Heavy hands — part II (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello everyone, I really hope you are liking this story. I haven't gotten much feedback about it. However, I'm really enjoying writing it.

Y/N stood stiffly in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around her middle, the metal of the door pressing cold against her back.

Harry didn’t move. Just leaned against the opposite wall like he hadn’t just brutalized someone fifteen minutes ago. Like this was normal. Like he was bored.

She watched him exhale smoke slowly, the glow of the cigarette illuminating the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the faint bruising already forming on the side of his jaw.

“You’re bleeding,” she said quietly.

Harry flicked the ash to the ground. “Not the first time.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Didn’t say anything else either. The silence stretched until it was heavy.

Y/N shifted, uncomfortable. “Is that... something you do every weekend?”

His eyes finally cut to hers. Cold. Direct. A flick of tension in his jaw. “Is that what you want to know?”

She opened her mouth, hesitated. “I just—”

“You didn’t have to come,” he interrupted. His voice wasn’t unkind—but it wasn’t soft either.

That shut her up.

Harry dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot.

“You think you’re not like them?” he asked. “The ones cheering?” He nodded toward the building, toward the crowd still buzzing with bloodlust behind those concrete walls. “You stayed. You watched.”

“I didn’t know what I was walking into,” she snapped before she could stop herself.

He raised an eyebrow, finally pushing off the wall and standing upright. Slowly, he crossed the alley toward her. Not threatening. Not aggressive. Just steady. Controlled.

She should’ve stepped back, but her spine was already against the wall.

Harry stopped a foot in front of her. The blood on his skin. The bruises. The calm. It all made her chest tighten.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her. Long enough to make Y/N’s pulse spike. Long enough to make her realize he wasn’t just quiet—he was calculating.

Then, without a word, he pushed off the wall and crossed the alley in three unhurried steps.

She stood frozen, breath catching, unsure whether to move or speak.

He didn’t stop in front of her this time.

He kept going—until she was pressed back against the brick, her spine flush to the cold wall, his body inches from hers. Close enough to smell the smoke on his skin, the coppery tang of blood still clinging to him.

Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him despite the cold night.

Her throat went dry.

Harry leaned in slightly, not touching, but invading every inch of her space. His voice was low, dark silk.

“You’ve got that look,” he murmured, eyes dragging slowly over her face. “Like you want to run, but you don’t know which way.”

Y/N’s heart thundered. She forced her voice to work. “You should—get out of my way.”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

“I like how you say that,” he said, voice barely audible. “All soft. Like you don’t really mean it.”

Y/N’s breath caught. She hated how her skin lit up under his gaze.

Then he leaned just a little closer, his mouth beside her ear. “Careful, pet. You stick around this world too long, it’ll stick to you.”

He pulled back—finally, finally stepping away. Leaving her dizzy and burning and angry at herself for not pushing him sooner.

Harry turned his back, heading for the shadows again, and without looking over his shoulder, he added:

“See you around, sweetheart.”

The noise hit her the second she opened the door.

The bass had returned—deep, relentless, vibrating through the concrete like a second heartbeat. The air was thick again: sweat, smoke, heat, laughter. But it didn’t reach her. Not really.

Y/N weaved through the crowd with her head down, pulse still racing from the alley. Her hands were cold, and the back of her neck was damp. She just wanted to find her bag and leave.

She spotted it on the makeshift bench where she’d left it earlier, nestled between half-empty drinks and someone’s leather jacket. As she reached for it, voices to her left cut through the noise.

Familiar ones.

She turned her head.

Harry.

He was standing with Liv, Jess, and Tom near the edge of the room, just beyond the crowd. Someone had handed him a hoodie, but he hadn’t put it on—he held it lazily in one hand, shirtless still, bruised and bloodied like none of it mattered.

His eyes met hers almost immediately. Like he’d known exactly where she was.

A slow smirk spread across his face—crooked, arrogant, unreadable.

She looked away.

Her heart thudded painfully as she approached the group, pulling her bag onto her shoulder and clearing her throat.

