Different 39 (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello everyone, here is the new chapter of different. I am exhausted. It's been a long day. I hope you are all doing well and had a wonderful week. Enjoy & let me know what you think!

Detective Robert Keating stepped into the hospital room, his presence instantly shifting the air. His dark suit was slightly wrinkled, and the lines on his face looked deeper under the harsh hospital lights. He carried a notepad, but this time, he didn’t open it. He had already spoken to Harry. He had already taken his statement. This visit was different.

Harry sat up in bed, his posture tense. Y/N, perched beside him, felt her heart start to race, bracing for whatever news Keating had brought.

“We have Ivy Carrington in custody,” Keating announced, his voice steady but heavy with meaning.

The silence stretched for a beat before Y/N exhaled sharply. “You what?”

Harry's fingers curled around the blanket, his jaw clenching. “What did she say?” His voice was rough, but there was an undeniable flicker of relief beneath the frustration.

Keating crossed his arms. “She’s not talking much. Claims she had no idea how the drugs ended up in your system and that she’s being unfairly accused.” He exhaled through his nose, his gaze flicking between them. “But here’s the thing—we found security footage from the party. It places her near you at the exact time your behavior started to change.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She could still picture it—Harry, slumped over, barely able to speak, Ivy hovering over him like a vulture.

Harry let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. “So she’s lying.”

Keating gave a small nod. “Most likely. We also have a witness who claims to have seen her handing you a drink.”

Y/N’s nails dug into her palm. “Then that’s it, isn’t it? You have her.”

Keating tilted his head slightly. “We’re building a case. The evidence is circumstantial right now, but it’s adding up. If she did drug you, we’ll find out.”

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. “What happens to her?”

Keating studied him carefully before responding. “That depends on what else we uncover. At minimum, she’s looking at charges for possession and administering a substance without consent. If we can prove intent—if she did this knowing it could harm you—then it escalates.”

Harry’s grip on the blanket tightened. His throat bobbed, and for the first time since waking up, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with his physical injuries.

Y/N reached for his hand under the sheets, squeezing gently. He didn’t pull away.

Keating sighed, running a hand over his face. “I’ll be honest with you, Styles. These cases are tricky. Even with evidence, people like Ivy—people with money and influence—find ways to slip through cracks. But I promise you, we’re doing everything we can.”

Harry nodded stiffly. “I appreciate that.”

Keating hesitated for a moment before tucking his notepad away. “Get some rest. I’ll be in touch if we have any updates.”

With that, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

The room was eerily quiet in his absence.

Y/N turned to Harry, expecting to see anger, frustration—but instead, she saw something else. Something more fragile.

“She really did it,” he murmured. His voice wasn’t full of rage or disbelief. It was just… hollow.

Y/N brushed her thumb over the back of his hand. “I know.”

Harry swallowed, his gaze dropping to their hands. “I don’t even know how I’m supposed to feel right now.”

Y/N shifted closer, her voice softer now. “However you need to. Angry. Hurt. Relieved that she’s finally caught.”

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them again. “I just—” He exhaled heavily. “I hate that I let it happen.”

Y/N sat up straighter, her grip tightening. “Harry. You didn’t let anything happen. You were targeted. You were drugged.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t argue. Maybe because, deep down, he knew she was right.

Y/N softened, tilting her head slightly. “What do you need?”

Harry looked at her then, really looked at her. The girl who had stayed by his side through all of this, who had fought for him when he couldn’t fight for himself.

“I just need you to stay.”

Her heart clenched.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry let himself believe that.

The room was cold, clinical—nothing more than a metal table, two chairs, and a single overhead light that cast harsh shadows across the dull gray walls. Ivy Carrington sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed, her manicured nails tapping against her bicep in a steady rhythm. Her bruised nose and the faint discoloration beneath her eyes were the only indications of the fight from the party, but otherwise, she looked composed. Unbothered.

Detective Robert Keating took his time. He leaned against the doorframe, flipping through a manila folder. The sound of paper shuffling filled the room, stretching the silence between them. He wanted her to sit in it, to stew. He’d been doing this long enough to know that silence was often more effective than any immediate confrontation.

When he finally moved to the chair across from her, he placed the folder down with a deliberate thud.

“Ivy Carrington,” he drawled, lacing his fingers together on the table. “You’ve had quite the eventful night.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. “I already told you—I don’t know what happened to Harry.”

