Y/N has a fat crush on her coworker Harry (Patreon)

Hi. you guys! The next story up will be another part of the alien fic :) I am slowly but surely working through these letters, I'm sorry it's literally taking forever but I have not forgotten about you!  I bought the scale and now it's  lost in the mail so I'm trying to track it down. to make sure that the letters aren't too heavy for me to send, but once I get that figured out, I'll be able to send out the first 100!! 

Love you all lots! Hope autumn is treating you well :) 

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i.

Y/N couldn’t tell if Harry was just dense or if she was a whole lot worse at seducing than she thought.

If anyone could even call it seducing -- when she takes a moment to herself to actually consider what she is doing in order to “seduce” him, it is less comparable to Catherine the Great and more akin to that of a high schooler with a fat crush on her teacher. She fumbles over her words, feels herself get hot all over when he looks at her (and not the good, ‘I’m attracted to you and you arouse me’ kind of hot, but more so the ‘I feel like I’m about to start sweating through my clothes if you don’t look the other way’ kind of hot), and almost just avoids him altogether if she sees he’s in the break room with nobody else around. What she executes in her head as sexy, alluring movements and scenarios always turn out into awkward, sad excuses for a situation that any human being should find themselves in.

It had started out innocent enough; she was new in her position as one of the editorial staff for a fashion magazine, and Harry was one of their many writers, though it was clear that he had been very favored amongst the staff. How couldn’t he be? He had dimples, green eyes that charmed their way through the world, soft brown curls that sat atop of his head, and a sense of style that could only be envied. Not to mention he was kind, and it felt like he never had a bad thing to say about anyone ever. Y/N is actually a hundred percent certain that every employee plus their extended family had a crush on him.

When Y/N had met him the first time she was being taken on a tour of their floor by the head of editorial staff, a rushed, stony face man called George (who she would later learn to love in a very one sided manner but was incredibly fearful of at the start). As he was showing her the advanced, gorgeous sleek cubicles (with filmy colored walls that ranged from various assortments of pink hues) that the writers had, elevated by a small set of stairs so they could look out over the entire floor (Y/N didn’t know why they would need to but she didn’t question it), Harry had appeared at their side.

“George, I just wanted to let you know I’ll have the Herrera piece done by noon. I’m sorry it’s cutting it so close to the deadline, she’s an incredibly hard woman to get a hold of.” His voice was syrupy, smooth, and all too enticing -- Y/N had been hooked from the spot. Even more so when he pressed the sleeve of his sweater to scratch his arm and her revealed inked skin.

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” George waved him off, “My wife loved the Bordelaise sauce recipe, by the way -- she said you oughta be working for bon appetit rather than us.”

His laugh exuded sheer warmth, and Y/N felt it, even more so when his gaze flickered over to her and a polite smile took his mouth, “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Harry Styles,” he held out his hand, “You’re the new editor, right?”

“Ye--” she had begun to reply but George cut her off briskly.

“Yep, she’s taking over for Jenni. Has big shoes to fill, Jenni was one of our best.”

A wave of worry flushes through her, which George had been wonderful at doing so far, but Harry only smiles at her kindly.

“I reckon she’ll do very well. It was nice to meet you.”

And Y/N had been hooked. Apart from looking professional, Harry Styles had single handedly given her a reason to want to dress nice every day for work. She got butterflies when they passed one another and he smiled at her, her stomach somersaulted when he spoke with her, and she got all hot, nervous and sweaty at the prospect of editing any of his work. Hell, the first time she did he probably thought she was a bumbling idiot -- he liked to sit with the editor and talk through the piece together so that he could catch any mistakes for next time, or explain the context of something. It’s something not many writers are willing to do, so she’s appreciative of it in theory, but when she has to be the one speaking face to face with him? Oh, god, she’s a mess.

“I’m so sorry,” she remembers saying, after spilling half her smoothie down the front of her shirt while they were sat with each other at her desk, “I’m so jittery today, I don’t know why.” She did know, was the thing, and he probably did too but he only smiled at her as he pushed up from his seat.

“Don’t apologize for a thing, babe. Let me find you some napkins.”

She almost wishes he would have been cruel -- maybe spit on her, and called her stupid -- something, or anything that would force this crush to the ground. Any move he made though had only served to help it flourish, like a garden in the most fertile of soil. Or maybe much more like weeds; at first it clustered in the back of her head, then spread like wildfire, and the roots of it are so deeply implanted that even the most skilled of gardeners wouldn’t be able to pry them from the ground.

And she had never been the type to have a crush and act on it correctly. She wanted his attention -- of course she fucking did -- but she wouldn’t just go speak with him directly. Maybe she walks by his cubicle even though it really isn’t necessary to, or maybe she goes to the break room when she knows he’s there only to get a candy bar from the vending machine then immediately leave. If he tries to start a conversation, she gives him a little and then flees as soon as she can. She chokes on trying to compliment him so instead of saying, “I like your jacket today,” it comes out, “Nice clothes,” and even though his face quirks up in a little confused smile, he still is so polite to her.

