the way the behaved in other, more social spaces. He had a feeling you would probably be the same. You’d be confident and witty and stoic, but he hoped you would be a little softer, a little warmer, the way you sometimes were with him.

Whatever music you were listening to seeped under the door where Harry stood. It was muffled but he swore he could hear you singing along. He knocked three times quietly, but immediately realized that the chances of you hearing that were slim to none. He knocked again, a bit harsher, and a few moments later, he heard it unlock before it swung open.

“Hi.” Your eyes were bright but you seemed flustered.

“Hi.” You both stood there staring at one another for a beat too long. “Uh, these are for you.” He held out the flowers and you took them a little hesitantly, with a small smile on your face. “And this—I wasn’t sure what you liked, though so—“

“Oh! I love this one.” You interrupted as you read the label and Harry smiled back at you in relief. “Thanks. The flowers are really pretty.”

There was a heavy tension between you. Lately, it seemed as though there always was and he wanted it to go away but he wasn’t sure how to make that happen.

You two were staring at one another again. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was. Was he meant to hug you hello? Kiss you? Maybe on the cheek? He had no idea where to go from there and apparently neither did you.

You cleared your throat softly before stepping out of the doorway. “Uh, come in.”

He stepped over the threshold and watched as you closed the door behind him. “I seem to be a bit underdressed.” He joked as he checked you out.

It wasn’t actually a joke. While he was comfortable and casual, you looked about ready to go out. You were wearing a long sleeve black wrap dress that seemed to be made from suit material. It was short and ended a few inches below your butt. It was extremely low cut, a problem you had solved by wearing a silky, cream colored button up underneath. The first few buttons were undone, revealing your usual gold necklaces and he collar of the shirt laid casually over the dress; the blouse’s sleeves also peeked out a bit from under the dress’s. Harry’s favorite part of the outfit though, was the cream colored Gucci tights. They were sheer with an extremely minuscule fishnet pattern, with the Gucci logo patterned throughout. You looked amazing—and he felt frumpy.

“You’re not, really. I wish I was in jeans and a sweater right now.” He followed you towards the tiny kitchen space. “I wanted to change after work but I was so behind and it was either change or clean up my apartment and I figured cleaning was the right choice.”

He stood at the small island and watched you open a cabinet and pull out a pink, glass vase.

So, you did live in a box. There was very little kitchen space; the stove and sink were only a few inches apart and directly next to the sink was the fridge. The only counter space you really had was the small island that was a little less than half the size of his. The only other bit of counter space you had was to the left of the stove, but it was covered in cookbooks. The kitchen floor was tiled in black and white and you had painted the cabinets and base of the island sage green. He wondered if you were allowed to do that, but quickly realized that you probably didn’t give a shit.

On top of the cabinets, which he knew you could absolutely not reach, was different colored bended candles which had never been lit as well as two planters, one yellow and one a rust color, adorned with small smiles that had no plants in them. What looked like one of your brother’s class schedule was stuck to your fridge, along with a few family pictures (it still shocked him that you had three brothers, he wasn’t sure why), an old photo of a man that had been torn in half, and a handwritten recipe for lemon bars. Harry thought it was charming and so badly wanted to turn around and scope out the rest of the place, but didn’t want to be so obvious.

You placed two glasses on the island between the two of you before grabbing the wine.

Harry held his hand out. “‘Ve got it, love.” He opened the wine and began filling the goblets you were using as wine glasses. They were the same height and same shape, but the designs on them were different. “These are cool.”

“I got them on Brick Lane. You know the vintage market before the one that’s underground?” Harry nodded even though he was only vaguely sure of what you were talking about. “There’s an older guy there who sells old glassware so cheap. I got most of my stuff from there.”

“You really love it over there, don’t you?” He asked before bringing the glass to his lips.

“I do. I’m honestly there most Sundays.”

“Really? I might have to join you next time.” It was a test.

“I’d like that.” You tried to mask your smile by taking a drink from your glass. Suddenly, the sizzling noise coming from the stove became much louder and your eyes widened slightly. “Fuck!” You placed your glass on the counter and turned back to the stove quickly.

Harry walked around the island and joined you where you stood stirring. He stood close enough that every time you moved, your back brushed against his chest, but he kept himself from dropping an arm around your waist or running his hand along your back. “Smells good.”

“Let’s hope I don’t burn it.” You were sautéing mushrooms, garlic, and peas in a pan, while a small pot of broth sat heating up next to it.

“Do you cook often?” He asked as you removed the vegetables from the pan and put them in a small bowl, added more oil to the pan and then dropped in shallots with ease.

He felt your shoulder shrug against his chest. “I did for a while before I moved in with my grandparents but then my grandma did all the cooking.”

There were at least a thousand questions on the tip of Harry’s tongue. He was so curious about your family and had a feeling it would help him understand you in a way he couldn’t as of then. He was afraid of asking those questions though, especially since the night had barely started. He was afraid of upsetting you or putting you in a bad mood. He wanted tonight to go well because he needed it to.

“Do you need help with anything?” He asked dumbly as you poured rice into the pan.

“You can get me the wine if you want?” You said as you looked up at him over your shoulder.

“Our wine?”

“No, the small bottle of white. It should be on the island somewhere.” You waved the hand that wasn’t stirring the rice behind you.

Before walking away, Harry placed his left hand on the small of your back and dropped a quick kiss to your head. You didn’t react at all, which he took as a good sign. He knew things had been going well between the two of you and that he could be more affectionate with you if he dared, but the affection usually came after or before sex. It never usually happened in a normal moment—as normal a moment as the two of you could have, anyway. Even at the Halloween party, sure there was affection, but the two of you were drunk. And then he rejected you. He was still waiting for you to bring that up.

He quickly located the tiny glass bottle and brought it over to you along with your glass of wine. Harry stood next to you, leaning his left hip on the counter and waited patiently for you to pour the wine into the rice. After he handed you your glass and received a soft “thank you,” he continued to hover.

Harry was wondering if you’d let him kiss you. He didn’t really know how to go about asking. He was afraid it was too weird, too random, too couple-y, which you two were not—like, at all.

He wanted to kiss you. The need was growing as he watched you stir the rice carefully, a soft echo forming in the small space as you sang along to the song playing in your work clothes and slightly smudged eyeliner. He wanted to reach out and pull you into him—but he had no idea how. He didn’t know how to do anything with you, how to be anything with you. It all seemed too scary and complicated. You were intimidating and you always had been, but now that he had feelings for you, it was amplified.

“You look really pretty.”

“Hm?” You glanced up at him.

He cursed internally. The music in the kitchen was too loud and you weren’t paying attention and he said it too low. Why was this so hard? He had never had this problem when he was drunk—or at all. Compliments were always easy for him. He loved handing them out, especially when they were genuine. Again, the complication was rearing its head, his insecurities were out, and he was so unsure of how all of this could go.

“You look really pretty.”

You tried to fight back a smile. “Thank you.”

Harry reached his right hand out and tugged lightly on the tie of your dress which was wrapped around your waist. “I like this.” He could see that you were trying not to look fazed. He dropped his hand and then brushed the backs of his fingers on the side of your thigh. He was trying to warm you up, he was trying to make you want to kiss him too. He thought it was working.

You attempted to hide a shiver and knew he had you.

“I know what you’re doing.” You kept your gaze focused on ladaling broth into the rice, but a playful smile broke through. “And your lack of professionalism astounds me.”

Harry smiled and took a step closer, removing almost all of the space between the two of you. He looped his arms around your waist and rested his interlocked fingers on your right hip. “If you kiss me, I’ll go away.”

You let out a small laugh through your nose. “Promise?”

“Kiss me and I’ll pretend not to be hurt by that.” Harry grinned as he watched you roll your eyes dramatically.

“You’re such a child.” You complained as you turned your head towards him and leaned in.

He knew you would try to make it quick, attempt to appease him with a barely there kiss—and you did, already pulling away the second your lips touched his. His right hand left your hip quickly and landed on the back of your neck. Harry pulled your back towards him and stole another kiss, a deeper one, only pulling away because the sizzling had gotten louder again.

“Satisfied?” You asked, a small glow in your eyes.

Harry attempted to shrug nonchalantly. “For now.”

You shook your head and moved your attention back to the rice. “This was supposed to be about the interview.”

Harry wandered back to the island where he left his glass. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Have you spoken to Sarah at all?”

He knew you were going to change the subject. Certain behaviors of yours were predictable at this point: you would always run or change the subject instead of actually dealing with anything complicated, instead of ever admitting that you maybe liked being with him.

“Have you?” He knew you hadn’t, but he also knew how much all of it was probably bothering you and that you wouldn’t have spoken to Charlotte about it for a lot of reasons. He was giving you the chance to talk about it if you wanted to.

He watched your shoulders deflate as he refilled his glass. “No. I mean, I’ve texted her but she hasn’t answered me at all. Charlotte said the same thing.”

Harry walked over with both his glass and the bottled and topped yours up as well. “We haven’t really spoken either. Obviously, we talk at rehearsals, but barely. She only speaks to me and Charlotte when she has to. I think everyone else knows something’s wrong, but no one says anything.”

You sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For Sarah. I should’ve told her.”

Harry moved back behind you and squeezed your shoulders before letting his hands run lightly down your arms. “Oh, stop. It was none of her business. She’s the one with a problem, no one else. She’s got to get over it.”

“Have you said anything to Mitch?”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath and dropped his hands from your arms. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

“Oh, god. What did you do?”

“I haven’t done anything yet!” Harry laughed. “I want to tell him, I think. Everything is just weird and complicated now. It would be so much less weird if everyone knew.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” Harry took a sip of his wine.

“Yeah. Charlotte and Sarah know. It’s not like everyone else isn’t going to find out and, I don’t know, maybe Mitch could talk to Sarah.”

“She’s stubborn.”

“She’s also wrong.” You answered quickly and then took a deep breath. Harry knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of your anger and he hoped Sarah would get over herself before she was forced to learn what it was like.

“Do you need any help?” Harry asked again, not wanting to dwell on the Sarah situation anymore and also feeling completely useless. He had spent the past twenty to thirty minutes wandering aimlessly around your kitchen while you did everything.

“Uh, yeah, actually. Can you finish stirring the last of the broth in so I can get the salad ready?”

Harry nodded and accepted the wooden spoon from you. He listened intently to your directions involving the cheese and vegetables that needed to added back in before taking your place.

“Do you think I could ask you some questions while you do that or would that be too much for your brain?”

He rolled his eyes at your shitty joke. “Like, for the interview?” He received a sound of confirmation. “Go on.”

Harry heard you place your phone on the counter behind him and turned so he could look at you and the phone could pick up his words better.

“This era we’ve really seen you branch out into more traditionally feminine styles when it comes to what you wear in videos, during performances, on red carpets and all of that. Was that something you were scared to do or was it comfortable? How much has the way you think about the idea of masculinity changed since you’ve started getting into womenswear?”

Harry continued to be shocked by you and your questions. You weren’t reading off your phone or a piece of paper. You were in the middle of dropping greens into a medium sized, blue striped bowl. He knew you were smarter than him (you had made that more than abundantly clear) but it was moments like this where the fact really smacked him in the face.

Harry dumped the small bowl of cheese onto the rice as he tried to explain how his thinking had changed in the past two years. He had dabbled in the idea of womenswear during his first era, and even before that, but since then he had really jumped into the pool—which obviously accompanied a transformation in thinking.

He talked about Lambert and Harris Reed and how he didn’t find the separation of gender in fashion satisfying, how it only served to box everything in and how if you remove the binary from fashion, it becomes a whole lot more fun and creative.

“Is it true that you meditate twice a day?” It was a follow up he wasn’t expecting.

He chuckled. “Yeah, it is.” Harry dropped the vegetables into the pan before turning to look at you again. You looked confused. “What?”

“Twice a day is a lot.”

“It’s good for you, for me. It makes me feel better.”

“I could never.” You shook your head.

“Have you tried?”

“Yes, actually. In college I saw this therapist for a bit who tried to get me to meditate, but I couldn’t. Apparently it was because I couldn’t cooperate or take it seriously. I think it’s because my brain is just incapable of shutting down that way. I feel like it’s always in fight or flight mode. It doesn’t have time for breaks, you know?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. You were talking without even thinking about it. Your focus was on cutting up small cherry tomatoes and slices of cucumber. He knew that if you had remembered that your phone was recording, you would’ve never said what you did. You were opening up and he didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t used to you talking to him like this and he had so many questions.

“I think so.” There was a beat of silence. “You were in therapy?”

You brushed off the question with a wave of your hand. “Wasn’t everybody at some point?”

“I guess, but—“

“Okay, everything’s ready now.” You were telling him to drop it.