“Hey,” she said, barely audible over the music. “I’m heading back to campus.”

Liv turned, a little flushed from whatever she’d been drinking. “Already?”

Y/N nodded quickly. “Yeah. I’ve got class in the morning.”

Jess rolled her eyes, but Liv stepped closer, pouting slightly. “You’re no fun.”

Y/N forced a tight smile. “Thanks for… inviting me, though.” Her gaze flicked to Jess and Tom. “It was nice meeting you both.”

Tom gave her a lazy salute. Jess winked.

Liv raised a brow. “You’re just gonna leave without telling me what you thought of the fight?”

Y/N hesitated.

She could feel Harry watching her. The smirk was gone.

She looked down. “It’s not really my thing.”

That was all she said.

She turned to go.

And though she didn’t look back, she felt the shift in the air behind her.

The door slammed behind her, muffling the music, leaving only the hum of the city night.

Y/N stepped out onto the pavement, hugging her coat tighter around herself. The air was colder now. Harsher. The kind of cold that bit through denim and seeped into her bones.

She walked fast, retracing the steps they’d taken earlier—but now, everything looked different. Sinister.

The streets were emptier, but not empty. A man leaned against a lamppost, eyes tracking her as she passed. Another group laughed too loudly across the street. A car idled by the curb, windows dark, engine running.

Her pace quickened.

She didn’t belong here.

She shouldn’t have come at all.

She turned a corner and spotted the underground entrance—half-lit, tucked beneath an old bridge, with stairs leading down into flickering fluorescent light.

A group of men stood near the railing. Smoking. Loud. One of them nudged another and tilted his chin toward her.

Y/N froze.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Just as she considered turning around, disappearing into the dark streets instead, a hand gently touched the small of her back.

She flinched—until she heard his voice.

“Easy, pet.”

Harry.

She turned her head, and there he was.

The hoodie was on now—black, pulled up over his buzzed head. His face was cast in shadows, but his presence was unmistakable. Steady. Heavy.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stood beside her like he’d been there all along.

And suddenly, the cold felt less sharp.

The men by the entrance looked once, then turned away. Like they knew. Like they sensed him.

Y/N swallowed, her breath still caught somewhere high in her chest. “You followed me.”

Harry looked straight ahead. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

She wanted to ask why he cared.

She wanted to tell him she didn’t need help.

But her mouth stayed shut.

Because for the first time all night, she felt safer with the devil than with the dark.

Harry didn’t touch her again. He didn’t have to.

He just stepped slightly ahead of her, his body angled like a shield as they approached the group by the station entrance. Y/N kept close behind, trying not to shrink into herself, trying not to look like prey.

One of the men—tall, broad, with a scar slicing across his brow—spotted Harry first.

He straightened immediately. “Styles.”

The others looked over. Their laughter died down. A few nodded, stepping aside without being asked.

“Hell of a win tonight,” one muttered. “Didn’t think Marcus would get up again after the third hit.”

Harry didn’t break stride. “He shouldn’t have.”

The group chuckled like that was the punchline. No one else spoke.

They watched as Harry led Y/N past them and toward the stairs, their gazes lingering—not on her, but on him.

Like they knew exactly who he was. What he was capable of.

Y/N felt it again—that tight, coiled awareness curling low in her belly. Not fear. Not safety either. Something far more complicated.

When they reached the top of the stairs, she finally whispered, “Why did they all know your name?”

Harry glanced at her, only for a second. “Because I don’t lose, pet”

Then he descended into the tunnel, and after a breath, she followed.

The Tube car clattered along the tracks, mostly empty at this hour. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, washing everything in a pale, almost sickly glow.

Y/N sat near the end of the car, legs pressed together, her bag clutched tight against her chest. She stared at the floor, but she wasn’t seeing it. Her thoughts were loud. Her pulse louder.

She could still feel the heat of Harry’s body near hers. The way his voice had curled around her like smoke. Pet.

She hated it.

She didn’t.

