Heavy hands — part III (Patreon)

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

It had been four days since the cliffside.

Four days since the quiet stretch of road near the cliffs, where the wind howled and the silence between them had said more than either of them dared to.

He hadn’t kissed her. He hadn’t touched her.

But something had shifted.

Y/N hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

She replayed the entire night over and over — the ride, the stillness, the way his eyes didn’t leave hers when he said “You talk too much when you’re nervous.”

She hated how right he’d been.

And then, the next night, he texted her.

No name. Just a number she didn’t recognize at first.

You looked cold when you got off your shift. That cardigan’s too thin. Get a real coat.

They were oddly specific. Observant. Never sentimental.

She should’ve been creeped out.

But instead, her fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling.

Are you following me now?

The reply came quick.

Wouldn’t need to if you told me your schedule, pet.

Her stomach flipped.

The nickname again.

He used it like punctuation. Like a smirk she couldn’t see but always felt.

And from there, it continued.

Each night, a new message. A new piece of him — careless but deliberate, like he was feeding her breadcrumbs and waiting to see if she’d follow.

And she wasn’t sure if following them would get her closer to him or lost completely.

You read that same page five times today. Not very productive.

Why do you always walk the long way back to campus?

You always this jumpy or is it just me?

She hadn’t told anyone.

Not Liv. Not Jessie. Not her mom. Not even herself, really.

Because something about it felt too fragile to say out loud. And because the truth was: she liked it. She liked that he saw her. Not just in passing — but really saw her. Even when it made her skin crawl. Even when it made her chest ache.

She wanted to see him again.

More than she wanted to admit.

The lecture hall was half-full, the low hum of whispered conversations mixing with the scratching of pens and tapping of laptops. Y/N sat near the back, her notebook open but her mind elsewhere—drifting back to the night at the cliffside and the strange pull Harry had on her.

Liv slid into the seat beside her without ceremony, dropping her bag with a thud. She didn’t bother with the usual greeting—just leaned over with that half-smile that always made Y/N feel like she was about to be let in on something secret.

“So,” Liv said quietly, eyes flicking toward the front where the professor droned on about metaphysics, “you going to the fight tonight?”

Y/N’s pen stopped moving. Her heart skipped. “What fight?”

Liv raised an eyebrow. “The one Harry’s in. Jess mentioned it earlier. Same place as last time.”

A cold knot tightened in Y/N’s stomach.

Harry hadn’t told her.

She remembered his warning: Don’t go alone.

Why wouldn’t he tell her?

Her fingers curled into a fist on the desk.

“I—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I should.”

Liv’s gaze sharpened. “Why? You scared?”

Y/N bit her lip. No. Maybe.

Her mind raced. She wanted to see him fight. To watch him. Alone. To understand the world he lived in—the one he never let her into.

But she didn’t want to tell Liv about their conversations. About how Harry had followed her, how he’d been cold and distant yet impossible to forget. She wanted to keep that secret—hers alone.

“I’m just… not sure,” she finally said, voice low. “It feels different this time.”

Liv nodded, leaning back. “Fair.”

There was a pause.

Then Liv’s voice softened, “Text me if you decide to come, yeah?”

Y/N met her eyes and nodded She didn’t tell her about Harry’s text. About the way he’d called her pet.

Some things weren’t ready to be shared.

The soft hum of the radiator was the only sound in the small dorm room, mingling with the distant murmur of late-night footsteps and muffled laughter from other rooms down the hall. Y/N stood in front of her narrow closet, fingers trailing over the hangers as if the clothes themselves might offer answers.

She pulled out a simple black sweater, then a loose white blouse, hesitating over each. Nothing felt quite right.

Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of a worn scarf, the one she always kept folded at the bottom of her drawer—the one her mother had knitted for her last Christmas.

Too safe. She thought, biting her lip.

The fight wasn’t just any night. It was the night she was going to surprise Harry, despite his warning. The night she was going to cross a line she wasn’t sure she fully understood.

Y/N glanced at her phone sitting on the desk beside her. She had checked the balance twice already—enough for the Tube, if she kept it to the bare minimum. She counted the coins in her palm, feeling the cold metal press into her skin.

£5.20. Just enough.

Her breath caught. She could do this. She had to.