You brought a large, glass, green bowl over to the stove and signaled for Harry to empty the pan of risotto into it. “Do you mind putting this on the table over there?”

Harry did as you asked as you grabbed the salad and successfully attempted to hold both glasses of wine in your hand.

The table was already set and Harry smiled when he saw the plates; they were white, with a bumble bee trim. The water glasses had tiny flowers on them and all of it seemed so sweet, set up on the small, square, dark wood table. The nicks in it were clear, as well as a stain from what seemed to be nail polish, but it made it all the more charming.

“Sarah got them for me last year. For my birthday.” You said while you put the bowl you were holding on the table when you noticed Harry examining the plates.

He thanked you when you placed his glass in front of him.

You both settled across from one another and dropped your napkins on your laps. Once you both had a good portion of risotto on your plates, you set your phone on the edge of the table between the two of you.

“Should we keep going?”

Harry spent dinner stealing glances around your apartment as he answered your questions and the two of you fell into tangent-like conversations.

A few feet away from the kitchen was the living room section of your apartment. On the back wall was your small, blue couch that had a chunky knitted blanket thrown lazily over its arm. It sat on a colorful, over dyed rug that looked old and worn. Your small, dark wood coffee table was covered in fashion magazines as well as a tabbed copy of what looked like Writer’s Digest. Between the couch and a door, which he assumed lead to the bathroom, was a full length gold mirror.

On the opposite was was a tiny fireplace that he was sure didn’t function at all since you had shoved a bunch of candles inside—which also seemed to have never been lit. Above the fireplace was a tv attached to the wall and an art print of a half naked woman, but it was very tasteful in Harry’s opinion. To the left, between the fireplace and the door of your place, was a tall bookshelf. It was overflowing with books, none of them seemingly arranged in any kind of order. There was even a small stack on the floor in front of it.

Straight ahead, parallel to the table the two of you were sitting at was your bed. It sat right under one of the only windows and was unmade, a cream colored comforter piled on top of the mattress. Its colorful, decorative pillows were on the floor and the green sheets seemed twisted in a ball. To the right of the bed, against the wall was a large, dark wardrobe that was left open. To the left of the bed was a clothing rack adorned with jackets and overshirts. Art hung all around the window and a hamper peeked out from its corner behind the wardrobe.

Harry concluded that it was very you. It was pretty and seemed extremely curated, but slightly messy and mismatched--all together charming. It was also cozy, which was what he had been hoping for most; it was proof that there was another side to you he hadn’t been totally privy to yet.

He was really enjoying this time with you. It didn’t feel as if he was being interviewed, but like he was simply talking to a friend, or on a date with someone who was genuinely curious about the kind of person he was. Your questions were insightful and, in a way, allowed him to completely control the conversation and the angle the conversations took. You never once tried to steer it away from what he was focusing on or ask any questions that lead a particular way.

You also added to his answers, helping him explain things he fumbled over or didn’t quite have the words or knowledge to explain exactly, mostly when it came to the whole concept of gender politics and talking about the books he enjoyed reading. He saw that you were enjoying being able to flex the gender studies knowledge you had obtained in college and so he allowed you to even explain things he already knew, simply because he loved the way you looked when you talked about something you cared about.

“I can clean up.” Harry said as you stood up from the table, your hands poised to pick up your plate and the salad bowl.

“No, it’s fine. I can do it.”

“No, love. You did all the work. ‘Ve got it.”

“Okay.” You sat back down, but only for a moment. It felt weird to sit and do nothing while he cleaned up after you. You also just weren’t very used to having someone do those things for you. You had lived mostly on your own since you were eighteen and before that, you helped a lot around your grandparents house, a result of the habit formed after your mom left and you had to step up when it came to your brothers.

“I’ll just help.” You said as you stood up again. Harry only laughed and shook his head, knowing it would be useless to argue.

“Have we finished the interview?” He asked as he scraped what was left on your plates into the garbage.

“I think so.” You thought for a moment before putting the bowls into your sink. “Maybe not. I don’t know. I haven’t exactly figured out how I’m going to write it yet. I might end up with a few more questions or need clarification or something.”

“Well, if you do, I’d love to do this again.” He smiled warmly at you and you tried to ignore the warmth you felt in your chest.

It had gone really well, better than you expected. You had managed to keep it professional despite the small kiss and his flirty touches. It hadn’t gone off the rails, but you were glad that you were the only person who would hear the recordings. You were sure that the two of you had flirted at some point, maybe throughout the whole thing--your cheeks were sore from smiling.

You liked having Harry like this: alone, intimately, sweet. You loved hearing him talk about all that he was interested in, found yourself completely drawn in as he explained his views on masculinity, and had to hold back with questions when he talked about the album you loved. By the end of the meal, you were more than sure you wanted to be friends—and there was a nagging feeling a crush had completely blossomed and had become so intense you felt as if you would burst.

You didn’t exactly hate the feeling. You weren’t exactly surprised by it either. Harry was attractive and he turned you on and made you feel better than any other man had before. He was also interesting, and multi dimensional and had more substance than any other man you had been with. That last part was probably because you rarely dated men who were smarter than you—and Harry wasn’t exactly smarter than you, but he was intelligent in areas you weren’t, like music and lyricism and stuff that you enjoyed but didn’t have the ability to completely access.

You had grown to appreciate him a lot, and by the end of the meal, wished you hadn’t hated him for so long. You had a feeling that the friendship the two of you could’ve had would’ve been extremely fulfilling. You hoped too much damage hadn’t been done, that your past actions towards one another hadn’t made it completely impossible for there to be a friendship at all. Not that you were sure there could even be one now since the two of you had been fucking, not regularly, but still fucking.

“I wouldn’t mind that.” You smiled back before turning on the sink and beginning to run the warm water over the bowls and pans.

When Harry walked over to place the dishes in the sink, he bumped his hip with yours. “You dry.”

Instead of arguing, you simply moved over and pulled a dish towel from the drawer next to the sink, more than willing to not wash your dishes for once.

“Do you actually think we could do this again?” Harry asked as he pumped soap onto your blue sponge. “Like, without the interview part.”

“You mean…just have dinner together?” He nodded. “Wouldn’t that be a date?” You teased.

“Wasn’t this?” His response was quick.

“What?” You were trying to buy yourself some time, trying to figure out what to say. “This was…for the interview.” You were flailing, at a loss for words—because it was, wasn’t it? You had asked him on a date. You made him dinner and let him flirt with you and kiss you and you flirted and kissed him back. You had invited him here to continue the interview, but you had the intentions of something else, seemingly without even realizing it. You had wanted to see him, and be with him and had tricked yourself into thinking it was for professional reasons, had tried to convince yourself it could only be for professional reasons. It wasn’t.

Before you could try to say more, Harry changed the subject. “Who is this?” He asked as he pointed a soapy finger in the air, gesturing towards the music that was playing.

“Gus Dapperton.” You supplied, still a little distracted by your realization.

“You must really like him.”

“Huh?” You took a plate from Harry and began to dry it, still only half tuned into the conversation.

“The album’s played, like, three times.” He smiled over at you.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t even notice. I can change it.” You put the plate down and went to grab your phone from the table as Harry tried to argue from his spot at the sink.

“No, he’s good. I was just teasing you.”

You suddenly felt extremely insecure about everything, the entire night. “No, it’s okay. I’ll change it.” You went to your liked songs and clicked on the first one: 45 by Bleachers.

“I love this song.” Harry said as it started to play.

By time you had returned to your spot at the sink, he was singing along under his breath and as much as you wanted to join in, decided to stay quiet because you loved the sound of his voice.

The two of you continued like that for a bit. Harry singing along to two or three songs under his breath as you dried whatever he handed you. The sound of his voice was comforting as you had a fight with yourself in your head. You weren’t even completely sure which songs had played as you tried to make sense of what was going on and what you were doing.

Harry had been all you thought about for days and you had looked forward to tonight all day—and you were nervous, something that you didn’t typically feel when it came to interviews or doing research for articles. You had asked him on a date and you didn’t even know it, or maybe you had simply chosen to ignore it. He was right—a rare occurrence, which meant that you had been absolutely clueless.

What were you supposed to do now? Did you like him like that? Maybe—but there definitely wasn’t any feelings. Maybe you liked him like you liked Nate in high school; the senior on the football team who you would’ve given anything to kiss. There were no real feelings then; just a confusing amount of lust (as much lust as a sixteen year old girl can have). Maybe it was an infatuation. Maybe you simply liked the idea of him. Maybe you didn’t want him to go home just yet.

“Harry?”

“Hm?” He was focused on cleaning the last pan, still mumbling the words to whatever was playing.

You let out a nervous sigh and wrung the dishtowel in your hands. “Do you—do you have plans after this?”

His eyes flickered over to you briefly. “No, I was just gonna go home and work on some stuff.”

“Oh, then never mind. You have stuff to do.” You shook your head.

“Did you want to do something?” You couldn’t define the look on his face.

“Well, yeah, kind of. Maybe I could make dessert to we could watch a movie or something?” You looked up at him tentatively and saw a look that wasn’t exactly encouraging. His brow was furrowed and he had pulled his upper lip between his teeth. You shook your head dismissively. “Sorry, that was a stupid idea. Forget it.”

He shut the water off. “No, no, (Y/N).” Harry said as he pulled the dishtowel from you and dried his hands. “I’d love to do something with you.”

“Yeah?”

He reached up and tugged lightly at your hair with a smile. “Yeah.”

He dropped his hand to your lower back and you tried not to lean into his touch. You were still confused on where you stood with all of this and how you felt. You thought that if he stayed and you stopped hanging on to the pacifier of professionalism, you could maybe figure it out.

“Great. Brownies?” You didn’t wait for a response as you started to walk away, but before you got very far, Harry had hooked his arm around your waist and pulled you into him.

He placed a kiss on your cheek before letting you go. “Brownies sound great.”

You left Harry to finish drying the pan and pulled a box of your favorite brownie mix from the cabinet you kept your baking supplies in. As you preheated the oven and pulled out a bowl and a spatula, Harry joined you at the island but on the other side so he was across from you.

He began opening another bottle of wine. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask, but I make no promise to answer.” You collected an egg from the fridge and vegetable oil from one of the cabinets.

“What happened to your parents?”

You froze. “Just jumping right in, I see.” You fiddled with the box and tried not to look at him.

“Sorry, I just—I didn’t really know how to ask.”

“Clearly.” You muttered.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s fine.” You cut him off. “We’re supposed to be getting to know one another again, right?”

Harry nodded before sliding your glass across the island. You took a big sip and then let out a deep sigh before dumping the packet of mix into the bowl. “My mom left when I was twelve; my youngest brother was three. And before you ask, no one knows why. I guess my dad did, but he always pretended he didn’t. She left most of her stuff, which always seemed odd to me but we kept it. The Manolos were my moms—I guess they still kind of are. She’s probably still alive.”

“The blue ones you wore?”

“Yup. Those are the ones.” You measured out the correct amount of oil and then water before adding them to the mixture along with the egg. “After that, the four of us moved into a small condo because my dad couldn’t afford the house without my mom’s income.” You cleared your throat. “It happened really fast. He got sick and then he was gone. I was sixteen and my brothers were still pretty young.” You hadn’t looked at him once, intent on mixing the ingredients together. You tried to sound nonchalant, but you didn’t talk about it often and could hear the emotion start to seep its way into your voice. “We moved in with my grandparents and I got a job to help them take care of us because they were retired. I helped a lot with my brothers—I didn’t feed them or like, buy them clothes or anything, but I told them stories about our mom, which our dad never did. I told my youngest brother about our dad because he was so little and couldn’t remember. Then I went to college, but stayed close because they still needed me and—”

You stopped talking and took a deep breath. It had all come out at once, seemingly uncontrolled, as if the words had been waiting to spill out to someone. The embarrassment made your cheeks hot and you wanted the whole thing to be over, so you finished it. “Then I left.”

You let go of the spatula and glanced up at Harry who had a sympathetic look on his face. You hated it. When he didn’t say anything, simply stared at you with his hand wrapped around his glass, you pulled the glass baking dish over and started pouring the batter into it.

“Anyway, I should probably get these in the oven.”

He finally spoke when your back was turned. “You don’t come from where I thought you did.”

“What?”

When you turned back around, Harry was staring into his glass and turning it with his fingers. “Your family…your background…it’s not what I thought.” He shrugged.

“What did you think?”