He stood a few feet away, holding the rail with one hand, his other stuffed into his hoodie pocket. Hoodie up. Rings still on. Shoulders relaxed, head bowed slightly like he might be thinking—or maybe not thinking at all.

She wished she could do that. Just shut everything off.

“Philosophy.”

His voice caught her off guard.

She looked up. “What?”

Harry didn’t move. “That’s what you study, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you—?”

“Liv doesn’t shut up,” he said simply. Then, after a pause: “You look the type anyway.”

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

Now he looked at her. Fully. Carefully.

“Quiet. Always thinking. Never saying what you’re actually thinking.” He tilted his head. “Bet your brain’s loud all the time.”

Y/N swallowed.

She didn’t answer, because—he wasn’t wrong. And that made her uncomfortable.

Harry’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Trying to make sense of me, pet?”

She stiffened. “I’m just trying to get home.”

He let out a low breath, barely a laugh. “Right.”

He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t explain himself either.

Just looked away. Like she was interesting, but not urgent.

Like she’d figure it out. Or she wouldn’t.

And either way, he’d already made up his mind.

She cleared her throat. “Do you study?”

He didn’t look at her when he answered. “No.”

Her voice was quieter now. “Do you work?”

A beat.

“I fight.”

That was it. Like he was stating the weather. Like it didn’t need explaining.

She hesitated. “For money?”

Now he glanced down at her, just once. His mouth twitched. Not a smile.

“Wouldn’t do it for fun.”

Y/N shifted in her seat, uneasy. She kept her eyes down. “You make it sound like I wouldn’t understand.”

Another pause. Then, “You wouldn’t.”

Her head lifted a fraction. “Why?”

“You look like someone who’s never needed anything.”

She blinked, frowning. “That’s not true.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t press her either. Just looked ahead again, jaw tense, ringed fingers flexing once around the rail.

She hated that he didn’t care if he offended her.She hated that part of her wanted him to.

The Tube hissed to a stop, brakes squealing, and the doors parted with a mechanical sigh.

They were the only ones to step off.

The station was nearly deserted. Cold wind funneled through the tunnel as they emerged onto the platform, the overhead lights flickering slightly. Harry walked beside her, hands in his pockets, his pace unhurried.

Y/N’s street was only a few blocks away now. She could see the university tower peeking out over the rooftops, the familiar security of it tugging at her like gravity.

“You don’t have to walk me the rest of the way,” she said. Firm. Not quite steady. “I’ve got it from here.”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t stop either.

He just kept walking.

Straight toward her building.

Y/N blinked. “Harry—”

“You don’t live in that one,” he said simply, eyes tracking the dorm across the street. “Your boots are too clean for the gravel path. You took the long way earlier. So, this one.”

He turned his head slightly toward her. “Keep up.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

She didn’t move.

“I said I’m fine.”

Harry halted then, slowly turning to face her. His hood had fallen back slightly, the glow of a nearby lamp catching the bruising at his jaw, the split in his lip. His expression was unreadable—cold, shadowed, unmoving.

“Not asking,” he said.

Her mouth went dry. “Why do you care?”

That made him laugh—a short, humorless exhale.

“I don’t.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

Y/N swallowed. “Then why—”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he cut in, voice low, final. “I’ll leave when I see the door shut behind you.”

Like it was a fact. Not a discussion.

She stared at him, confused and angry and thrown completely off-balance. No guy had ever spoken to her like that—not rudely, not cruelly, just… with power. Like he knew she didn’t actually want him to go.

And worse—like he knew she’d go inside and close the door, just so he’d leave.

Her chest rose with a shaky breath. “You're insane.”

His eyes darkened. “Probably.”

Then he stepped back and jerked his chin toward the building. Waiting.

Y/N didn’t say anything else.

She turned.

Walked the rest of the way with her jaw clenched and her thoughts unraveling. She hated that her heart raced. Hated the way her skin buzzed under his gaze.

At the door, she paused.

Looked back.

Harry hadn’t moved.

She opened it.

Stepped through.