The bed creaked softly, and from the corner of the room, her roommate shifted under the threadbare duvet, eyes flicking up from a dog-eared book.

“You okay?” her roommate asked, voice low but curious.

Y/N jumped slightly, then swallowed, twisting her fingers nervously. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

The roommate smiled faintly, marking her page and setting the book aside. She had dark hair pulled into a messy bun, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and an air of quiet confidence that Y/N admired but never approached.

“You look like you’re about to go on a mission.”

Y/N managed a small, shaky laugh. “Feels like it.”

There was a pause, the roommate’s gaze steady and patient.

“Don’t think I’m nosy,” she said carefully, “but if you need someone to talk to—”

Y/N shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thanks. I’m fine. Just… nervous.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she folded the sweater, then reached for a pair of dark jeans.

Emma’s eyes softened. “Want to tell me what’s got you like this?”

Y/N hesitated, then muttered, “I just want to look pretty. For someone.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Pretty? Since when do you care about that?”

Y/N laughed without humor. “I don’t. I hate all my clothes. They’re all too plain, too… boring. Nothing feels right.”

Emma stood up and walked over to the closet, opening it wider.

“You know what? Forget your stuff for tonight. I’ve got something you have to try.”

Before Y/N could protest, Emma pulled open her side of the wardrobe and rummaged through a pile of clothes. With a satisfied grin, she held up a dress.

“Try this,” she said, tossing it toward Y/N.

Y/N caught it, surprised. The fabric was smooth and cool in her hands.

She stepped into the bathroom and changed quickly. When she came out, Emma was already seated on the bed, watching her.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, one hand loosely holding the edge of her jacket, the other resting on her hip as she studied her reflection with a mix of doubt and curiosity.

The dress clung to her like second skin—silky, short, and painted in deep crimson and black, the abstract rose print looking almost like fire against her skin. The neckline dipped into a soft cowl, giving it a careless elegance she wasn’t sure she could pull off. Thin spaghetti straps framed her shoulders, leaving them bare and exposed to the cool night air.

Over it, she had draped a black leather jacket, oversized and worn open, like armor she wasn’t ready to let go of just yet. Her legs, long and bare, ended in sleek black knee-high boots—tough, bold, and louder than she usually dared to be. A small black shoulder bag completed the look, curved and minimal, hanging from her fingers like an afterthought.

Emma sat up straighter, smiling. “See? That’s you. Fierce. Different. Not like all the rest.”

Y/N swallowed, feeling the weight of the leather jacket settle around her shoulders.

She looked fierce. Or maybe like she was pretending to be.

Was it too much? Was she trying too hard?

Y/N twisted the hem of the dress nervously. “Do you think it’s too… skimpy? Like, what if guys just think I’m—” Her voice faltered. “You know… after one thing?”

Emma laughed, sharp and clear. “Y/N, trust me, you’ll be turning heads left and right. But not like that. This is powerful, not trashy. It’s got class, and mystery. You’re owning it, not begging for attention.”

Y/N bit her lip, still unsure.

Emma leaned forward, curious now. “So, who’s the lucky guy? Or is it just a night out?”

She caught the flush rising on Y/N’s cheeks.

“His name is Harry,” Y/N said softly, almost too quietly.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Harry?”

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, looking down at her boots. “We’re meeting at the club.”

Emma’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ooh, the club. Sounds like it’s going to be an interesting night.”

Y/N nodded, her heart quickening.

The bass hit first.

Y/N stepped inside, and it slammed into her chest like a second heartbeat—loud, filthy, alive. The music was dark, electronic, the kind that made your blood race before you even reached the bar.

The air was thick. Smoke, sweat, perfume. Bodies grinding, dancing, pressed against each other in the corners. Booths tucked in shadows, glasses clinking over ice, strangers whispering things into ears.

And in the center of it all—sunken into the concrete floor like an altar—was the pit.

People circled around it with drinks in hand, half-drunk and wild-eyed, waiting for violence. The ring lights above it were turned off for now, making it look like a black hole carved into the club.

Y/N took a shaky step forward.

She tugged her borrowed jacket tighter, boots tapping over the sticky floor. The dress clung to her every movement, the air brushing over her bare face like static.

It wasn’t her world.

But it was his.

And she felt it instantly.