Keating smirked, tilting his head slightly. “That’s funny, because I haven’t even asked you about that yet.”

Her jaw tensed.

Leaning forward slightly, Keating tapped the folder. “Let’s talk about what we do know. We know that Harry Styles was found unconscious at that party. We know that toxicology reports confirmed he had GHB in his system. We know that you were the last person seen with him before he collapsed.”

Ivy gave a bored shrug. “So? A lot of people were at that party. I wasn’t the only one around him.”

Keating’s lips curled into a small smile. “You’re right. You weren’t.” He flipped open the folder, pulling out a stack of printed photos. One by one, he slid them across the table toward her. “But you were the only one handing him a drink.”

Ivy’s breath hitched so faintly that most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Keating wasn’t most people.

Her gaze flickered to the grainy black-and-white stills—security footage from the house. One image showed her standing close to Harry, a drink in her hand. Another, Harry taking the glass from her. The final one—Harry’s posture shifting, his body language growing sluggish.

Keating leaned back in his chair, watching her. “Now, see, that doesn’t look good for you.”

Ivy squared her shoulders. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

Keating hummed, pretending to consider it. “Maybe not on its own. But when we combine that with witness statements?” He pulled out another sheet of paper, tapping it against the table. “People saw you hovering over him after he started acting out of it. Some even heard you saying you’d take care of him. That you’d make sure he ‘got home safe.’”

Ivy’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak.

Keating dropped the paper and clasped his hands together. His voice was calm, patient—like he had all the time in the world. “You know what I think, Ivy?”

She glared at him. “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

He smirked. “I think you wanted him vulnerable. I think you wanted to be the one to ‘save’ him, to have him rely on you. Maybe you wanted to get him alone, get him away from that girl—Y/N, right?” He cocked his head. “But something went wrong, didn’t it? He lost consciousness. You panicked.”

Ivy scoffed. “That’s insane.”

Keating clicked his tongue. “Is it?” He pointed at the photos. “Because this—this looks like premeditation. Like someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”

Ivy shifted in her seat. “Harry’s my friend,” she said, but the words lacked conviction. “Why would I ever want to hurt him?”

Keating exhaled sharply, sitting back with an almost amused expression. “That’s a damn good question, Ivy. One you might want to think real hard about before you answer.” He let the moment stretch, then leaned forward, his voice lower now. “Because right now, I’ve got a whole lot of puzzle pieces that paint a real ugly picture for you.”

Ivy clenched her jaw. “I want a lawyer.”

Keating smiled, standing up and gathering the papers. “That’s your right.” He knocked twice on the metal table. “But let me give you a little free legal advice—cooperation tends to go a long way with the DA.”

Ivy didn’t say anything, but her grip on her own arms tightened.

Keating let out a short chuckle as he walked toward the door. “Sit tight, Miss Carrington. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other real soon.”

With that, he exited, leaving Ivy alone in the cold, sterile room with nothing but the weight of her own silence.

The discharge process took longer than either of them would have liked. Y/N had been pacing the hospital room, double-checking that Harry had everything he needed—his prescriptions, his phone charger, the extra hoodie Anne had brought him. Harry, for his part, sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples like he had a headache, watching her with an amused expression.

“Love, you’re acting like I’m being shipped off to war,” he muttered, his voice still hoarse from exhaustion.

Y/N shot him a sharp look as she carefully folded the discharge papers and tucked them into her bag. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I be less concerned after you just got drugged and hospitalized?”

Harry sighed, already knowing he had no defense against her logic. “I just hate that you’re worrying so much.”

“Too bad,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “It’s my job.”

Before he could argue, a nurse arrived with a wheelchair, and Y/N didn’t miss the way Harry’s jaw tightened.

“Oh, hell no,” he groaned. “I can walk just fine.”

“It’s hospital policy,” the nurse said kindly, but Harry wasn’t convinced.

Y/N stepped closer, her fingers brushing his arm. “Harry, please,” she said softly. “Just this once, can you not be so damn stubborn?”

His resolve faltered instantly. With a grumble, he lowered himself into the chair, and Y/N didn’t hide her victorious smile as she followed them out.

Gemma and Anne were already waiting at the exit, their car pulled up to the curb. The hotel they had booked was just a few minutes away, a much better option than the dorms. Harry needed peace. Security. A place where Ivy couldn’t just waltz in and pretend nothing had happened.