And just before it swung shut behind her, she heard his voice again—low, quiet, but clear through the glass:

“Lock it.”

Then he was gone.

The lock clicked louder than usual.

Y/N stood behind the door for a moment longer than she meant to—hand still on the knob, forehead pressed to the cold wood, like it might ground her.

It didn’t.

She backed away slowly, peeled off her coat with numb fingers, and dropped her bag beside the bed. The room was dim. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made her ears ring.

She hadn’t realized she was shaking until she tried to unzip her boots.

What the hell was that?

Harry Styles.

He was smoke and blood and bruises and control.

And for reasons she couldn’t explain—not to herself, not to anyone—her body still felt like it was lit up from the inside.

She moved on autopilot—flicked on the bathroom light, stripped her clothes off in silence, and stepped under the hot stream of the shower like it could erase him.

It didn’t.

Not when she closed her eyes and still saw the bruises on his ribs. The way his mouth twisted around that crooked smile. The weight of his gaze pinning her against the alley wall like a hand on her throat.

Y/N let the water hit her face, her chest, her neck—burning hot, scalding her skin in the best way.

She didn’t know what was worse—how scared she’d been… or how she hadn’t hated it.

She pressed her hands to the tile and exhaled hard.

She wasn’t like those girls. The ones at the fight. The ones cheering. The ones who wanted the violence. The chaos.

And yet…

Her breath caught.

She could still feel him. The weight of his presence. The heat rolling off him. The voice in her ear.

“Careful, pet. You stick around this world too long, it’ll stick to you.”

He said it like a warning.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Like he was already watching it happen to her.

Y/N scrubbed at her skin until it turned red. It didn’t help. Her fingers were still trembling when she got out and wrapped herself in a towel.

In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a drop of water sliding down her collarbone.

She looked… different.

Or maybe she’d just never really looked at herself like this before.

Like she was on the edge of something.

She dried off quickly and pulled on a sweatshirt. Climbed into bed. But her mind didn’t slow. Her body didn’t settle.

Harry had barely touched her. Hadn’t even said much.

But he’d unraveled something in her she hadn’t known was there.

She stared at the ceiling for hours.

Sleep didn’t come easy.

And when it finally did, she dreamt of smoke. Of blood. Of green eyes watching her from the shadows.

Y/N’s pen moved across the page, but the words meant nothing.

Her philosophy professor’s voice echoed faintly from the front of the lecture hall, something about Plato and dualism, the nature of reality versus perception—but her brain couldn’t hold any of it.

Her notes were just loops and lines. Scribbles in the margin.

Her mind was still back in the alley. The Tube. The door.

Harry hadn’t touched her, but her skin still felt marked.

She sat straighter, trying to breathe slower. Her clothes felt too tight. Her mouth too dry.

Get it together.

Outside, rain speckled the windows. Gray light filtered in, flat and cold. Her seat by the window gave her a view of the stone courtyard between buildings—usually empty at this hour.

But movement caught her eye.

She turned her head.

And there he was.

Leaning against a matte black motorcycle, hood up, shoulders loose, one boot resting casually against the concrete wall. One hand in his pocket. The other lifting a cigarette to his mouth.

Harry.

Her heart jolted like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod.

He just watched her.

Not like he was curious.

Like he was waiting.

Y/N froze.

He took a long drag, eyes steady on her through the window. No smile. No twitch of his mouth. Just that unbothered, unreadable stare like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

Like he wanted her to see him.

And then—just as calmly as he appeared—he dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, and pushed off the wall.

He got on the bike.

Helmet in hand.

But before he slid it on, he looked back up at her one last time.

Just a second.

Just enough.

Then he disappeared into the gray.

Y/N stared at the spot where he’d been, her breath shallow.

She didn’t know why he’d come.

Or why he’d left.

But he’d made sure she saw him.

And that was enough to keep him living rent-free in her head for the rest of the day.

Y/N pushed through the doors of the humanities building, shoulders hunched against the drizzle still misting the air. The classroom was already half full—buzzing with idle conversation and clacking laptop keys.