Harry hadn’t known anything about you other than what you had chosen to share, which wasn’t very much. You kept all of this information extremely close and so it wasn’t a surprise that he had taken his own guesses as to where you came from. You would’ve done the same thing if his background wasn’t public knowledge. It was human nature to be curious about the lives of other people and often, we adjusted our own judgements based on that knowledge. Because of that, you had a feeling you weren’t going to like Harry’s answer.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I thought you were really spoiled and, like, came from money or something. I always thought you just had everything handed to you.” You scoffed, obviously offended, as he continued. “It’s just the way you carry yourself, I guess. The way you act.”

“Are you saying I act snobby?”

“No—just, a little ‘better than’. We’ve already had this conversation.” You leveled him with a look that told him you didn’t care. You wanted him to keep going. He sighed. “I know you’re successful, but you’ve never been humble about it. Like, your ego has always been huge and the only other people I know like that had been, like, super privileged their whole lives. Always got what they wanted, had their parents buy their way into things.”

“It never once occurred to you that I had a big ego because I earned it? I’ve done everything on my own, I think that gives me a right to be a little proud about it.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“And it does! It does.” Harry raised his hands in surrender. “It makes a lot more sense now, honestly. You should be proud. I’m sorry.”

You shrugged and dropped your arms from your chest. “Like you said, we’ve already talked about it. Want to pick a movie while we wait?”

A little over thirty minutes later, you were placing a few brownies on a small plate as Harry sat against the short, wooden headboard of your bed. He had helped you pull the tv out and swivel it so it was facing your bed, something you rarely did because it required you to climb on top of your old coffee table. You’ve Got Mail was paused on the opening credits and all the lights except for the ones in the kitchen were off.

You padded over, still in your dress and tights and placed the plate on the bed before climbing on next to him.

“Thanks for making it.” You said as you smoothed a hand over the comforter. While you tidied up the kitchen, Harry had kindly sorted your bed out, after declaring that it would be a more comfortable place to watch the movie. He was probably right; your sofa was in no way long enough for his body.

“Thanks for the brownies.” He said as he picked up a corner piece and took a bite.

It felt weird again between the two of you. The tension had returned and you didn’t like it. Why had tonight been so hard? Why couldn’t the two of you be normal? Did you have a normal? It seemed that everything between the two of you fluctuated so often it was hard to pin down a baseline, something to measure everything else against.

You took a brownie, also a corner piece, as Harry pressed play. For the entirety of the opening credits and the first ten minutes of the movie, the two of you sat shoulder to shoulder on your bed, munching on brownie and sipping from glasses of water and then wine in silence.

When the plate was clear, Harry moved it from the space between your legs to your nightstand. As he leaned back into your pillows, he lifted his arm above your head, signaling that he wanted you closer. You scooted over until your side was flush against his and let him drop his arm around you. After shifting to get more comfortable, you laid next to him, your chest pressed against his side, his hand rubbing your waist softly as your fingers traced tiny, nervous circles on his chest.

He moved down a little and rested his cheek on the top of your head but not before he placed a kiss to your hair. You could feel the warmth stir in you again. It was confusing when he was sweet like this. You knew he wanted to be friends and that he liked you, but this wasn’t normal friend behavior which twisted everything up in your mind.

“Comfortable?” Harry asked.

You looked up at him, which forced him to lift his cheek from where it rested. “Yeah. Are you?” It came out quietly. You were so close; close enough that your nose brushed his when you looked up at him. His eyes flickered from your eyes to your lips—and then again. You closed the distance between the two of you and pressed your lips to his tentatively. It hadn’t ever happened like this before and there were nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach.

For a second, there was no response, and then the hand that wasn’t on your waist was holding your cheek and he was pulling you closer to his body. The hand that was on his chest went to rest on his neck, the brush of your fingertips sending a slight shiver through him.

He kissed you slowly and patiently. The nerves you were feeling had dissipated and had been replaced by an aching kind of need. The last time you wanted him, he denied you and you hoped it wouldn’t happen again. You spent the past few days trying not to think about the way his hands felt on your body, trying to curb the desperation that had shown itself on the night of Halloween.

Harry had become the person you thought about when you were alone at night—as hard as you tried to fight it. He was the one you imagined touching you even though your hands were so much smaller, so much softer, than his. It was embarrassing, really, how much pleasure you got from just the idea of him but he made you feel good and no part of you was able to forget it.

Harry moved forward, his lips still on yours, so that you were lying on your back and he was on his side. He dipped his tongue into your mouth as his hand left your cheek and trailed down your chest, over your dress, and landed on your inner thigh. He squeezed your thigh and massaged his fingers into the tight covered skin. You let out a hushed whimper and felt warmth blossom between your thighs.

Harry moved his hand over the outside of your thigh and pushed it under your dress to grab your ass. You bit his lip and response and he moaned softly.

There was too much fabric between the two of you; Harry’s sweater was just getting in the way. You pulled your right hand from where it was wedged between the two of you and settled both of your hands on the bottom of his sweater.

“Off?” He asked when you tugged lightly and you nodded. Harry pulled his left hand from where it was under you and sat up so you could pull his sweater off of him.

You smirked when you saw his t-shirt: women are smarter. “Nice choice.”

“Thought you’d approve.” He mirrored your expression before pulling his sweater from your hands and dropping it onto the floor. He hooked his finger around the tie of your dress. “Can I?”

You pulled at one of the strings in the bow, causing it to come undone. Harry replaced your hand with his and finished untying it and pulling it open. He moved back to his side and let his right hand slip under the silk shirt you were wearing underneath, trailing his fingertips over your warm skin. You tugged lightly on his t-shirt to get him to kiss you again and he obliged, kissing you at the same slow place as before.

Harry released a pleased hum when you snuck your hands under his t-shirt and ran your hands over his sides.

“Take it off.” He mumbled against your lips.

Once the t-shirt was over his head, his hands were tugging at the sleeves of your black dress, trying to get them down. You sat up slightly, both so you could reconnect your lips and to help him get it off of you. When you laid back down, Harry’s fingers started fiddling with the buttons of you blouse, but then he paused.

“Is this okay?”

“Of course it is.” It was a breathless whisper.

“Tell me if I’m going to fast.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. This was the slowest the two of you had ever gone. When his expression remained the same, you kissed him softly. “You’re perfect.”

He tried to hide his smile by kissing you and moving you back down so that he was half hovering over you. Your left hand went back to rest on his neck as his right hand worked at the buttons of your blouse. When he got the last one done, he pushed the material open and cursed softly when glanced at your body.

You had worn a cream colored set that day—you wanted to match the tights in case of any kind of unfortunate incident and you wanted to feel sexy that day. You needed the confidence boost since you had woken up feeling so nervous.

Harry trailed his fingers under the wire of your bra and then down until they caught on to the band of your tights. He tugged at it delicately before moving back down towards your inner thigh. He brushed his fingers over your covered clit and you whimpered again. When he applied more pressure, you moaned and moved your hand from his neck to grip onto his shoulder. Harry moved his finger down towards where you center was and were sure it was damp at the least.

“Fuck.” He breathed before he squeezed the inside of your thigh again. You heard the tear. His finger had caught onto the tiny hole you had caused the last time you wore the tights. It was extremely high up and on the inside of your thigh so you didn’t see the problem in continuing to wear them since the hole would always be covered.

“Of course.” You mumbled.

Harry shrugged innocently. “I can make up for it?”

“Oh, you will.”

Harry giggled softly and you couldn’t help but join him as you pulled him back down to kiss you. He shifted himself so that he was hovering over you completely. He pulled away just far enough that his lips grazed yours as he spoke. “How ‘bout I do that now?”

You nodded and kisses him again quickly before he dipped his face into the crook of your neck. He ran his tongue over the spot below your ear and then sucked lightly. Harry continued trailing kisses down your body and over the tights before he settled himself between your legs. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows and gave him a questioning look.

He was leaning on his elbows when he took his left hand and stuck a finger into the small hole in your tights. “I thought I’d just…”

“Harry.” You were giving him a warning.

You heard them tear and he pulled on them with his finger. “Could be fun, yeah?”

“You owe me a pair of tights.” You said as you moved your elbows and fell onto your back, deciding it was easier to just give in—maybe even more fun.

The rip was loud and you could feel the air hit the insides of your thighs. He had torn them straight across and created a large hole that gave him easy access to you.

He ran a hesitant finger over your panties before pulling them to the side. Harry hummed in what seemed to be anticipation as he ran a finger through your folds and swirled the tip of it around your clit causing you moan in slight surprise. When he pulled his finger away, you made a needy sound and he pushed your legs open wider so he could get comfortable.

The second his tongue was on your clit, your hands were in his hair. His tongue was warm and you could feel how wet you were. When he sucked the small bud into his mouth, your hips bucked and your grip on his hair tightened. He moaned at the action and began flicking his tongue over your clit quickly, building you up so that your breath was coming out quickly, in pants, before bringing his tongue back down through your folds and dipping into your center.

He was trying to torture you, to tease you, to build you up and then take the sensation away until you were frustrated and begging. You knew he liked to hear it and you would have to decide how nice to him you wanted to be.

Harry swirled his tongue over your clit and continued to trace it in circles as you pulled on his hair with each moan that left your mouth. He moaned against you when he heard you say his name. He sucked onto your clit again and had to clamp his right hand down onto your thigh to stop you from closing your legs.

“Fuck.” You groaned when he went back to tracing the bud in circles.

He could see you struggling to keep your eyes open. Your brows were furrowed and your lips were slightly swollen. Every few seconds he would catch you looking at him before your lashes fluttered shut again. He had a feeling you were close, but he loved having you like this and he wanted it to go on for as long as he could make it.

When he tried to move from your clit, your grip on him tightened and he knew you wanted to finish.

“Please, don’t move.” Your voice was breathless.

He stayed where he was and continued to do exactly what he had been doing. He could feel your legs start to shake on either side of him and your noises were becoming short and rushed.

“Fuck!” The cry was strangled as you arched your back against the bed and rolled your hips against his tongue.

He licked you slow, all the way through your orgasm and even as you came down. Just when you seemed relaxed and your breathing had started to return to normal, he pushed a finger into you, forcing a surprised moan from your lips.

“Harry,” you whined.

“Feel good?” He knew you probably wanted more, but he still needed to double check that it was okay.

“Mhmm.” Your eyes were closed again and your hand fell from his hair to rest on your thigh, the backs of your fingers brushing slightly over his cheek.

Harry kissed your hand before adding another finger. Your back arched again and you whimpered. Your hand fell to the bed where you grabbed unsuccessfully at the comforter. When we added his tongue your hips rolled against his mouth and you gave a drawn-out moan. He moved his fingers to match the rhythm of your hips and made sure to curl his fingers into you every time they dipped inside.

It felt like a lot to you; his tongue moved slowly as his fingers curled deep. You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth and tried to hold in the cry that tried to escape when he quickened the pace of his tongue. You felt the orgasm already start to build in your belly, but didn’t want to give up the feeling that quickly.

Your clit was sensitive and the roll of your hips became less rhythmic with every pass of his tongue. Harry pressed a kiss to the spot right above your clit, giving you a short break but your hips continued to move.

“Close, baby?”

“Mhmm—fuck, Harry.” Your eyes were squeezed shut and your hands were back in his hair, his curls wrapped around your fingers. When you glanced down, you could see his hips barely moving against the bed, trying to satisfy himself in any way he could.

His tongue began to move in precise circles around your clit when you pushed him further into you. Once your hips had lost their rhythm completely, he started moving his fingers faster and curling them in as deep as they could go. Your breathing grew harsh ad your chest rose and fell slowly as your second orgasm built gradually.

“God…” It sounded like a curse falling from your lips. “Harry, I-I’m coming.” You had to choke the words out as your vision split and you felt the sensation make its way throughout your entire body. Your moans came out an octave below a scream and you were sure your neighbors—all of them—could hear you, but you didn’t care.

Harry placed kisses on the small bud as he continued the movement of his fingers throughout your high. When you came down, you brushed your fingers through his hair softly and massaged the tips of your fingers into his scalp, fully aware of how hard you had been tugging. The mix of wine and two orgasms had made you slightly sleepy, but you weren’t done yet. You wanted what he had refused to give you Saturday night.

Harry moved back up to lay on top of you and placed a soft kiss to your lips.

“Take those off.” You whispered as you tugged on the belt loop of his jeans.

He pushed himself off of you and the bed so he was standing and undid his jeans as you took off your blouse and bra. When your hands went to the waistband of the tights, Harry shook his head. “Keep those on.”

You rolled your eyes. “I hate fucking with underwear on. It just gets in the way.”

Harry dropped his socks on the floor and then crawled back onto the bed. You watched him tug helplessly on the lace material of your underwear and tried to hold in a laugh. He adjusted his grip and tried again—and failed. A frustrated look took over his face as he tried a third time and again, failed.

You couldn’t hold in the laugh any longer. “Want to try a fourth?”