Yeah, and maybe when she thinks about it, she’s not seducing him at all but could she be any more obvious about her stupid, school girl crush? Couldn’t he just tell her it’s never going to happen so she could stop theorizing? So she wouldn’t set up her heart to be broken when he inevitably found someone much better at the seduction process than she was?

Y/N is stuck in this reverie at 9PM, when she ought to be home already gorging on the leftover spaghetti she made the night prior, but instead was hunched over six articles that one of the writers had dropped on her desk at 7:45PM and with a deadline of 12AM for it to not set production back. Y/N always stayed a little later than the other editors, which was why it had been handed off to her without a second thought. She hadn’t even bothered to hide the irritation that had crowded her features at the realization of what just happened, taking them from the apologetic hands and nodding, “That’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll get them done.”

She was taking a small snack break, moping about her hopeless crush when she hears the elevator’s high pitched dink but she assumed it was the security man making his rounds again (he had been up there a few times, the sweet old man -- he had a reputation of keeping an eye out on the people who where here late at night, so he focused on the floors that had stragglers). That’s why her body almost immediately tensed up when an all too familiar voice appears, “Y/N? What are you doing here so late?”

Harry strolled in, one hand in the pocket of his olive colored pants, his torso covered in a beige sweater that Y/N had a hard time believing combatted the cold air outside in the slightest. In his other hand he had a brown paper cup that she could only assume had tea in it -- when she first started out they had her run and get drinks for everyone a few times, and Harry was always the sweetest about receiving it, so she always made sure his was made the best.

“Oh,” she blinks at him for a moment, clearing her throat, “Um, Jenni had these done late and they need to be submitted by 12AM tonight, so I. . .kinda got stuck.”

His face drops into a bit of a pout, “That’s shit. Jenni is always turning in her stuff late, but I reckon since she’s John’s niece she has a little more leeway with him. Still, makes it fucked for everyone else so I’m sorry you’re in this position.”

She shrugs, “Ah, it’s okay. Think I might be the only editor without a like -- husband or kids to go back to, so it might as well be me.” It’s easier to speak when she’s not looking directly at him, which is why she fixes her gaze on the collar of his sweater, where there were embroidered ivy in an intricate design, “Why are you here so late?”

He kisses his teeth, “I forgot my bloody coat here -- well, not my coat, my sister’s husband’s coat and if I don’t drop it off before she goes to work tomorrow she’ll have me arse.” He makes no move to go to his cubby though, as he nods toward the stack of paper she has on her table, “How many did she give you?”

“Six. I’m on the third right now but I --” she motions to the pudding cup in her hands, “I needed a minute to like. . .”

“Decompress?” He offers and she nods, sighing softly, ”Well, I’m not busy tonight. Hand over two of them and I’ll help you.”

Her eyes widen, “Oh, no I couldn’t ask you to --”

“You aren’t asking me to do anything,” he cuts her off, as he pulls out the chair in the desk beside her, “I’m offering and you’re saying yes because you do not deserve to be here late over a slow poke. I promise I’m not shite at editing, I take what you lot tell me to heart and file it in my memory, so I won’t ask too many questions.”

She stares at him for a moment, what he probably thinks is her considering it, but is really her mind being thrown into a panic -- how was she supposed to sit with him for more than a few minutes without making an absolute fool of herself? What if this is the kicker? The straw that breaks the camel’s back? What if, after tonight, he tells her point blank that he wants nothing to do with her because she’s just too damn odd, and she can’t even fight him on it because she’s given him no reason to believe in otherwise?

It stresses her out, but what is she going to do? Refuse his help? He’s being so sweet to offer and it would go by quicker -- she could be home, warm in her bed, tummy full of spaghetti.

“Are you sure?” She watches as a smile lights up his face as he holds out his hand.

“Do you have an extra pen I can borrow?”

.                       .                       .

The first 30 minutes Y/N wants to dig herself into a hole. She can feel the tension in her shoulders that for some reason refused to ease up at all, her heart was hammering, her palms had worked up a sweat and all he was doing was working quietly beside her. She really was a fucking mess, wasn’t she? No wonder he typically only speaks to her for a moment or two before they part ways because she literally would not talk to herself either.

But then he clears his throat a little, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to find that he’s looking at her, red pen hovering over a word and she suspects he’s going to ask her a question about it, but instead he inquires, “So what’s your story?”

“Hm?” Her brows pinch, before she looks down to the page, “I’m editing the one about --”

“No, no,” he chuckles warmly, shaking her head, “I’m asking about you.”