She spotted Liv immediately—slouched in their usual back-row seat, lip-gloss still intact, twirling a pen between her fingers with practiced boredom.

Y/N slid into the chair beside her, keeping her voice low. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

Liv smirked, eyes still on the front of the room. “That’s because I didn’t.”

A beat.

Y/N hesitated, then leaned in slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

That got Liv’s attention. She turned, eyebrows lifted. “You never ask anything.”

Y/N swallowed. “How do you know Harry?”

Something flickered in Liv’s expression—quick, buried, but there.

Liv shrugged. “We hooked up. A few times. Months ago.”

Y/N’s throat went dry. “Oh.”

“We met through a friend,” Liv continued, voice too casual. “Tom, I think. Or Jess. Doesn’t matter. He came to one of our parties, and—” she paused, smiled, like remembering something electric. “Well. You saw him. He’s kind of hard to ignore.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Liv went on, a little sharper now. “He’s not the relationship type, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Y/N said too quickly.

Liv raised a brow. “Sure.”

A tense silence.

Then Liv added, quieter: “He never stays. Doesn’t text back. Doesn’t talk much, unless he’s asking for something.” Her fingers twisted the pen now, fidgeting. “He’s hot, yeah, but—there’s nothing real there. He doesn’t let anyone in.”

Y/N stared at the desk.

The image of him flicked through her mind again—standing outside the window, watching her with that impossible calm. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew her even though they hadn’t said a dozen sentences between them.

“He doesn’t go here, does he?” she asked, tone careful.

Liv snorted. “No. God, no. He dropped out years ago—if he even started. Think he runs fights full-time now. Or does… something shady. Nobody really knows.”

Y/N felt her grip tighten around her pen. The plastic creaked.

She could tell Liv wanted more—wanted to know why she was asking. But Y/N didn’t give her anything else.

She didn’t tell her Harry had walked her home.

Didn’t tell her he’d shown up outside campus this morning.

Didn’t tell her that something about him felt aimed at her, even if that made no sense.

Instead, she forced a shrug. “Just curious.”

Liv hummed. “Well, don’t get too curious. Trust me.”

The professor walked in. The room quieted.

But Y/N’s mind didn’t.

She was already wondering if she’d see him again.

The phone was slick in her hand, the screen pressed too close to her cheek. Y/N stood behind the café counter, her back ramrod straight, staring at the milk frother like it might rescue her from the call.

“Yes, Mum,” she said softly, forcing a smile even though her mother couldn’t see it. “I’m eating properly. I already made a list for the week.”

She could hear her father in the background—muttering something about budgeting.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the clock. Four more minutes until the end of her break. Fifteen until close. Her coat still sat on the hook. She still hadn’t finished her tea.

Her mother’s voice sharpened. “And your readings? You’re keeping up?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She lied every day.

She lied about her job. About the mounting bills. About how lonely it got sometimes, walking home in the dark. She lied about the people she didn’t know, the parties she didn’t go to, the freedom she didn’t feel.

“I have to go,” she murmured. “I’m at the library.”

She hung up before her mother could correct her.

The bell over the front door jingled.

She didn’t even lift her head at first—just tucked her phone away, reached for the tea she hadn’t touched.

But then—

That sensation again. Like the room shifted. Like someone had flipped the dimmer switch on her nerves.

She looked up.

Harry.

Standing just inside the doorway, hood down, his hair slightly damp from the rain. A few bruises still blooming around his jaw, like souvenirs from the fight. His hands were bare. Ringed. One shoved into his pocket. The other dripping water onto the hardwood floor from a cigarette he hadn’t lit.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at her.

Y/N’s throat closed around her heartbeat.

He didn’t belong here. Not in this warm, quiet, lamp-lit space with dusty poetry collections and worn armchairs and chamomile tea steeping behind the counter. He was leather and smoke and bare-knuckle silence.

She was still staring when he spoke.

“Black coffee.”

She blinked.

“Sorry?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

Just stepped up to the counter, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging across the scattered pastries, the books stacked beside the register, then back to her.