“Forget it. Just take them off.” He sounded disappointed.

“Look,” You sat up and tore at the tights a little more to get to at a specific part of your panties. “You have to tear them here.” With one swift movement, you had torn them apart, giving Harry clear access to all of you.

“So you’ve done this before.” You couldn’t tell if he was impressed or disappointed that he was slightly behind your experience.

You dipped your hands under the tights and pulled your panties up so you could tear them again at the hip, that way they were off completely. “And you obviously haven’t.”

“Okay, okay, enough.” He pulled the delicate fabric from your hands and threw them behind him before grabbing your jaw before settling on top of you. “If I agree to buy you another pair, will you shut up?”

You smirked. “Maybe.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.” He mumbled as he sat back up. He grabbed your hips and turned you over so you were on your stomach and then pulled them towards him, forcing you on your knees. You bit your lip in anticipation, never shying away from Harry being rough.

Harry lined himself up with your center and pushed inside. He gave you no time to adjust before pulling back and driving into you, causing you to curse loudly. His left hand stayed gripping your hip harshly while his right hand moved up your back. He gripped onto the back of your neck so that you dropped your head onto the mattress, back completely arched, hands fisting the comforter in front of you.

“Fucking hell.” His voice was low and raspy.

When his right hand came down on your ass, you let out a small shriek, more surprised than anything.

“Okay, baby?” He asked as he rubbed over the spot he had hit, the warmth of his hand veiled by the tights.

“Fuck—yeah…I’m okay.” Your words were broken by moans as he continued to pump in and out of you. Your grip tightened on the comforter when his hand came down again.

Harry didn’t think he was pushing any sort of boundaries, you had done all of this before but for whatever reason it felt different then. Each time you cursed or moaned when his hand hit your skin, he was listening for any indication of pain or dislike in a way he hadn’t the last time the two of you did this.

He slowed down the speed of his thrusts and cursed when your moans grew in both volume and frequency. You liked when he went slow and pushed deep—he needed to remember that. He leaned forward and pushed your hair away from your face so he could see you—only your profile, but he liked to see the way he made you feel. He massaged the cheek that was growing red even through the thick material and gave you a second to recover before he did it again. Just as he was about to bring his hand down, he heard something that more than surprised him.

“I want to see you.”

“What?” He paused inside of you and squeezed your hip.

“I want to see you.” Your voice was small and, if Harry didn’t know better, you sounded almost embarrassed.

Harry felt his chest warm. He pulled out and pushed at your hips, signaling for you to turn over and lay on your back. Once you were settled, he hovered over you and kissed you slowly.

“Better?” He mumbled against the corner of your mouth. You nodded and kissed his cheek before turning his chin so you had access to his lips again. He reentered you with a low moan and dropped his forehead onto yours. You ran your hands along his biceps and squeezed when he pushed in deep. “Feels good.” He mumbled. “Fuck, you feel good.”

You lifted your legs a little more and held your knees closer to you so that he could push even deeper. When you saw his eyes flutter shut and his brow furrow in pleasure, you brought your left hand to his cheek and used your right to brush his hair back. “Look at me.” You whispered.

You had never wanted this with him before, this kind of intimacy. You never cared whether or not you could see him or feel him on top of you the way you did then. You felt this deep ache for connection in your chest and you weren’t sure at all where it came from. He needed to look at you. He needed to look at you the same way you were looking at him.

He lifted his forehead from yours and opened his eyes. You watched them roam over your face. “You’re so fucking pretty.”

Your hand went to the back of his neck and you pulled him back into a kiss. He dropped to his elbows and you could finally feel his chest on yours. He moaned into your mouth as he continued his thrusts.

“Fuck, Harry.” You sighed. You knew he loved to hear his name. “Fuck, that feels good.” When he heard your praise, he pushed harder and let out a groan.

“Oh…baby.” His voice was strained and you could tell that he was trying to control his thrusts. His hips held onto their rhythm as you brushed your nose against his, his lips hovering over yours. When he hit a particularly deep spot, you dug your nails into his sides, earning a pleased hum from him. You dragged your nails down his sides as he continued moving and it was clear that he enjoyed it.

He dropped his face into your neck—a sure sign that he was almost ready. He kissed and nipped at the skin of your neck, mumbling your name along with a few curses. You loved hearing your name as much as he loved hearing his.

A desperate whimper fell from your lips when his skin brushed against your clit. After the second time, he adjusted himself so it happened every time and the sensation was almost too much. “Holy…fuck.” Your words came out as a whisper and you were sure you would be leaving nail marks in his skin.

“Baby—oh, my god.” Harry’s teeth sunk into the spot between your neck and shoulder and you felt a tingling sensation move up your neck and into your hair. You loved when guys did that—but it felt the best when Harry did it.

His hips began to slow and he was holding himself in you for a few seconds with each thrust. He would pant and then drive himself into you again. You knew he was trying to prolong it for your sake but you wanted him to feel good.

“Harry—baby, I want you to cum.”

“Yeah?” It was muffled since his face was buried in your neck.

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, then vocalized your approval. “Yeah, babe.” You tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Fuck, (Y/N). Fuck…” His moans were desperate and needy.

You wrapped one arm around his neck and draped the other over his back as you pulled him as close to you as possible. You felt his breath against your neck and held in a shiver when his teeth grazed your skin. You whispered his name as your own orgasm built, although you didn’t care whether or not you finished for the third time. For the first time, this was only about Harry.

A gasp was followed by a rough moan and then a breathy pant before Harry pulled out of you and emptied himself all over your folds. You held him as he finished, running your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and scratching at the skin of his upper back.

He kissed your neck three times when he was done before pushing off of you and laying on his back. “Where’s the—“ He was breathless and you felt a weird sense of affection towards him—like you wanted to take care of him, to coddle him, to brush you fingers through his hair as he fell asleep. You tried to shake it off, tried to chalk it up to the sex haze you were in, but something in the back of your mind told you it was more than that, something in your gut told you that you needed to stop kidding yourself.

“Where’s…where should I get the towel?” Harry asked as he laid there next to you. He ran a hand through his hair.

You shook your head and sat up. “I’ll get it.”

“Wait.” He grabbed onto your arm and stopped you. He sat up and got to his knees in front of you. He grabbed onto the waistband of the tights and began to pull them down. You cooperated by pulling your knees in and once Harry had dropped them on the floor, he fell back beside you and kissed your shoulder.

You stood up, suddenly extremely conscious of how your body looked and walked quickly to your bathroom. You pulled the towel you used that morning from off the hanger behind the door and cleaned yourself up. Afterwards, you leaned your hands on either side of the sink and looked at yourself for the first time since you left for work that morning. Your eye makeup was smudged from what you and Harry had just done, your hair slightly tousled in a way that didn’t look bad, and your eyes were bright, excited—alive. You took a deep breath before pulling open your medicine cabinet. You were taking your birth control an hour late, but it was fine—you had taken it much later in the past and never had any problems. While you were in there, you decided to wash your face as quick as possible and peed to make sure there were no UTIs in your future.

When you emerged, Harry was still laying on top of the covers, his eyes glued to the TV which was still playing the movie.

“Alright?” He asked as you handed him the towel.

You nodded. “Yeah, just figured I’d get ready for bed while I was in there.”

You climbed onto the bed next to him and laid on your back. When he finished cleaning himself, he dropped the towel to the floor. He rolled over onto his side and leaned his head on his hand for support. His fingers went to your ribcage, where the small bouquet tattoo resided.

“Hm.” He traced the flowers with his fingers. “I got this wrong.”

“Got what wrong?” You were struggling to keep your eyes open.

“I thought this was a peony, but it doesn’t look right.”

“That’s because it’s a carnation.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” You tried not to squirm as his fingers tickled over your side.

“Why these four flowers? It seems oddly specific.”

“It’s me and my brothers.” You crossed your right arm over your body and your fingers joined Harry’s as they traced over your left side. “I got it when I was eighteen. It’s the months we were born.”

“It’s the only tattoo you have.” His voice was soft.

“It’s the only one I want.” Yours was a whisper.

Harry realized then just how much he didn’t know about you. He always thought you were so cold, that you didn’t care about anything or anyone; he thought your callous attitude was natural, that you saw everyone as unworthy until they proved themselves otherwise beyond a shadow of a doubt—but that wasn’t the case. You were warm—unbelievably warm. You seemed to love your brothers more than you loved anything else and he understood that there was something maternal in you. It was innate because of your status as an older sister—he saw it in Gemma constantly—but it was amplified because you actually had to take on that role. He remembered the way you talked about your brothers: keeping tabs on them, guiding them, admonishing them and supporting them—beyond what a sister was meant to do. He believed you when you said it was the only tattoo you ever wanted. He trusted that they were really the only thing you’d ever love with every part of you.

He scooted closer to you and draped his arm across your waist. He kissed your cheek as he rubbed his thumb over your skin. “Can I stay?”

“Of course you can.”`

November 6, 2020

“He stayed?” Charlotte asked, her martini glass poised in front of her lips.

“He stayed.”

“Didn’t you have work yesterday?”

“I did.”

“You are not giving me as much detail as I deserve.”

It was Friday and you were at Charlotte’s apartment for a martini and pizza night. Usually, the two of you did wine because Sarah didn’t like martini’s and they were honestly a little much, but Sarah still wasn’t talking to either of you and you needed the burn running down your throat.

You two were sat on her couch in your sweats, your hair tied back with Tame Impala’s discography playing throughout her apartment.

Sarah was treating her the same way she was treating Harry; she only spoke to her during rehearsals and when it was necessary. The night before, they band had gone out for dinner and Charlotte lamented about how awkward it was. Both Adam and Mitch knew about you and Harry—and neither of them cared—but Sarah had the power to turn a small thing into a colossal thing. According to Charlotte, Mitch was beyond encouraging and insisted on making jokes about it all rehearsal while Adam egged him on. Sarah was pouty and pissy and scoffed at every joke while everyone ignored. Charlotte said that Sarah needed to realize that she was only hurting herself—and that she was the only who gave a shit about the whole thing—and you reminded her that Sarah was the most stubborn out of the three of you, which was saying a lot.

“He just…slept over. We woke up at six—well, I woke up at six and got ready for work like normal.” You shrugged. “He slept until I brought him a coffee and even then he, like, stayed in bed until I was about ready to walk out the door.”

“Did he drive you to work?”

“He did.” You nodded.”

“Oh, my god. Did he kiss you goodbye?” Charlotte covered her mouth with her hand in excitement and anticipation.

“He did.” You smiled as she squealed.

“My god, (Y/N). He likes you.”

You shook your head. “No. Only as a friend.”

“Oh, fuck off!” She waved her hand at you. “Whatever. I want to know how the sex was.”

“Charlotte, that’s weird.”

“It is not!”

You picked up your martini from where it sat on her coffee table. “Yes, it is! You’re friends with him, you see him every day. That’s weird.”

“Oh, come on. You’re absolutely no fun.”

“Harry would disagree.” You said slyly as you took a sip from your glass.

Charlotte scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m pretty sure Harry would say that too.” You smirked and Charlotte rolled her eyes at you.

“Honestly, though. What’s going on here? The two of you are having sex seemingly regularly and you’re both staying the night and making dinner for one another. What’s happening?”

You shrugged again. “Nothing.” You shook your head dismissively. “I don’t know. He says he likes me and that he wants to be friends. I guess I want to be friends too. I was wrong about him, I think. He’s kind of fun and kind of hot—and he’s smart—in very particular ways—but I like listening to him explain things and talk about stuff. We had a really nice time the other night and the sex is great. I don’t know. I know I want to be friends, but everything is still kind of confusing.”

“You’re so fucking annoying. I could slap you.” Charlotte took a large sip from her drink. “You like him. Like, you fancy him. Just get over yourself and admit it. I am tired.”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no words came out.

“Let me walk you through it.” She positioned herself so she was facing you completely and you nodded, very much prepared for her instruction. “You like hooking up with him, right? Since, you know, you keep doing it.”

“Yes.”

“So you like him.”

“I mean, yeah. Now I do. I didn’t before.”

“No, but you like him, like him.”

“Oh.” You paused. “No, I don’t think so. I think I have a crush, though. Kind of a big crush, actually.”

“Babe, you’ve had a crush. I think we’re past crush.”

You furrowed your brow and pulled at your bottom lip. Charlotte was the only one who noticed that you did it in the same way Harry did—a new development. “I feel like you’re wrong.”

She rolled her eyes. “I am not wrong. You—“

“Hold on.” You said when you felt your phone vibrate and saw a certain editor’s name as the sender of the email. “Oh, my god.”

“What? You get a text from lover boy?” Charlotte asked, a smirk dancing on her lips.