Eyes followed her. Not all of them, but enough to make her skin prickle. Men looked. Girls looked. Some whispered. Some just stared.

She passed the bar and ignored the offer of a drink. She didn’t want to dull her senses. Not tonight.

She wanted to feel everything.

Y/N found a spot near the far wall, partially hidden by a red velvet curtain hanging from the ceiling—just close enough to see the pit when it lit up, just far enough to vanish if she needed to.

And then… she saw him.

Not in the ring.

Not by the bar.

Not even on the floor.

But above.

On the metal catwalk that circled the top of the club—like a hunter on high ground.

He was leaning against the railing, black hoodie on, head slightly bowed. A cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling around his jaw.

And his eyes were on her.

Y/N froze.

He didn’t move. Didn’t signal.

Just watched.

The music pulsed around her. The lights flashed. Bodies danced.

But she only saw him.

Harry flicked the cigarette to the ground and disappeared into the shadows behind him.

Gone.

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know what that meant. If he was coming. If she should follow. If she should leave.

And then a bell rang out—loud, sharp, and final.

The crowd surged toward the pit.

The fight was about to start.

The crowd had shifted — tighter now, pulled in toward the pit like moths to flame.

The music dimmed. The ring lights flared on. Harsh white beams, exposing the bloodstains on the canvas, the spit, the scars in the ropes.

Y/N stood stiff near the edge of the chaos, her heart pounding loud enough to drown out the noise. Her fingers trembled against her bag strap. Her eyes searched for him—

And then he stepped into the ring.

Harry.

No hoodie now. Just black wraps around his hands, dark shorts slung low on his hips, muscles already tight with tension. His tattoos rippled under the lights, sheen of sweat on his collarbones.

He didn’t look for her.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk.

He was already somewhere else — inside his head. In the cage. The killer in him awake and focused.

Across from him stood a man built like a wall — shaved head, broken nose, bulkier than Harry by a good twenty pounds. His corner men clapped his shoulders, amped him up.

Y/N’s stomach sank.

A bell rang. First round.

The crowd roared.

They circled each other — sharp, slow, testing.

And then fists flew.

The first minutes were fast, brutal, evenly matched. Harry’s footwork was cleaner. His hits sharper. Two punches to the ribs, one straight to the jaw—crack. The crowd screamed. The other fighter staggered.

Y/N didn’t breathe.

But something was wrong.

Midway through the second round, the man caught him — a sudden, sickening right hook to the shoulder.

Harry dropped back.

His left arm sagged.

Dislocated.

She knew. She could see it.

And Harry knew too.

His stance shifted—off, uneven.

He blinked, jaw clenched, trying to shake it off.

But then came the uppercut.

Crack.

Blood sprayed from his eyebrow. He stumbled, then reeled back as another blow crashed into his ribs. He went down to one knee, catching himself just barely.

The crowd screamed, wild. But Y/N didn’t hear them. Her hands flew to her mouth.

He stood again—barely.

His left arm hung useless. His face was a mess now—blood pouring from the split above his eye, a bloom of red and purple across his cheekbone, jaw clenched in agony.

He swayed. Still up. Still fighting.

But he was losing.

Another punch to the gut.

Then one to the face.

And this time, he went down hard.

Flat.

Still.

The referee didn’t even start counting. He just threw his arm up and waved it off.

It was over.

The bell rang again.

The crowd erupted—cheering, yelling, drinking it in like bloodthirsty wolves.

But Y/N just stood there, frozen. Her vision blurred.

She couldn’t stop staring at him.

Harry didn’t move.

His back rose and fell—barely.

Someone was trying to lift him, his corner team scrambling in, shouting for help.

But Y/N saw his eyes before they closed — glassy and unfocused, like he didn’t know where he was anymore.

Like he wasn’t coming back.

She felt the first tear spill over her cheek.

She didn’t care if anyone saw.

Because in that moment, Harry Styles — the cold, cocky, untouchable fighter — looked human.

And it broke something inside her.

The crowd roared for the victor — fists in the air, drinks splashing, voices loud and ugly.

But Y/N didn’t hear them.

All she could see was Harry’s body being dragged out of the pit.

Two men, one on each side, holding him up by the arms like dead weight. His head hung low, blood dripping from his jaw, eyes shut. One of his sneakers scraped along the floor as they carried him through a steel door at the far end of the club — a door she hadn’t noticed before.