She reached for a mug. Fumbled. Almost dropped it.

He watched her hands.

“You work here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Y/N nodded tightly, pretending she didn’t need to swallow before answering. “It’s just part-time.”

Another secret she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

Harry said nothing.

She turned her back, focused on the espresso machine like it required surgical precision. Her chest felt too tight.

He hadn’t explained why he was here. He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t even pretend to browse.

He just was.

When she finally turned and set the mug in front of him, his fingers brushed hers as he took it.

Her skin burned like a fuse.

He took a sip. Met her eyes over the rim.

“You lie well.”

Y/N froze.

Her voice cracked. “What?”

“On the phone. You said you were at the library.”

She stared at him.

“You were listening?”

“I was standing at the door.”

A beat.

“You didn’t knock,” she said, though it felt stupid as soon as it left her mouth.

Harry’s gaze didn’t shift. “Didn’t need to.”

He took another sip. Unbothered.

Y/N suddenly felt too warm. Too exposed. The café was empty except for an old man asleep in the armchair by the classics shelf.

“You followed me,” she said quietly.

Harry didn’t smile. “Maybe.”

She wanted to ask why.

He didn’t offer it.

Instead, he looked down at the coffee, then back at her, and said, “You always work Tuesdays?”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Just asking.”

“No, you’re not,” she said before she could stop herself.

That did make him smile—but only slightly. One corner of his mouth, not even enough to reach his eyes.

“I’ll be back. If you’re lucky.”” he said, low and certain.

She swallowed. “You don’t even read.”

“I don’t need to.”

Then he turned.

Left the mug on the counter—half-drunk, still hot—and walked out the door without a backward glance.

The bell jingled softly behind him.

Y/N exhaled like she hadn’t taken a breath in five minutes.

Her hands were trembling.

She didn’t know if it was fear.

Or anticipation.

Later that night the “Closed” sign clicked into place on the door with a soft metallic thud.

Y/N locked up with tired fingers, double-checked the handle like she always did, and wrapped her coat tighter around herself. The rain had stopped, but the air was sharp. The kind that slipped beneath your sleeves and curled around your bones.

He said next week.

She told herself she had a whole seven days to forget the way his voice had sounded in the quiet café. Seven days to stop replaying his touch on the mug, his stare, the words—“You lie well.”

But then she turned.

And froze.

He was leaning against his motorcycle just across the street, helmet dangling from one hand, hoodie up, shadowed and still like he’d been carved out of the night itself.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t gesture.

Just waited.

Like this was always going to happen.

Her steps were slow. Hesitant. But she crossed the street anyway.

“You said next week,” she said quietly.

Harry tilted his head. “Changed my mind.”

He held the helmet out to her.

“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Harry raised a brow. “Scared?”

“Yes.”

He smirked like that was the right answer.

She didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere dangerous,” he said, but the way he said it made it sound like everywhere he went was.

“I don’t even know you,” she whispered.

“You know enough.”

Another beat.

She hated how warm her hands felt. How alive.

She hated that her feet didn’t move backward.

Harry stepped closer—slow, smooth, careful not to touch her.

“I’ll ride slow,” he said softly. “You don’t have to stay.”

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t tempt.

He just gave her the choice.

She didn’t want to take it. But she already had.

The helmet was heavier than she thought.

Y/N held it in both hands, her fingers tightening around the edges like she might drop it if she didn’t grip hard enough. Harry didn’t say anything — just watched her, jaw sharp under the glow of the streetlamp.

He didn’t move until she did.

Clumsily, she slid the helmet over her head. The world narrowed instantly. Her breath bounced back into her face, hot and uneven. Harry turned wordlessly, straddling the bike like he’d done it a thousand times.

He had.

She watched the line of his back, the way his shoulders shifted beneath his hoodie as he reached for the handlebars. The muscles in his arms flexed under the fabric, and she caught sight of faint bruises near the curve of his neck — fading now, barely there.

No blood. No fresh wounds.