“No.” You said, not reacting to her words at all. “It’s an email from an editor at the New Yorker. They’re going to publish one of my poems.”

“Like, actually?”

“Yes, actually.” You repeated as you looked up at Charlotte, your phone clutched tightly in your hands.

“Oh, my god! That’s great!” She grabbed your wrist and quickly sobered her expression. “Wait, that’s great, right?”

“Yes, Charlotte. That’s great.” You laughed when she went back to being excited for you.

“We’re going out tomorrow to celebrate. I’ll text everyone. I don’t care whether or not you want to. It’s happening. Just buy a hot outfit and be there.” She was already unlocking her phone.

You were about to tell her that it was unnecessary when your phone vibrated again. This time it was a message from Harry.

Guess who’s gonna be on the cover of British Vogue?

Ur taking too long

It’s me :)

You smiled down at your phone and sent him a response.

Guess this calls for a double celebration. Are you free tomorrow?

Double celebration?

Charlotte will text you the details ;)

Can you text me the details?

Or at least call me when you get home? Feel like we haven’t talked in ages

It had only been a day, but you would be lying if you said his text didn’t make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

“We’re going to The Roxy tomorrow night. Don’t make any other plans, alright?” Charlotte said as she texted on her phone.

“Alright.” You said as you sent Harry the details.

If you don’t show I’ll be pretty upset.

I’ll always show up for you

You desperately tried to ignore the way his words made you feel. It had just been a long time since someone had acted like that towards you. You hadn’t had a serious boyfriend or any guy even remotely steady since before you moved here. It was simply nice to hear those words, to think that someone was there for you. That was all.

November 7, 2020

The day had felt so long. You had changed your outfit a million times, had gone back and forth between hairstyles and lip colors. You checked the time with Charlotte three times and tried to pretend that it didn’t bother you that Sarah and Mitch wouldn’t be in attendance.

You showered four hours before you had to leave and spent way too long on your hair. You had to fuck around your apartment for over an hour since you didn’t want to do your makeup to early. You read some of Mary Oliver’s poetry as well as some of Helier Skelter—a book you had been trying to finish for over a year.

When it was time to do your makeup, you kept it simple—well, sort of. You kept your base makeup the same: light foundation, a shit ton of powder because you would be sweating, light on the bronzer, and a little heavy handed on the blush (both on the ops of your cheeks and your nose). You smoked out a wing on your eyes and dragged some brown shadow across your lash line and paid careful attention to your lashes. You dragged a deep red lipstick over your lips before shimmying into your dress.

It was short—your favorite kind. You had splurged on it ages ago but never thought an occasion worthy enough to wear it. You weren’t exactly sure what made you feel like that night was the right time—after all, it was only a poem—and you made sure to tune out the voice in your head that repeatedly whispered that Harry would like it. You didn’t dress for him, or any man for that matter. Well, maybe that was a lie. Two things could simultaneously be true, couldn’t they?

It was the same color of your lipstick: a deep, wine red. The neckline was a V and dipped only slightly into your cleavage. The straps were thin and lined with tiny little stones. It was tight on your torso and the skirt was an a-line, the fabric close to your body but not skin tight. The dress ended a few inches below your thigh; the bottom was adorned in jeweled fringe that was about an inch long, which didn’t add much to the length of the dress.

You paired it with a pair of strappy nude heels which often became painful after a few hours but a few drinks always seemed to fix that problem. You dropped your phone into your small bag along with your birth control—just in case—and sprayed your favorite perfume in the crooks of your elbows, on the backs of your knees and on the back of your neck, and then your puffy coat before walking out the door.

The plan was to meet at Charlotte’s for pre-club drinks but you were running about twenty minutes late and so you weren’t sure how much drinking you would get to do. You had a feeling you would be slightly behind everyone else for the rest of the night, but you didn’t mind that much—you weren’t a huge fan of blacking out to any degree, and had a habit of overdoing it at clubs because it was just so easy. You also swore that somehow the loud music made tequila completely tasteless—in a club setting it always went down like water.

You pulled the long coat tighter around your body as you waited for Charlotte to buzz you in. Other voices were clear over the intercom and it sounded like they were playing music.

As always, her door was unlocked, and when you pushed it open, a small cheer erupted around the room.

“There she is!” Adam called from his place at the kitchen island. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry.” You said with a sheepish smile.

Harry held his arm open where he stood on the opposite side of the island and motioned you over. Once you were under his arm, he hugged you into his side. “Worth the wait, though.”

You rolled your eyes despite the smile on your face and moved to greet Charlotte. “He’s been very impatient.” She said into you ear. “It’s very sweet.”

You moved to Adam who held a shot glass between the two of you so you couldn’t hug him. “You owe me one, first.”

“Easy.” You downed the shot quickly and fought the urge to make a face. Adam clapped his hands together before pulling you into a tight hug.

“Hey, (Y/N).” Mitch said as he hugged you back. “Sorry, I couldn’t get her to come.”

You shook your head and tried to show that it didn’t bother you, but you weren’t sure how convincing it was. “It’s fine.”

“Take that jacket off!” Charlotte appeared behind you and tugged on the hood with a full drink in her hand.

You pulled down the zipper and shrugged it off your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ.” Adam said as you handed Charlotte your jacket and took the gin and tonic. “You look fucking amazing.”

“Mate.” You heard the warning in Harry’s voice and rolled your eyes for real.

“Thank you, Adam.” You squeezed his forearm before settling yourself next to him. You purposefully didn’t go near Harry—mostly to annoy him. Just because the two of you were fucking, didn’t mean he had the right to get all possessive—especially when it was a compliment from a friend.

“Charlotte, you look so good.” You said and she did a little spin in her dress, a small smile on her face. She was wearing a hot pink, sparkly wrap dress which looked amazing with her slightly faded orange hair. Teal eyeliner was smudged along her top lash line a little bit under her lower line as well. Her lipstick was a deep magenta and it might’ve been your favorite look of hers to date.

“Thank you.” She did a small curtsey after she spun. “Oh, there’s snacks near Harry if you want some—and some pizza, which is probably cold now.”

You knew she was trying to get you to go over near Harry. She tried her best to hide her smirk as she said it but she was the worst at hiding what was going on in her head.

“Mitch, can you hand me a slice, please?” He was standing on the other side of Adam and next to Harry.

Just as Mitch was about to pull one out for you, Harry slid the box away. “If you want it, you’ve got to come and get it.” He winked.

So tonight was going to be like this. This was going to be the downside to everyone knowing what was going on; there would be never ending teasing, jokes, expectations. It was so much easier when no one knew and you didn’t have to stand next to him if you didn’t want to or talk to him. It was easier when he had no choice other than to act like a normal fucking person around you. You knew the jokes and teasing would get old quickly, but you didn’t know how to tell Charlotte to quit it—and Harry to stop being so fucking weird—without sounding like a complete bitch. So you sucked it up and walked around the island to where Harry was standing.

He handed you the slice of pizza and then dropped his arm around your waist, his hand falling onto your ass. You ignored the small warmth between your legs and focused on being annoyed at the whole situation.

“So…we’re celebrating something tonight?” Mitch looked over at you with a knowing twinkle in his eye.

You swallowed a mouthful of gin before responding. “Sort of? I guess? It really is such a tiny thing, it doesn’t need a celebration.”

“I disagree.” Charlotte raised her hand.

“Well, you would since this whole thing was your idea.” You commented before taking a bite of your pizza.

“You’re being published in the New Yorker for the second time. And it’s a poem, which you said is the first time you’ve ever had a poem seriously published. So, it is a big deal.” She turned her attention to Harry. “And Harry’s going to be on the cover of British Vogue.” She pointed and moved her finger between the two of you. “And you two are finally being honest about fucking!”

Harry choked on his tequila and both Adam and Mitch let out a laugh while you stood there, absolutely wanting to disappear.

“Is it time to go yet?” You asked.

“Once every one finishes we’ll go.” Charlotte said.

At the same time, you and Harry raised your glasses to your lips and downed what was left. Mitch and Adam exchanged a look before doing the same. You all looked over at Charlotte. “Oh, fine.” She said reluctantly before finishing whatever was in her glass.

As everyone else collected their stuff to go, Harry squeezed your ass and dropped a kiss to your head. “Want me to get your jacket?”

You looked up at him. “I’m not wearing it.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You’re going to absolutely freeze.”

“It doesn’t go with my outfit.”

“So? You’ve just got to wear it until we’re inside.”

You shook your head adamantly. “It’ll look stupid.”

“You rather freeze than ruin your outfit for a few seconds?”

“Yes.” You said it as though it was obvious and he laughed lightly.

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

“So is that shirt.” You smirked as you pulled on its collar. It was electric blue and adorned in polka dots. He paired it with a pair of high waisted, black trousers, which you loved, and pair of black Gucci boots.

He leaned down to you. “Bit rude, yeah?” He kissed you softly.

Just as he was about to go in for another, Mitch’s voice rang out. “Yeah, this as just as weird as I thought it would be.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Harry groaned as you laughed.

“Trust me, it’s weird for me too.” You said and ignored the exaggerated pout on Harry’s face.

“Whatever.” Harry said as he looked at his phone. “Car’s here!” He called as he walked towards the door and you all followed behind him.

The Roxy was what seemed to be a Great Gatsby themed club near Piccadilly. It wasn’t specifically Great Gatsby themed, but as soon as you walked down the stairs and a man opened the door, that’s exactly what came to mind.

Large, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, glistening in the multicolored club lights that were above them. The entire wall where the bar was to the left was mirrored and framed in gold. The bar itself was made of dark wood and seemed ornately carved; both the men and women behind it wore jewel toned vests and bowties.

The dj’s booth was raised slightly above the dance floor and was covered in mosaicked mirror, forcing the lights to bounce off of the small pieces each time the lights on the ceiling turned.

The couches that sat on a platform along the right side of the club were velvet and matched the jewel tones that the bartenders were wearing. The stairs that led to the platform was blocked off by a black velvet rope and a security guard clutching a small list to his chest.

Harry led the way over to him and when he got there, greeted the man with a handshake. Harry leaned in and said something in the man’s ear, who then did the same to him, before he unclipped the black rope and let Harry through. The rest of you needed to get your hands stamped; once you were all adorned with purple feathers, you were allowed to join Harry at one of the couches.

“Come here often?” You asked as you sat down next to him.

Immediately, his hand went to rest on your knee. “Only twice, but Eddie works at another bar I like near my house, so he knows me.”

“Ah, okay.” You leaned into his side a bit and believed it was only because there was still a chill in you from the few short seconds you spent outside and not just because you wanted to be close to Harry.

Right when everyone settled, a waitress came over and asked for everyone’s drink orders. Harry looked over at you. “Want tequila or gin, love?”

“Surprise me.” You shrugged before turning to Charlotte who was tapping on your arm from beside you.

“I cannot believe how normal this feels.” She said.

“How normal what feels?”

“You and Harry being together.”

“We’re not together.” You said with a furrowed brow.

“What?”

“We’re fucking, not together. We’re friends, I guess—I think, but that’s it.”

“Wow, you’re really confused.”

Harry’s hand left your knee and landed on the back of your neck, pulling your attention away from Charlotte. “I haven’t said congratulations yet.”

You sighed. “It’s really so not a big deal.”

“It is! Poetry isn’t your best so it being in the New Yorker is huge.”

The furrow in your brow returned. “Who said it wasn’t my best?”

You saw the panic flash over his face. “You did?”

“Mm, no, don’t think that was me. Actually, if I’m recalling this correctly,” your pointer finger made contact with his chest, “it was you who had a lot to say about my poetry.”

“No…” Harry dragged the word out and shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “I would never.”

“Oh, you would and you have.”

“Mm, no. Don’t think that was me.” Harry leaned forward and kissed you—obviously trying to distract you from bringing up his past offenses.

When he pulled away, the waitress returned with the drinks and you took a sip of yours. Harry had gone tequila—straight tequila. You shouldn’t have been surprised.

You sat back against the couch and Harry draped his arm casually behind you. You crossed your right leg over your left and bopped your foot along to the familiar beat that was playing. You were already itching to dance, but didn’t want to go down there alone. You figured you would let everyone finish their first round before dragging them out into the crowd.

Halfway through your tequila, you needed a break. It was a lot. It was strong and you seemed to be drinking yours much quicker than Harry.

You cradled your glass in your lap as Harry leaned over your legs to talk to Mitch who was sitting next to Adam. Harry’s thumb brushed along the inside of your knee softly as he spoke and you had a feeling that the only reason he was leaning the way he was, was to be close to you. There was really no other reason for it, since the couch was slightly curved in order to be able to see everyone sitting down and the music didn’t seem as loud up on the platform.