And then he was gone.

Swallowed by the dark.

No one else cared. Not really.

The crowd surged back toward the bar, laughing, hollering, ordering shots. A new track thumped through the speakers — heavy bass, filthy synth, vibrating through the walls like it hadn’t just happened. Like Harry hadn’t just lost. Badly.

Y/N stood frozen where she was, her heart racing, throat tight. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know if she could do anything.

Call an ambulance?

Would they even let one in?

Would Harry even want that?

He told me not to come, she thought. I wasn’t supposed to be here.

But she stayed.

She inched her way toward the door they’d taken him through, hovering between it and the bar, her eyes flicking back and forth like maybe someone would come out. Maybe someone would say something. Maybe they’d tell her what happened.

Nothing.

So she sat on a barstool, knees bouncing, nerves frayed raw.

After a minute, she called the bartender over — a tall guy with bleached hair and bored eyes.

“Something fruity,” she said, voice barely audible. “Something that doesn’t taste like alcohol.”

He raised a brow but nodded. “Passionfruit daiquiri work?”

She nodded.

He slid the glass toward her a minute later — bright orange, ice clinking, a curl of citrus on the rim. It looked too cheerful in her hand. Like it didn’t belong here.

She took a sip. Sweet. Sharp. Cold.

It didn’t help.

She stared at the steel door again.

And then it opened.

Her breath caught.

A tall man in black stepped out — mid-thirties, shaven head, broad shoulders, a faded scar across his chin. He scanned the room once… then locked eyes with her.

He walked straight over.

“Are you Y/N?” he asked, voice low but clear.

Her heart lurched.

She gripped the glass tighter. “Yes…”

The man looked her over for a beat — not threatening, not friendly either. Just serious.

The man stopped in front of her, eyes scanning her from head to toe — not in the way men at the club had done, not hungry or amused. Just assessing. Serious. Present.

He gave a small nod of acknowledgment and pulled out the stool beside her, not waiting for permission. He sat down with a sigh, resting his forearms on the bar.

“I’m Nate,” he said after a moment. “Friend of Harry’s. From way back.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed. She didn’t speak — didn’t trust her voice.

Nate looked at her glass. “What is that? Looks like a dessert.”

She blinked. “Uh… Passionfruit daiquiri.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cute.”

She bristled. “It’s not—”

“I’m joking,” he said, mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “Never seen someone drink one of those in a place like this. Then again, never seen him look for someone the way he looked for you.”

Y/N looked down quickly, her stomach twisting. “Is he… okay?”

Nate didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, thinking.

“He’s conscious,” he said finally. “Banged up. Stubborn as hell, as usual.”

Y/N nodded slowly, staring at the melting ice in her glass.

Then, without another word, she slid off the stool.

Nate stood too.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the steel door.

They walked through the thick of the crowd — her boots clicking against the floor, his steps heavy and sure beside hers.

At the door, Nate pulled it open and led her down a dim hallway lined with exposed pipes and concrete walls. The bass from the club was muffled now, replaced by the occasional echo of voices, the metallic slam of lockers opening, the hiss of a shower in the distance.

At the end of the hall, they stopped in front of a heavy door — paint chipped, handle worn smooth from use.

Nate turned to her.

“He’s in there,” he said.

Y/N’s heart pounded against her ribs.

Before she could open it, Nate placed a hand gently on her shoulder — warm, grounding.

His eyes were kind now, more human than they’d been before.

“Thank you,” he said, voice softer. “For being here.”

Then he stepped back, gave her a small nod, and left her standing in front of the door.

Alone.

Her hand hovered over the handle.

Then she pushed it open.

The door groaned softly as it shut behind her, sealing out the noise from the hallway.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow across the narrow locker room. It smelled of metal, sweat, and antiseptic — sharp and real.

Harry sat hunched on a bench between two rows of lockers, shirtless, his back slightly curved, his body a map of bruises and blood.

His left arm was wrapped tightly in gauze and a sling, held stiff against his ribs. His knuckles were raw and split. There was a fresh gash across his cheekbone, still seeping, and his eye — his left eye — was nearly swollen shut, dark and angry and grotesquely purple.