“Oh,” her face twists up in even more confusion than it had before, “I -- um. . .I don’t have one.”

He squints at her, “Everyone has a story, Pet,” he leans back some, dragging his pen over a line as he crosses the entire thing out (from what she’s seen of him editing, she can’t tell if Jenni just really screwed up on the piece or if he’s just brutal), “Let’s start with something easy: what do you do when you get home on a typical day? I like to shovel food down my gob and take a bath if it's cold out. Then I feed Evie, my cat, and dance between reading a book, scrolling through my phone, or watching TV.”

Y/N wonders if her eyes are as wide as she feels they are. Why does he want to know about her? Was he actually interested or was it just to save from the awkward atmosphere she no doubt had created?

“I -- well, it depends on the day. Today I was going to stuff my face with spaghetti, take a shower and probably sleep ‘cos I had a killer headache earlier, but then. . .well, the writing fairy gave me a few little presents,” she motions to the papers.

“Do you ever go out? Like to pubs, clubs and all that?”  He presses and Y/N snorts.

“If someone gets me drunk enough to convince me going is a good idea beforehand, sure, but otherwise I don’t. . .not often at least. They give me enough to do here as is, I can’t imagine trying to chug through a hangover while I do it.”

He blows a stream of air through his lips, “Let me tell you, it is nowhere near pleasant -- I’ve done it a few times in the past and it was enough to work me out of it,” he scribbles a note down, and Y/N takes it as a moment to finish the thought she was making on the paragraph she’d been on -- it was a good paragraph, she liked to add positive affirmations as well as he critiques, “Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Married?”

Ink swells where she presses a little too hard on the paper at his question, “No,” she answers after a moment, clearing her throat, “Neither I --” am a little too caught up on a hopeless crush and also way too nervous to approach or be approached by anyone, “--haven’t been in a few years.”

“Oh? Any reason why?”

She shrugs her shoulders, “Nobody likes me, I guess.”

His face pinches, “I reckon someone does. You have plenty to like.” She huffed a laugh, shaking her head, so he pushes further, “What? You don’t think so?”

“You just say it like you know me, but -- well, this is as personal as we’ve ever gotten and it’s very surface level,” she points out, “I think you’re sweet for trying, but I also know you’re very willing to dish out compliments even if they might be lies.” She doesn’t mean to say it like that. . .she had meant to word it in a way that didn’t make her sound like an asshole, but the way his face falls a little makes her realize she might have been a prick -- no fucking wonder she hadn’t made a friend here, “I’m sorry,” she shook her head to herself, “I -- that came off sounding kind of mean, i think, at least in my tone. I appreciate you trying to be nice.”

His face softens, “Don’t you apologize for a thing,” he tells her, “I. . .you’re right. This is as personal as we’ve gotten but if I’m honest, I can think of plenty to like because I’ve been watching you -- not -- that sounded creepy, not in a creepy way,” he laughs some in spite of himself, “You’re so quiet and nobody has a read on you really, and I -- not to toot my own horn -- but am great at reading people. At least I typically am, but you -- you’re intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” She repeats, her heart is hammering, “Like in a good way or in a train wreck way?”

“Good way,” he answers easily, seeming so relaxed Y/N was envious of him, “A way that makes me want to pick your brain. I reckon you’re smarter than you let on, and you know what will work and what won't be, better than most of the experienced editors on the staff but you let them drop the content editing on you rather than pushing to participate in the storyboards. That also lets me know that you’re quite shy -- well, that and how you clam up a bit if someone starts speaking to you if you don’t start the conversation.” He rattles it off like he barely has to think about it -- had he really been watching her? “You do this thing when you’re irritated -- anytime Eddy rolls around to your desk to ask for something, I peek up because he’s got a loud voice so it's hard not to listen and look a bit -- you’re brow twitches. So I know Eddy gets on your nerves, but I also know you’re too sweet to say anything cruel to him so you let him have what he needs and you don’t even bother to ask for it back. He’s stolen at least four of your pens and a stapler, you know?”

Y/N did know, but she didn’t know that Harry knew too. And she wishes she could give him more for his thoughtful analysis, but all that leaves her mouth at first is, “Oh wow,” she is trying not to gape at him, “That’s -- wow.”

He smiles, “I would like to pick your brain a bit more though. I feel there is much more to you than just that. . .I might have just scraped the surface.”

“Well, I really am an open book. . .even if I come off a bit reserved,” she goes on to say, grabbing for her water bottle so she could soothe her dry throat, “You can ask me anything you’d like.”

Harry scoots forward, the wheels of his chair guiding him closer to his desk, “After we finish these bloody papers, I reckon you and I should go get something to eat and get to know each other better, hm? That is, if you can detach from the thought of spaghetti?”

Y/N doesn’t think she’s ever agreed to something faster in her life.