Harry’s neck was only a few inches from your face. Your eyes trailed over the way the tendrils at the base of his neck curled over his skin. When he raised his voice, his neck strained and allowed a vein to pop out just a bit—the way it did sometimes when the two of you were fucking. Before you knew what you were doing, you leaned forward and placed your lips delicately on his neck. You pulled back quickly, extremely embarrassed by your actions, but no one said anything. They just ignored it as if was normal and the only reaction you got from Harry was a squeeze to your knee and a huge grin as he continued to listen to what Mitch was saying.

Despite feeling like you wanted to slow down, you brought your glass to your lips and took a big gulp and forced yourself to enjoy the slight burning sensation as it moved down your throat. You couldn’t believe you had just done that. That so wasn’t you. Usually Harry was the one inappropriately affectionate or handsy in public and around your friends. You were always the one on the receiving end of it, always the one telling him to relax, or cut it out, or not to be to obvious—until you gave in eventually and simply enjoyed his attention. You felt a little embarrassed and forced down the need you felt to do it again.

“Another round?” The waitress asked when she reappeared. Without looking at Harry, you nodded and said ‘please’. You downed the rest of what was in your glass quickly before placing it on her tray.

When Harry sat back into the sofa, he leaned in close to your ear and brushed his nose over the top of it. “You okay? You don’t usually do that.”

“Fine.” You examined your nails in your lap, inspecting an imaginary chip in the polish at your thumb.

He kissed the spot right above your ear. “We’ll dance in a bit, yeah?” As he said it, he squeezed your knee again, reminding you that your foot was still bouncing along to the beat.

“Harry said the fitting for the cover was next week?” Charlotte asked, thankfully allowing you to turn away from Harry.

“Yeah, it’s on Tuesday.”

“That’s a bit quick.” She said before finishing the last of what was in her glass.

“Yeah, well, they want it for the January issue, which is meant to be ready for print by, like, the second week of December, so.”

“Are you stressed yet?”

You shook your head. “I really only have to show up. The interview is done, I just have to write the thing.”

“Arguably the hardest part.” She was echoing your past words. You were such a perfectionist that getting through the first draft was often harder than doing all of the research and running around to collect information.

“Yes.” You shrugged. “I don’t know, though. I have this weird gut feeling that this one will just write itself.”

“Hm. Wonder why…” You saw her eyes flicker behind you as a smirk broke out on her face.

The waitress placed the refills in front of all of you and by the second sip, you were beyond antsy. You didn’t want to sit down anymore. The dj was playing some of your favorite dance songs and you were missing out on all the excitement down below you.

You placed your drink on the table and stood up. “Okay, I’ve had enough. I’m going down.” You looked down to your left. “Charlotte?”

“Obviously.” She scoffed as he stood up with you.

Your eyes roamed over the boys. Adam took a sip of his drink, Mitch looked away and Harry’s eyes raked up and down your body. “Think I’d like to watch for a bit, actually.”

“Whatever.” You huffed. Charlotte grabbed your hand and led the two of you away from the boys, down the platform and onto the dance floor.

Just when you reached an empty spot on the dance floor, Hands Together by House of Omni started playing—one of your favorites from when you were running around New York with your college friends.

You started moving your hips in time with the baseline, singing the words to Charlotte, who had no clue what the song was but had a huge smile on her face.

Harry was sure you had done it on purpose: chosen the one spot where he could see you perfectly. He had made the comment that he wanted to watch, but meant it as a teasing joke more than anything. If he did watch, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands to himself in the slightest and although he wanted nothing more than to have his hands all over you in front of everyone, this was an extremely public place, with way too many eyes and it was in both of your best interests if he stopped himself from getting handsy anywhere that wasn’t the couch he was sitting on.

You were smiling as you danced with Charlotte. Each time she did a little spin, you tipped your head back and laughed. He could hear the sound in his ears and he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

You looked more than amazing in that dress. He couldn’t stop looking at your body each time he was near you. The dress accented each curve of yours perfectly—it was sexy and delicate, and simple, but still special.

In the car, you were half on his lap—not because you needed to be, but because when you, Harry, and Mitch climbed into the second row of seats, he pulled you down onto him when you went to sit in the middle. His arm stayed tight around your waist the entire ride while his fingers trailed dangerously along the inside of your thigh. He had been ready for you since he saw you and couldn’t wait until later when he would get to have you all to himself.

At first, when he got the text from you inviting him out, he was a little surprised. Usually, you would’ve just let Charlotte invite him and pretend like you didn’t care whether or not he showed up. You never wanted to seem interested or like you wanted to see him even though he knew you usually did. If you didn’t, you would show up, or allow his invitation, or end up curled up together in someone’s bed each time you saw each other. This time, you had gone out of your way to invite him. You wanted him there with you.

He spent the entire day after the date trying to convince himself that it had actually happened. You asked him to stay, let him stay the night, were more than okay with him giving you a ride to work—you even initiated the kiss goodbye. He had somehow convinced himself that it was all in his head, but the invite for tonight made him think that he was more than right in thinking you were feeling the same way as he was.

Harry’s brow furrowed when he saw two guys approach you and Charlotte. He saw some blond talk to you but you shook your head—then leaned in so he could say something in your ear. Harry knew that it was probably innocent and that you most likely just couldn’t hear him, but he still felt a rush of jealousy.

“Mate,” He turned to Adam, knowing Mitch wasn’t much of a dancer, “c’mon.” He waved him along as he got up and started down towards the dance floor.

You smiled at the guy, who’s name was Sam, and thanked him for the compliment. He hadn’t tried to buy you a drink or dance with you, just told you that you looked amazing. It was sweet and pretty rare behavior from a guy at a club. Usually they always wanted something, but he didn’t even try to get close to you at first; he only did it when you couldn’t hear him at all.

Suddenly, you felt someone’s hand land at the top of your ass. You immediately knew it was Harry, just from the way he touched you. His chest was against your shoulder and without thinking, you leaned back into him.

“Harry.” He stuck his hand out to the guy who took it without hesitation.

“Sam.” When Harry dropped his hand, Sam gestured towards you. “You’re real lucky mate. She’s beautiful.” He was talking to Harry but looking at you as he said it. You blushed and looked away.

“I am.” Harrys voice was hard.

Weirdly, you didn’t feel the need to correct him, to make it known that, no, Harry was in fact, not lucky because you weren’t actually his. Instead, you were hit with a small swell of pride, something you never expected.

“Have a nice night.” Sam said as he waved and backed away from the four of you with his friend.

“Surprised you let me do that.” Harry said in your ear as he wrapped his other arm around your waist and held you close to him.

“It would’ve made it awkward if I corrected you.” You explained and he nodded against your cheek.

“Oh, so that was it.” He kissed your temple before releasing you. “I guess I’ve got to dance now.”

“Yes, you do.” You smiled and dragged him into the little circle that you, Charlotte, and Adam made.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” Harry cheered when a version of Lizzo’s Boys started to play.

Harry never failed to make you laugh when he danced. He was more than attractive all the time, and even when he danced, but he was always just a little off rhythm, always a little goofy, always so animated that you couldn’t help but throw your head back in laughter.

He pulled what seemed to be his usual moves: rocked back and forth, did an exaggerated step-touch while his arms moved above his head, rolled his shoulders back and moved his arms at his sides. At one point, he even tried to mimic the way you moved your hips and stepped with your feet, which made containing your laughter impossible.

You shoved him away from you lightly. “I do not look like that.”

Just as the song changed to one with a darker beat, he grabbed your arms and held you from behind. “You kinda do, but hotter.”

“Oh, shut up.” You said in a teasing tone as you tried to move from his grasp, but he only held you tighter.

“C’mon, dance with me.”

“After you mocked me?”

He dropped a kiss to your neck, right under your ear. “Stop, you know I think you look amazing. I love watching you.”

You felt yourself melt into him then, completely flattered and loving his attention. “Yeah?” You pushed back into him and didn’t miss the hiss that left his lips. You started dancing again, extremely aware of the way your ass brushed against Harry every so often.

He wrapped his arm around you and placed his palm onto your inner thigh and gave it a small squeeze. “Fuck, I wish you were mine.”

You leaned back into him and tried to ignore the warning bells that were going off in your head, but you couldn’t. They weren’t warning you that Harry was saying something you didn’t like—the problem was that you liked it too much. The problem was, when he said those words, your stomach erupted in butterflies and you felt the warmth between your legs grow. The problem was: maybe you wanted to be his.

There was panic itching at your chest and you didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t deal with these feelings now. You couldn’t spend the whole night with him while you were having a freakout about him. You needed to get away for a bit. You needed to get some air and just try and think for a second.

You turned around and placed a quick kiss to his lips. “I need a drink.”

“Let me come with you.”

“No, stay. I’ll get you one too.” Before he could argue with you, you were pushing yourself through the crowd.

What the fuck was going on? You wanted Harry? You wanted to be his? That was wrong. It couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be the truth. You could make it a lie. All you needed was somebody else. It was that easy.

When you broke through to the other side of the crowd, you were fully stressed out and in need of something strong. “Sorry.” You said when you bumped into some guy’s back.

“You again.” Sam said with a smile on his face and his card in his hand.

“Yeah, me again.” You forced a smile back.

“No, Harry?”

“No.” You shook your head. “Sorry about that before. He’s a friend, just really protective of us.”

“Just a friend, yeah?”

“Absolutely.” You said as confidently as you could. You were trying to convince yourself more than you were trying to convince Sam.

“Then how ‘bout a drink?”

“I’d love one.”

You were taking forever. Harry knew that the bar was probably insanely crowded, but you were always the one to push your way through the crowd and make yourself a priority to the bartender. Harry also already had a tab open so it wasn’t like you had to deal with the annoyance of paying for it.

Just wanted to make sure that you were okay, he excused himself from Charlotte and Adam and pushed his way towards the bar.

It took him less than a second to find you since the lights bounced off the fringe of your dress, causing you to sparkle no matter where you were in the room. He felt the the jealously burn his chest as his eyes narrowed in on you and the same guy he saw you with before. It didn’t look so innocent this time. He had handed you a drink and you took a step closer, letting him brush his fingers down your arm.

Harry’s jaw clenched as he shook out his hand that had involuntarily formed itself into a fist. He shook his head in frustration before turning around and going back the way he came. He had no intention of causing a scene at the bar, but the two of you needed to talk.

He waited patiently with Charlotte and Adam until you came back, trying to dance with them and have fun but he was infuriated. He wanted to punch that guy in the face and scream in yours. He didn’t understand why you intended on doing this to him; why you felt the need to make him feel so good about the two of you and then purposefully hurt him.

Two songs came and gone before you got back to the group. He didn’t let you get a word about before he pulled the drink from your hands and dropped it in Adam’s. He pulled you close to him. “Bathroom. Now.” It wasn’t a suggestion and he knew you understood that from the way you followed closely behind him even though he dropped your wrist.

The bathrooms were neutral and so he pulled you into the only empty one, which was the last one in the long corridor. As soon as the door was locked behind the two of you he turned around and pointed his finger at your chest. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you doing? With him?” Harry pointed towards the door.

You crossed your arms defensively. “We were just talking.”

“C’mon, (Y/N). I’m not a fucking idiot. That wasn’t just talking. You were fucking flirting with him.”

“And so what if I was?” You were raising your voice now.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Harry’s laugh was bitter.

“What is your problem?”

“My problem?” He pointed to himself. “My problem is you fucking invited me here with you and then you go off and flirt with some other guy! What the fuck is that?”

“Charlotte invited you.” The response was cold and Harry felt as though he was going to scream.

“No. You fucking invited me!”

“As a friend.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Why do you care so much anyway? Why do you care at all?”

“Because I fucking like you! God knows fucking why, but I do! But fine! You want to go and fuck someone else, I don’t care!

“Fine!” You yelled back.

The two of you stood there staring at one another for a moment before Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Fuck this.” He turned and pulled the door open, leaving you standing in the middle of the bathroom at a complete loss for words.

You went back to the couch, hoping you would find Harry there but it was empty. Even Mitch had gone somewhere. Charlotte and Adam were still on the dance floor—and had seemed to make some friends and so you were left up there alone.

He needed to say it again. He needed to explain. It sounded like he said he liked you, as in had feelings for you but you needed to know more for it to be real, you needed him to clarify and confirm. There was a feeling in your gut telling you that you felt the same. You’d be lying if you said that hearing the words didn’t make you feel something—you just wished they were said in a different way, a different setting.

You needed to find him and figure all of this out.

After ten minutes, but what felt like ages of searching for him, you found him. He was dancing with some girl near the middle of the floor. Rather, some girl was dancing on him. You watched as he leaned down and whispered something in her ear—then you saw him dip his face into her neck, the same way he had done to you earlier.