When he heard the door, his head snapped up.

Even with half his face battered, his gaze was razor-sharp.

He stared at her.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just… looked.

Y/N froze near the entrance, one hand still hovering by her side. Her heart ached at the sight of him. Really ached — heavy and low and awful.

She took a quiet breath, then stepped forward.

Her boots echoed softly against the tile as she crossed to him, slow and careful, like any sudden movement might hurt him more. She set her purse down gently on the other end of the bench, not speaking.

And then she stood in front of him.

He didn’t look away.

She didn’t either.

The silence stretched—dense and full of everything neither of them could say. Anger. Worry. Relief. Something else, too.

His breathing was shallow, uneven. She could see the bruising along his ribs, the way his shoulder was set at an unnatural angle under the wrap.

Still, he held her stare. Proud. Defiant. Unapologetic.

Even now.

Even like this.

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. His good eye flicked over her face, slow, unreadable.

Then, low and hoarse:

“You came.”

She swallowed. “Of course I came.”

He looked away—just for a second—then back.

“This is not a place for you.”

Her heart twisted. “You don’t get to decide that.”

She didn’t know what she was doing — just that she had to do something.

Slowly, she took a step closer.

Then another.

Until she was standing between his spread knees.

Her fingers trembled at her sides.

She hesitated, her breath catching—then carefully, gently, she reached out.

Both hands lifted to his face, palms brushing the stubble on his jaw, thumbs skimming over skin that was hot and torn and bruised.

He didn’t flinch.

She tilted his chin up slightly, just enough so his eyes met hers.

His gaze burned into her, sharp and unblinking, but she didn’t look away.

Neither of them spoke.

Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones — careful, feather-light.

And in that stillness, with the humming lights above and the blood still drying on his skin, Y/N realized something terrifying:

She wasn’t scared of him.

She was scared of how much she already felt.

Her fingers moved slowly, reverently.

One hand gently pushed back the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, her fingertips brushing the sweat from his temple. The other kept caressing the side of his face—avoiding the bruised skin, lingering instead along the cleaner, softer parts of him, the ones untouched by blood and violence.

His breath hitched.

He didn’t stop her.

His eyes, in this angle, looked different—lighter. A pale green now, flecked with gold where the overhead light hit them. Wide and watching. She didn’t know if it was the pain, the exhaustion, or just her that made him look that way. Unguarded.

It felt like she was staring straight into him. Past the cold, past the violence.

Just him.

Her voice came quiet, low.

“How are you feeling?”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then, finally, the corner of his mouth pulled into something between a smirk and a wince.

“You worried, pet?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, her thumb still tracing the edge of his jaw. “Of course I’m worried.”

Harry’s gaze flicked to her mouth. Then back to her eyes.

“Don’t be.”

“You nearly died,” she whispered.

He leaned ever so slightly into her hand, like it wasn’t on purpose.

Like his body did it before he could stop it.

“That wasn’t dying,” he muttered. “That was just losing.”

Y/N’s brows drew together.

“That’s worse to you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

She felt it.

Every word he didn’t say lived in the tension between them.

Y/N glanced around the cramped locker room, eyes settling on the small stainless-steel sink tucked in the corner. A stack of worn towels sat nearby, slightly damp and rough-edged — clearly for the fighters.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gently slid her hands away from his bruised face.

Without a word, she stepped toward the sink.

She could feel his gaze burning into her back, heavy and silent.

She wet one of the towels under the cool, steady flow of water, wringing it carefully between her fingers until it was damp but not dripping.

Then she turned back to him, the towel held loosely in her hands.

Harry’s voice broke the quiet.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, sharp but low.

Y/N paused, words caught in her throat.

She said nothing.

Instead, she knelt down slightly, leaning forward to carefully press the towel against the dried blood crusted along his cheek and jawline.

Her touch was tentative, almost afraid.

Slowly, she wiped the grime away, careful not to press too hard over the swollen bruises.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy between them.

Then, suddenly, Harry’s hand shot out and closed around her wrist.

His grip was firm but not rough — more like a tether, an unspoken anchor.

He looked down at their joined hands for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly.

He wasn’t used to being taken care of.

Y/N swallowed hard, feeling the sudden weight of his need and pride mingling in that small gesture.

Neither of them said anything.