But the danger still clung to him like scent.

He didn’t offer her a hand. Just jerked his chin once.

Get on.

She did.

Awkward. Hesitant. Trying not to touch him — but there wasn’t room not to. Her knees brushed his hips. Her hands hovered for a second before finally resting lightly at his sides.

He didn’t acknowledge it.

Then the engine growled to life beneath her, vibrating through her bones. She flinched. Harry didn’t notice.

Or he didn’t care.

He pulled into the road like he owned it. No hesitation. No warning.

Just speed. Just shadow. Just wind in her face.

Y/N’s grip tightened without thinking, her fingers curling into the folds of his hoodie.

She didn’t ask where they were going.

He didn’t tell her.

They didn’t speak again until he parked.

It was quiet. Remote. The kind of place people didn’t end up unless they meant to — a wide, cracked stretch of pavement near a cliffside road, far from the city’s glow.

London blinked far below. Soft and distant.

Harry cut the engine.

Y/N climbed off first, legs unsteady. Her hands were still wrapped tight around the helmet when he turned to her, pushing his hood back with one hand. He looked… cleaner. Not polished — never that — but the grime from the fight was gone.

The bruises, though, were still fading across his jaw. One cut, just at the edge of his lip, had scabbed.

She finally pulled the helmet off, hair tumbling down, cheeks flushed from wind and adrenaline.

She felt jittery. Like she couldn’t quite settle.

“You always bring girls out here after fights?” she asked, voice too thin, trying too hard to sound unaffected.

Harry lit a cigarette. One long drag. Then: “No.”

“So… why me?”

“You didn’t leave.”

She blinked. “What?”

“At the fight. You hated it. You wanted to go. But you stayed.”

She swallowed hard. “I stayed because—”

She stopped. Frowned. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to be rude.”

He huffed once. Not quite a laugh. “You’re not like them.”

She crossed her arms. “You keep saying that like it means something.”

Harry took another drag. “It does.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cracked pavement, her nails digging into her sleeves.

The silence stretched.

And then — too fast, too quiet — she said, “I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

He didn’t move. Just looked at her. Waiting.

“My parents…” Her voice faltered. “They’re… strict. Very. I’ve never had a curfew because I’ve never been allowed out long enough to need one.”

Harry raised a brow, but didn’t interrupt.

“I was homeschooled. Didn’t even go to public school until university. I didn’t go to parties. Never dated. I used to sneak books into my room and read with a flashlight.” She let out a soft, embarrassed breath. “I guess I thought if I came to uni, things would change. That I would.”

A beat.

“I just wanted to… feel something,” she said. “For once. Something real. Something that wasn’t planned or controlled or expected of me.”

Harry’s stare didn’t waver. “And getting dragged to a fight did the trick?”

Y/N flushed. “I didn’t know it was a fight. I thought it was a club. Or something. Liv didn’t tell me.”

His mouth twitched. “Sounds like her.”

Another pause.

Y/N fiddled with a thread on her sleeve. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. And I definitely wasn’t supposed to be with you.”

Harry looked at her, quiet. His voice low. “So why are you?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged. “Maybe I’m still figuring that out.”

The wind picked up, brushing a strand of hair across her face. She tucked it behind her ear, unsure where to look.

“You don’t strike me as the type to follow strangers on motorbikes,” he said after a beat.

“I’m not.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying her.

“You’re nervous.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, what gave it away? The rambling or the panic sweat?”

Another breath of silence. Then—

“Don’t be.”

She looked at him. Really looked.

Harry’s voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. “If I wanted to scare you, pet…” He tilted his head slightly. “You’d know.”

Y/N didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse.

But something in her loosened. Just slightly.

“You’re still scary,” she said softly.

His lips twitched. “Good.”

And then the moment passed — quiet again. Just wind. Fog. A city blinking beneath them like a secret.

“I’ll take you back now,” he said.

No question. No apology. Just that same stillness. That same weight.

He turned toward the bike, the words already final.

But this time, Y/N followed without hesitation.