Your stomach turned.

You backed up right into someone’s chest. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” When you turned around, Sam was standing there. A drink in his hand and a worried look on his face.

“You never came back. Is everything okay?”

You tried to blink away the tears that were starting to form. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Something happened with my friends.” You held up your hands to him and patted him on the chest. “I just-sorry, I just need a second. I need some air.”

You brushed past him quickly, but instead of turning in the direction of the entrance, you went back towards the bathroom since it was closer and you felt the bile start to rise in your throat.

The straps of your heels were digging deep into your skin as you walked quickly towards the long hallway. Thankful when you saw no line, you tried to twist the knob of the first door but it was locked. So was the next one. The third one and the fourth. The fifth was locked—and so was the sixth. You leaned back against the ‘employees only’ door and took a deep breath. As soon as the third door opened, you rush towards it, nearly knocking over the guy who was exiting.

Once the door was locked behind you, you rushed to the sink and leaned your hands on either side of it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You mumbled as the tears began to fall. Your stomach turned again, the nauseous feeling coming back full force.

You walked over to where the toilet was and stood leaning against the wall next to it, wanting to be prepared if you actually did end up throwing up.

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go. It was supposed to be fun, it was supposed to be a celebration. You and Harry were supposed to dance and have fun and be handsy and then go home and fuck. He wasn’t supposed to tell you he wished you were his and you weren’t supposed to want it just as badly. He wasn’t supposed to get mad at you for talking to some guy and he sure as shit wasn’t supposed to tell you he has feelings for you. He wasn’t supposed to be with another girl and you weren’t supposed to be crying in the bathroom, completely freaked out because you had feelings for him.

The admission made you almost gag, but it was true. You had been fighting it for so long but you had more-than-a-crush feelings for Harry. Feelings that went past what you felt for Nate in middle school. Feelings that went past anything you had for any of the guys you had every hooked up with or ‘dated’. Any relationship you had in the past only lasted a few months. It wasn’t that you were incapable of having feelings for people, because you were, and it wasn’t that you got bored of people easily, because you didn’t. It was that you just rarely let yourself feel them. It was always something you regretted after the relationship was over—and it was always something your friends admonished you for, but you couldn’t help it. You would fight the feelings tooth and nail until they felt too real and then you would back out and blow everything up.

You didn’t like the idea of doing that to Harry—he didn’t deserve it, but you couldn’t simply accept that this was how you felt and that it was normal and okay.

You were getting sick over fucking feelings. You were trying to fight them off in your head—but it made sense, didn’t it? You more than enjoyed spending time one on one with Harry, loved your time with him on Wednesday night, could kiss him for hours, missed the way he held you the next morning each time you spent the night together. He made you laugh and blush; he now respected your work and the kind of person you are. He made music you loved and was someone you found way more interesting than you thought you would. You had genuinely hated him, but now you liked in a way that was a million degrees past the kind of likeness that was reserved for friends.

You didn’t know what to do. Even if you wanted to talk to anyone about this, you couldn’t. Everyone was drunk, everyone was having fun, or trying to have fun—and you were alone. You were always alone; always having to pick up the pieces of yourself with no help from anyone else. You didn’t want to put this on Charlotte right now, you didn’t even want to bother Harry, not that he would let you. You needed to deal with this alone, the way you dealt with everything, never needing anyone’s help or wanting anyone else involved.

The need to feel better rooted itself deep in your gut, but you didn’t know how—but you needed to feel something other than the intense hurt and overwhelming want for Harry that was consuming you.

After deciding that you probably wouldn’t throw up and that a few deep breaths were ll you needed to cure your nausea, you walked back over to the sink and looked at yourself in the mirror. You breathed deeply, in and out, a few times as you swiped your fingers delicately under your eyes, making sure to remove any trace of tears. Unfortunately, it wasn’t completely successful; your mascara had clumped together, your liner was smudged slightly beneath your eyes, and the tear tracks were clear in your makeup under the bright bathroom lights. You took one more deep breath, smoothed down your dress and told yourself that you could fix this. You could feel better—with or without Harry.

On your way to find Sam, you purposefully walked right past Harry, but received no reaction. When you looked back to see if he has noticed you, his attention was on the girl in front of him, your existence seemingly easily forgotten.

Sam was at the corner of the bar, talking with his friend from earlier. “Hey, you came back!”

“I did!” Your smile took effort.

“I know you said you couldn’t earlier, that you had to stay with your friends, but…” He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re sure you don’t want to get a drink somewhere a bit quieter?”

His smile was warm and seemed gentle. He was by no means a bad looking guy. His hair was wavy and blonde, falling down on his shoulders. His eyes were blue and his lashes curled up in a way you wished yours did naturally. His jawline wasn’t as nice as Harry’s but still sharp and there was stubble along his jaw that suited him well. You could be attracted to him and maybe, if you were in a better mood you would be, but he wasn’t Harry. Not that it mattered anymore. You wanted to feel better and Harry didn’t seem to care about you anymore.

“Actually, I think I’d like that a lot.”

“Great, yeah. Cool.” You could tell he was elated—obviously not being able to sense that your demeanor had changed from your conversation at the bar. “Did you want to tell your friends you’re leaving? Then we’ll grab your coat?”

“No coat, but yeah. I’ll go tell my friends. You’ll be here?”

“Of course, I will.”

You weren’t sure if you liked how eager he was, how nice he was. You weren’t sure if you liked him at all but he seemed gentle enough and your birth control was in your bag and he most likely had a condom on him and you just needed to feel better.

After grabbing your bag from where it sat on the couch, you stood in front of it, surveying the floor in search of Charlotte, Adam, and Mitch. You pulled your phone out to send her a text and heard Harry’s voice behind you.

“Going somewhere?” The girl was with him and each had full drinks in their hands.

“He asked me to go home with him.” It most likely wasn’t a lie.

“Are you?”

You couldn’t read his face. “Maybe.”

“You should.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“So now you don’t want me anymore?” You knew you were poking the bear. You wanted him to say the words again. You wanted confirmation that you hadn’t freaked out over nothing.

“Of course I fucking want you!” He took a step closer so he was only inches from you. You watched the girl back away and was happy to see her go. “But I’m not doing this shit with you anymore! You want me and then don’t. You hate me and then you’re sleeping over and wearing my clothes and you fucking invite me here because you want me and then you tell me that you might be going home with someone else?” He was pissed and hurt. “All you ever fucking do it play games. I’m tired of you being a bitch to me just because you can’t figure out what the fuck you want. So, look, I’ve figured it out for you, yeah? Fucking go. I don’t care anymore.”

It felt as if you had been smacked in the face. “Fine.” You brushed past him and made sure to forcefully knock your shoulder into his. You rushed quickly down the stairs and blinked back the tears that had returned. You were tired of this. All of it. You were tired of the club, tired of the night, tired of feeling that way, tired of Harry.

Harry dropped his drink on the table and ran his hands over his face. He was pissed but also upset. He didn’t really want you to go, of course he didn’t, but he was angry and he was tired of all the back and forth with you and he was embarrassed about his admission in the bathroom—it wasn’t supposed to come until he was sure you felt the same way, until he knew for certain you wouldn’t hurt him, but of course you did. It’s all you had done since the two of you met.

Against his better judgement, he went after you. He grabbed his coat from the couch and hurried down the stairs and pushed through the crowd with his phone pressed to his ear, leaving a message for Mitch, letting him know that he left. Whether he stopped you or not, he wasn’t going back inside.

He took the stairs up to the entrance two at a time, telling himself over and over again that you would be out there, that you would understand that you had hurt him enough for one night. When he shoved open the door and stepped out into the cold November air, he didn’t see you there. He didn’t see the guy that was trying to take you. He was a group of girls getting into a cab and the two bouncers talking with their hands deep in their pockets.

He cursed under his breath and started texting his driver.

“Looking for me?”

Of course. Of course you were there, leaned against the outside of the building, lit cigarette dangling between your fingers. It looked as if the cold didn’t effect you, your arms legs, and chest completely bare, but Harry knew that is he got close to you, your teeth would be chattering and your skin would be covered in goosebumps—but you liked to look strong. It was something he was learning over and over again.

“I was, actually.” He said as he shrugged off his coat. “What happened? Thought you were leaving.”

You shrugged as you walked over to him and took a drag of your cigarette. “Not really my type, I guess.”

“That was cruel.”

“You were cruel.”

“No, I was honest.” Harry corrected as he draped his coat over your shoulders and plucked the burning stick from your fingers.

“Doesn’t make it any less hurtful.”

He put it out beneath his shoe before looking up at you. Your eyes were red and your makeup wasn’t as perfectly applied as it had been earlier. “Have you been crying?”

You stopped his hand as it went up to touch your cheek. “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

The whole ride to Harry’s your eyes burned. You were still freaking out—even more so after blowing off Sam. You made it all the way outside before you broke. He had the door to the cab open for you but you couldn’t step inside.

You didn’t want him at all and the idea of getting in that car with him made your stomach turn. The self hatred had started creeping its way in the second you turned away from Harry. The realization of your feelings hit you hard, harder than it should’ve and even though you were sure they had probably been there for some time, it was still a surprise. You didn’t have time to process them, didn’t have somewhere you could go and sit and talk it through, figure it all out for real.

You were somewhere with no privacy, no sober friends, no stability, no comfort. Harry had been pissed at you, been with someone else, your heart was lurching, your mind was reeling and you were overwhelmed.

Once in the car, stuck under the crook of Harry’s arm, you still weren’t able to calm down. The silence of the ride sent your mind into overdrive. The same thoughts repeated over and over again in your mind: you had feelings for Harry. For a short time, you tried to convince yourself that maybe you actually didn’t. Maybe it was the alcohol that was trying to trick you, the simplistic jealously of seeing a man who you only ever saw as yours with someone else. Yours. That was the problem right there, wasn’t it? You had been thinking of Harry as someone that belonged to you when he never did, still didn’t, but it meant that all the time something had been there—feelings had been there and you were just too stubborn to see it.

Harry’s hand had been massaging your thigh the entire time you had been in the car, but he had also been silent, the two of you obviously lost in your own heads, thinking over the events of the night.

He helped you out of the car and held you close to him as he said goodnight to his driver before leading you up to the door. You reached up and kissed his neck as he turned his key into the lock and he sighed. His fingers fumbled to turn the knob as you continued to trace circles over his skin with your tongue, but when he finally got the door open, the first thing he did was push your body against its frame.

He kissed you hard before pulling away but keeping his forehead against yours. “We need to talk.”

“Tomorrow.”

He moved his head back when you tried to kiss him again. “Promise.”

“I promise.”

As soon as the words were out, his lips were back on yours. He walked you inside and managed to close the door despite you tugging on the collar of his shirt to pull him closer. His coat dropped from your shoulders and his left hand pushed under the hem of your dress so he could grab at your upper thigh just under your ass.

You could feel in the way he was kissing you and touching you that he wanted that night to be rough, which was exactly what you wanted. That night couldn’t be like Wednesday. It couldn’t feel soft, or passionate in the way where it felt as if he cared about you. You needed it to be hard, maybe a little fast, and you needed him to make it feel like he hated you again.

Harry groaned when you tugged harshly at the hair at the back of his head and pushed you back against the wall. He dipped his face into your neck and sucked hard at the skin. Your brow furrowed and you sighed before pushing him away slightly when the image of him doing the same to the girl at the club flashed through your mind.

He gave you a questioning look and you forced the thought away, pulling him back into you. You started working on the buttons of his shirt, wanting to slide your hands over his skin as soon as possible. When you tugged at his shirt a little roughly in order to get it untucked from his trousers, his hands moved to your wrists.

“Careful, it’s Gucci.”

“Do you fucking know how you sound, right now?” You mumbled.

He chuckled against your lips. “Right. Sorry.”

After undoing the last button. You pushed the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms, not satisfied until it dropped softly to the floor. As your fingertips trailed over his chest and you pushed your tongue into his mouth, Harry hiked up the skirt of your dress and grabbed roughly at your hips, forcing them into his.

You raked your nails down his chest and he hissed while moving his hands to grab your ass. He rolled his hips into your again and you cursed softly, feeling the warmth between your thighs deepen. Despite the emotional mess the night had been, your need for him had been building since you first saw him at Charlotte’s. You always wanted him when you were with him and often when you weren’t. He had somehow worked his way into every single part of your life: into your friendships, your work life, your love life. He was fucking everywhere and it wasn’t fair.

“I want to go upstairs.” You said as you gripped onto his jaw.

Without a word, he bent down and scooped you up from your knees. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he started moving towards the stairs.