But in that quiet moment, the distance between them seemed to shrink just a little.

Harry’s grip on her wrist tightened, and before she could react, he tugged her closer—his hands moving to her waist, anchoring her to him like he couldn’t let go.

Her breath hitched as he stretched his neck upward, eyes dark and heavy with something raw and fierce.

Then, slow and deliberate, she lowered her head, closing the distance between them.

Their lips met—first soft, testing, a spark igniting in the quiet room.

But that spark quickly exploded into something scorching.

Harry’s mouth was insistent, hungry, claiming. His lips crushed against hers with a desperate urgency, as if trying to make up for every moment lost.

She tasted the faint metallic tang of blood on him, the sharp saltiness mixing with the smoky heat of his breath.

Her hands trembled, instinctively reaching up to grip the back of his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solid heat of him against her.

His tongue slipped between her lips, slow and demanding, exploring, claiming.

Every nerve in her body ignited—her knees weakened, breath tangled in her throat.

The world shrank until it was just them—the rough edges of bruises, the sharp sting of pain, the chaotic rush of emotions swirling between their bodies.

Harry’s hands tightened on her waist, as if to keep her from slipping away.

With a smooth motion, he helped her settle onto his lap, one hand steadying her waist.

She straddled him, the heat of his body seeping through her clothes, grounding her trembling nerves.

His other hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss again—slow, demanding, like he was marking her as his.

Her hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in lightly as she melted into the raw, fierce connection between them.

Just as their lips parted, breathless and flushed, Y/N’s gaze searched his battered face.

Her voice came quiet. Fragile.

“I came tonight for you,” she whispered. “Only you.”

Harry stilled beneath her. His eyes locked with hers — unreadable, dark, and something else flickering underneath. Something unspoken.

His hand, still resting at her waist, flexed slightly. Then he looked away, jaw tight.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“You deserve better,” he muttered, almost like it hurt to say.

Before she could respond, he kissed her again.

Harder this time — almost desperate.

It wasn’t sweet.

It wasn’t careful.

It was need.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, breath ghosting over her lips.

“I’m too selfish to let you go,” he confessed, voice rough and raw. “Even if I know I should.”

The words sat heavy between them.

But neither of them moved.

Because maybe they both already knew — there was no going back.

“You want to go home?” His voice was low, with a hint of something unreadable, as if he was giving her the choice. As if he was waiting for her to say something—anything—before things spiraled further.

Y/N hesitated. She didn’t know what to say.

She couldn’t think straight. Her body was still humming from the kiss, from the heat of him against her.

“I…” She trailed off, unsure of the right words. She hadn’t even thought about going home. Not when everything about tonight felt so wrong and right all at once.

Harry, seemingly understanding the uncertainty in her eyes, didn’t push her. Instead, he pulled back and began to strip off his worn fighting clothes—grunting slightly as he winced when his shoulder shifted. It looked painful, but he didn't show it. Just the faintest twitch of discomfort.

Y/N couldn’t help but watch him, the way his muscles flexed as he pulled off his torn shirt, the bruises and cuts on his body still stark against his skin. Every movement was slow and deliberate, like he was trying to find some kind of rhythm in the chaos.

She barely noticed when he switched to a plain white t-shirt and dark jeans, the simple change of clothes almost intimate in its own way.

But then, just as she stood up to move back, Harry’s hand shot out, grabbing her chin gently but firmly.

Before she could react, his lips found hers again.

This time, it was softer. Slower. Almost like he was trying to savor the moment, as if he didn’t want to lose it.

She melted into the kiss, fingers grazing his chest, feeling the roughness of his skin beneath the fabric of his t-shirt.

It was a kiss of need, but there was also something vulnerable in it. Something Harry wasn’t ready to admit.

Then, just as the kiss deepened, the sound of the door creaked open.

Y/N froze, pulling away, her heart racing.

Liv stepped into the room, her eyes flicking between them with an unreadable expression.

“I thought you couldn’t come, Y/N?” she said, her voice light, almost mocking, before her gaze turned to Harry.

She didn’t wait for a response. She simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving a tense silence hanging between Y/N and Harry.

Y/N blinked, heart still pounding in her chest.

“Shit,” Harry muttered under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, the weight of the interruption settling heavily in the air.

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