As soon as they arrived, Anne rushed ahead to check them in, while Y/N helped Harry up to his room. He was exhausted by the time they reached it, sinking down onto the bed with a sigh.

Y/N knelt beside him, unlacing his sneakers. “You should get some rest.”

Harry exhaled deeply, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “Stay?”

She hesitated. “Are you sure?”

His fingers found hers, lacing them together weakly. “Always.”

Back in the interrogation room, Ivy sat stiffly in the metal chair, arms crossed over her chest, Across from her, Detective Robert Keating leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp, unimpressed.

Beside Ivy, her lawyer, an older man in an expensive charcoal suit, adjusted his cuffs before speaking. “Detective Keating, let’s not waste each other’s time. We all know how these things work. My client is willing to make this go away.”

Keating raised a brow. “Go away?”

The lawyer slid a slim envelope across the table. “A gesture of goodwill. Surely, there’s a way we can… resolve this situation without unnecessary complications.”

Keating didn’t touch the envelope. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring slightly. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned forward, placing his hands on the table. His voice was low, laced with quiet menace.

“You think I’m in this for the money?” he asked, his tone almost amused. “You think I took this job so I could sell my integrity to people like you?” His voice sharpened as he glared at the lawyer. “If I wanted money, I’d have chosen a different career path. I’d have made deals with the worst of the worst. But you see, I didn’t. Because I actually give a damn.”

The lawyer’s face twitched, but he remained silent. Ivy, however, scoffed. “Oh, spare me the moral high ground,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You’re acting like this is some big crime. Harry was fine.”

Keating’s patience snapped. “Was he?” he fired back, slamming his hand against the table, making Ivy flinch. “Let’s talk about that, Ivy. Let’s talk about how ‘fine’ he was.”

He pulled out a file, flipping it open, letting his gaze skim over the details before he looked back at her.

“When Y/N found Harry, he was drugged. Barely conscious. And you—” he jabbed a finger toward her, “—were half-naked. So tell me, Ivy, why was that? What exactly were you doing in that room with an unconscious man?”

Ivy shifted in her seat, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “It’s not what it looked like,” she said quickly.

Keating tilted his head. “Then tell me what it was. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you were stripping down a man who couldn’t fight back. And I have to wonder—what was your intention?”

Ivy’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She glanced at her lawyer, but even he seemed tense now, his fingers twitching against his briefcase.

Keating leaned closer, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Were you hoping to take pictures? Create a scene that would humiliate him? Or were you after something worse?”

Ivy swallowed hard, her face paling. “I—I didn’t…”

Keating’s eyes bore into her. “Start talking, Ivy. Because trust me, this is the moment where you decide just how deep you want to sink.”

The hotel room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city outside. The curtains weren’t fully closed, allowing soft, fragmented light to slip through, casting faint streaks across the bed. Y/N lay on her side, facing Harry, watching the way the glow illuminated the sharp edges of his face—the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the faint crease between his brows.

They were supposed to be sleeping. But neither of them was.

Harry lay on his back, one arm draped over his forehead, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. His other hand rested on the sheets between them, close enough that Y/N could reach out and take it if she wanted to.

There was so much to say. So much to unpack. But neither of them knew where to start.

Y/N swallowed, staring at him in the darkness. “Harry…”

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, the city lights reflecting in the green of them. “Don’t,” he murmured. His voice was rough, strained.

She hesitated. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask me how I’m feeling.” He turned his head slightly then, finally meeting her eyes. “Because I don’t know.”

Y/N’s heart clenched. She understood.

She had seen him at his strongest, his most confident. She had seen him take control of situations with ease, always knowing exactly what to do, how to handle things. But now… now, he wasn’t sure. And that terrified him.

“I just…” He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Y/N bit her lip, resisting the urge to push. She wanted him to talk. She wanted to hear everything—what was running through his mind, how deep the scars of this would go. But she also knew Harry. And she knew he wouldn’t open up until he was ready.

So instead, she reached across the space between them and intertwined their fingers.

Harry’s grip tightened almost instantly, like he needed something to ground him.

“I’m here,” she whispered. That was all she said. No pressure, no expectations. Just a reminder.

Harry turned his head back toward the ceiling, staring at it for a long moment. His thumb brushed against the back of her hand absentmindedly, his breathing steady.

And then, in the quiet, he whispered, “I know.”

And that was enough.