“Harry, you’re going to drop me.” He ignored you. “H, you can’t. You’re not going to make it. Just put me down.”

“Would you shut up?” He kissed your neck. “Do you know how much I can lift?”

“Doo you know you sound like a cocky asshole?”

“Thought you liked that.”

You covered his smirk with a kiss and he moaned again as he took the last step.

Once you were in the bedroom, he dropped you on the bed and trailed openmouthed kisses down your neck and your chest as his hands pushed under your dress and his fingers dipped under the band of your nearly there thong. It was more of a g-string, really, but it was tasteful, delicate. The front was blush pink and lace and another small patch of lace sat at your back, while the fabric that connected both pieces was extremely thin and looked almost like ribbon.

He moved off you but stayed kneeling in front of you, eyes on your body as he ran his left hand down your leg before pulling your foot up towards him and undoing the tiny straps of your shoe. He kissed the inside of your ankle before setting it down and repeating the process with the other one. When he was done, you pushed yourself up so you were leaning back on your hands and kissed him.

“I want you in my mouth.” You whispered. What you really wanted was control. You felt as if you had lost all of it and desperately wanted it back.

“Fuck.” He sighed before placing his right hand on the back of your neck. Harry held you in a kiss as he leaned forward on his left hand, forcing you to lay back down, before he rolled the two of you over so that you were on top.

You rolled your hips into his once, twice. He bit your lip and whimpered. You pushed against his chest in order to separate your lips before moving down to the spot between his legs.

After he had hurriedly undone his pants and you pulled them off, you settled into one of your favorite positions: legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed in the air, your cheek resting on his thigh. You stroked him slowly and watched his eyes flutter shut before his head tipped back. He was trying not to buck himself into your hand and failing. He was trying to hold back, to give you the control you wanted, but it was obvious he was aching.

It pleased you to know that he had been feeling the same way about you the entire night, as much as you wished it didn’t. For a second, the intrusive thought entered that it wasn’t you who had turned him on, but the other girl—you forced it away. The jealousy was frustrating and unnecessary. Harry was yours. Wasn’t he? Didn’t he want to be? You hated yourself for how much you wanted it.

Harry’s hand went to your hair when you moved up to place his tip at the opening of your mouth. He was ready to do exactly what you wanted him to do. When he pushed you down to take in all of him, you squeezed your thighs together. He didn’t let himself hit the back of your throat, but he was close, and held you there for a second as a strangle groan left his lips.

“Fuck, (Y/N). Do it again.” He released the pressure on your head and let you come up. When you started to move back down, he pushed again and held you there. As you came back up, you sucked harder and made sure to swirl your tongue around his tip in the way you knew he liked.

He hit the back of your throat when you went back down without warning. Harry’s moans were strained as he gripped tightly onto you hair. You peeked up at him as you moved back to his tip; his chest was heaving slowly and his cheeks were pink. His grip on your hair tightened once more when he saw you looking and pushed you back down, hitting the back of your throat and causing you to gag.

You released him quickly but held your mouth over him, letting the spit drip down his cock, fully aware that he was watching. His hips bucked slightly into nothing and you knew you had him. He would do whatever you said, whatever you wanted. All you had to do was ask—and it would be a big ask, especially since Harry didn’t exactly seem like the type.

You gave him one more; as you went down you sucked hard and gagged when he hit the back of your throat but didn’t move. You let him buck his hips into your mouth twice as he cursed loudly between pants and had to pull you off of him.

When he dropped his hand from your hair, you moved to stand on your knees. After he brushed his knuckles over the corner of your mouth and then your chin and he tried to calm down his breathing, you unzipped your dress at the side and then pulled it off up over your head.

You left your underwear on since there was no real fabric there to get in the way and nodded at him. “Sit up. All the way.”

Harry followed your commands as you crawled over to him. You placed your knees on either side of him and rested your forearms on his shoulders while his went to your ass. When he licked your nipple, you let your head fall back and moaned. He closed his lips around it and tugged at it with his teeth, causing you to inhale sharply, but you liked it.

When you felt his fingers touch your clit, you whimpered and he cursed before running them over your barely covered center.

“You’re so fucking wet.” He moved your panties over with ease and pushed one finger inside.

You shook your head and when you opened your eyes, saw this his were focused on your face. You grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. “I want more.” You breathed as you lifted his cock from where it rested underneath you and lined it up.

You sunk down and immediately started moving your hips back and forth. A choked groan came from Harry and he gripped tightly onto your hips. You felt good—you felt full.

Each time you rocked forward, you cursed softly from the friction on your clit. Your forehead landed on Harry’s, which was damp with sweat. A surprise since, so far, you had done all of the work.

His hands moved back to your ass so he could help you rock forward, getting to a spot you didn’t know you needed to hit. “Fuck, baby.” He whined.

Quickly, you dropped your head into his neck and covered his mouth with your left hand. “Don’t call me that. Just shut up.”

He moaned in response because he probably thought it was a game, that this was you trying to have fun, trying to push him, see how far he could go and what he would allow—but you were more than serious. You couldn’t hear him call you that right now, couldn’t deal with the butterflies you got when he said it. You didn’t want to be soft now—you didn’t want to have those feelings right then.

You rolled your hips with more pressure and kissed Harry’s neck as he groaned against your hand. The orgasm was building quickly and each time your clit rubbed against his skin, your chest heaved and the furrow in your brow deepened.

“Holy…fuck!” It was a strangled cry, and partially muffled by Harry’s neck. Your hand slipped from his mouth and landed on his jaw, where you squeezed, as you rode out your orgasm.

“Fucking hell…” The moan was slow and tense. When he felt your teeth sink into his neck, he wrapped his arms tightly around your body. “Fucking enough.” He lifted you as he pulled his legs under him and pushed the two of you forward. Your legs shifted and wrapped around his waist as you landed on your back against the mattress.

Harry gripped harshly onto your jaw and kissed you roughly before driving his hips into you. You smirked when you noticed he seemed angry. This was what you needed. You needed it to be like it used to be. Before all of this, the sex was angry and rough and devoid of anything that mattered. It was where you were comfortable.

He held himself up with his left hand and wrapped his right around your throat. You released a pleased hum when he applied some pressure.

“Like that?” You nodded. He dropped down and hovered his lips right over your ear. “Can you please just be good?”

“Fuck…” It was a drawn out whisper.

His grip around your throat tightened again. “I asked if you would be good.” His voice was stern in a way it had never been before, because you had taken more control than you ever had. You liked knowing that he didn’t one hundred percent like being the submissive one—you like the arguing, the demanding. It was what was natural between the two of you.

“Mhmm.” It was small since his hand around your throat wasn’t exactly allowing for full sentences.

“Words.” He lessened the pressure.

“I’ll be good.” It was a lie.

He moved back up so he was looking at you as he continued to thrust into you. His hips hit yours hard and you winced with every few thrusts. He shifted quickly so that he was no longer holding your neck, but so that your right leg was hooked over his arm, allowing him to push deeper. When he hit a particularly deep spot, your dug your nails into his sides at his ribcage and dragged them down.

“Fuck, careful, baby.” His eyes were on yours and his gaze was sweet. He was searching your expression for any trace of pain, anything that told him he had pushed too deep or hit a wrong spot. Harry was looking at you as though he cared for you—and you knew he did, but the whole point of tonight was to forget about that. You wanted to forget that he cared about you at all, it would make it easier to deal with your feelings later.

“You could hit me if you want.” Your voice was soft and strained as he continued to push into you. Your eyes flickered from his lip between his teeth, to his eyes, where confusion and hesitancy swam. “Maybe you should.”

“Babe, d-do you want me too?” He dragged his fingertips across your cheek.

You nodded and looked back down to his lips, which were red and swollen.

He grabbed your chin tight. “Look at me. I need you to say it or I can’t do it.”

“I want you to hit me.” Your voice was strong and you felt your stomach tighten at the idea of feeling his hand against your cheek. You had done this before—a lot with a guy you had been seeing a little less than a year ago. The two of you weren’t good for each other and often, your feelings were conflicted and anger bubbled constantly between you—this always made everything feel better. It made it feel like you had some control in the way you felt, in how he made you feel, and you liked the sting, the euphoria that came with the pulsing.

Harry brushed his fingers over your cheek again but pulling his hand back and making contact. You whimpered and he immediately looked concerned. He needed to stop.

“Not hard enough.” You said.

“Yeah? Harder?”

“Please.”

He hit you again and that time you felt the sting. Harry cursed as a loud moan spilled from your lips. Your nails dug into his sides.

“Again. Please.”

He was more confident now and it was harder than the last. “Fuck.” Your voice was thick and your head felt like it was floating but you felt good—you felt better.

“Holy shit, (Y/N). Harry said as he trailed his fingers down your warm cheek. You could feel how hot it was, but the sting was wearing off and you needed it again.

“Again.”

“One more.” Harry groaned. His hips were rolling sloppily against yours. “One more.”

The last one was the hardest and it made you cry out in both pain and pleasure while you scratched at his biceps. “Harry…” You whimpered as he dropped his body on top of yours. His hand gripped your jaw again and he held your face as his thrusts grew more and moe lazy.

“Fuck, I’m coming.” He sucked at your neck right before pulling out. He kept his face in the crook of your shoulder as he finished all over your folds, his tip brushing against your clit with every stroke.

When he was done, he rolled off of you and you immediately got up and went to his bathroom. You grabbed a small towel from the shelf and cleaned yourself up. Just as you finished, Harry appeared in the doorway.

“You okay?” When you turned to him, he walked forward and pulled you into his arms.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You could hear that your voice was hoarse, but it wasn’t from how rough the sex was, despite what Harry must’ve thought.

“You’re sure? We’ve never…done that before.”

You squeezed his sides so that he would release you. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m the one who asked for it, remember?”

He released you but held your face in his hands and carefully swiped his thumb over your still stinging cheek. “I know, love. I just wanted to make sure. Do you want water or something? A snack? I can get you something.” He could tell something was wrong and he wanted to help you feel better—and you wanted to feel better, but he was the reason you felt so awful.

“No, I’m okay. I’m just gonna get ready for bed. I’ll be out in a few minutes, okay?”

He nodded hesitantly and placed a delicate kiss to your lips. “Come to bed whenever your ready.”

Harry closed the door behind him and you locked it quickly. You went over to think and watched the tears slide down your face in the mirror. Your skin burned—everywhere and the slapping only made you feel good for a fleeting moment.

Now, you were in the quiet. The people, the lights, the loud music was gone. You were the most sober you had been all night and your feelings for Harry weighed heavy in your stomach. You were sure if you fell into the river they would drown you.

You were struggling to fight these feelings for him and you weren’t even sure why you were fighting them. It was the part of yourself you never understood—the intense push to be alone. You didn’t want to be alone. You wanted someone to care for you and love you and you wanted to do that for them—but every time you got there, or as close as your brain would allow you to get, you blew it up. You got scared , terrified, and you ran. You always needed to be the one to leave, to ruin the other person—maybe that was the reason you decided to hate Harry so much in the beginning and why you understood him. Maybe you saw too much of yourself in him.

Everything felt as if it was moving to fast and your mind was doing somersaults and backflips trying to fight the intense gut feeling that you had feelings for Harry, that you could even fall in love with him. It rejected the whole notion, rejected him. It tried to remind you that you hated him, but the ache in your chest at the thought said otherwise. You felt a deep need for him and your mind tried to tell you it was a lie.

The tears continued to fall and your chest was getting tight. You flicked on the tap and tried to be quiet as you cried over the sink, not wanting Harry to hear any of it. You needed to get out of there. You needed to be alone. You couldn’t crawl into bed next to him feeling this way—it would be too much. You would shatter.

As the water ran, you calmed your breathing down and tried to pull it together. You wiped the tears from your cheeks and smoothed your hands over your hair.

You shut off the water and unlocked the door quietly. You shut off the bathroom light and pulled the door open slowly, confused when you saw that the bedroom lights were off.

When you took a tentative step into Harry’s room, you heard him snoring faintly and your whole body relaxed. You padded into the room quietly and picked up your dress from where it was on the floor at the foot of the bed and slipped it on as quietly as you could. Next was your shoes, which were a bitch to buckle in the dark, but you finally managed with a small sigh of relief. Sneaking out was easy since the bedroom door was still open and thankfully, Harry’s stairs were too new to creak. You tip-toed into the foyer and picked your bag up from the floor and pulling out your phone. Against you better judgement, you slipped on Harry’s coat and swore you would give it back tomorrow.

You slipped out the front door as quietly as you possibly could and then hurried down his driveway as you hailed an Uber. Once Sarah’s address was typed in, you pulled up your messages with Harry.

We’ll talk tomorrow. I promise.

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