Heavy hands — VIII (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you’ve been enjoying the chapters so far — your feedback means the world to me, so please let me know what you think. As promised, here’s a brand new chapter of Heavy Hands. Love you all.

The first thing she noticed was the warmth. Heavy, steady, wrapped around her like a second blanket. For once, the sheets didn’t feel cold and lonely when she stirred awake — they felt lived in. Comforting.

Her lashes fluttered, and she blinked against the faint morning light spilling through Harry’s half-closed blinds. His apartment always smelled faintly of smoke and leather, but here in the bed it was softer, warmer, tinged with the clean scent of soap from the bath she’d drawn for him the night before.

Harry was still asleep beside her. Or at least, she thought he was. His arm was draped over her waist, his fingers splayed against her hip in a grip that seemed unconscious, like even in sleep he couldn’t let her drift too far away. His breaths came slow, measured, lips parted slightly against the pillow.

For a moment, she just stared. The bruises stood out stark in the pale light — swollen along his cheekbone, mottled across his ribs. They should’ve made him look harder, harsher. Instead, they softened him. Without the usual tension pulling at his jaw or the sharp edge in his eyes, he looked younger. Almost boyish.

Her chest tightened. This was the man he didn’t let anyone see. The man no one else was allowed to know existed.

She brushed a stray curl off his forehead, fingertips light against his skin. He stirred then, a low hum vibrating in his chest, but his hand only tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.

“Y’staring at me again,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep, eyes still closed.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I wasn’t—”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Liar.” His eyes cracked open, hazy green locking onto her. For once, there wasn’t sharpness behind them. Just exhaustion. And something quieter. Something that made her heart stumble.

“You should still be resting,” she whispered, thumb grazing the line of his jaw where a faint bruise had bloomed.

Harry let out a low grunt, half amused, half pained. “Not used to wakin’ up with someone fussin’ over me.”

“Get used to it.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft but certain.

His smirk faltered, just slightly. His hand traced the curve of her hip through the blanket, slow, thoughtful, like he was memorizing the shape of her there. “Dangerous thing to say, love,” he muttered.

“Why?”

His eyes searched hers, unreadable in the dim light. For a second, she thought he might give her the truth. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his mouth to hers in a kiss that was unhurried, deep, nothing like the messy desperation of before. It was slow, careful — like he was letting himself believe, just for a moment, that they could stay here forever.

Her lips curved against his, smiling into the kiss. When he pulled back, his hand lingered at her cheek, thumb brushing lightly as if he was still trying to decide if she was real.

“You know you snore, right?” she teased softly, eyes flicking over his swollen cheek, trying to lighten the heaviness that still clung to him.

Harry huffed a laugh, low and rough. “Don’t fuckin’ snore.”

“You do,” she insisted, grinning now. “Like… not loud. Just this little rumble, like a growl in your chest.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “Sexy growl, then.”

Her laugh spilled out before she could stop it, bright and warm in the quiet room. His eyes softened at the sound, that guarded tension slipping another notch.

“You hungry?” she asked after a beat, brushing her fingers down the ink sprawling over his arm.

His brows arched. “You tryin’ to kick me out of bed already?”

“No,” she whispered, gaze locking on his. “Trying to take care of you.”

Something in his expression shifted at that. Like the words unsettled him, but not in a bad way. More like he didn’t know what to do with them. His hand slid down her waist under the sheets, slow and deliberate, his calloused fingertips leaving a trail of heat on her skin.

“Don’t need food yet,” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “Need you.”

Her breath caught. The way he said it wasn’t greedy, wasn’t rough. It was steady, almost reverent. A need he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

“Harry…” her voice trembled, but it wasn’t nerves. It was want, heavy and unshakable.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closing like he was steadying himself. “Let me have you slow this time,” he muttered, lips brushing hers with every word.

Her chest ached at the honesty in his tone, raw and stripped of his usual armor. She nodded, hands sliding up his bare chest, over the bruises, careful but certain.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Harry shifted, rolling onto his back and tugging her gently over him until she straddled his waist. There was no rush in his movements this time — no greedy hands or frantic kisses. His palms rested steady at her thighs, thumbs stroking absent circles over her skin as if he had all the time in the world.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dragging up her frame slowly, deliberately. “All mine.”

Her breath hitched, heat flooding her chest. She bent down to kiss him, soft at first, then deeper when his mouth opened under hers. His tongue teased hers languidly, not demanding but coaxing, savoring. The kind of kiss that sank into her bones.

His hands slid up, tracing her waist, her ribs, finally cupping her face like he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching every part of her. He broke the kiss only to press smaller ones at the corner of her mouth, down her jaw, over the delicate line of her throat.

“Don’t wanna rush it this time” he rasped against her skin, each word vibrating against her pulse. “Wanna remember how you feel, every fuckin’ bit of it.”

Her body shivered under the promise. She nodded, whispering, “Then do it.”

Harry sat up, chest brushing hers, his bruised ribs flexing but not stopping him. His hands tugged the hem of her shirt up slowly, watching her face as he stripped it off. His gaze roamed over her bare skin, reverent and hungry all at once.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his hands slid up to cup her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples in featherlight strokes. She gasped, arching into his touch, and he smirked softly.

When his mouth closed over her nipple, slow and deliberate, her head tipped back, fingers threading into his curls. He sucked gently, then soothed with his tongue, his free hand gliding down her spine. Every movement was measured, patient, like he wanted to memorize the way she unraveled for him.

She rocked against his lap, feeling him hard beneath the thin barrier of his boxers. He groaned, biting gently at her breast before pulling back, green eyes dark and molten.

Her core pulsed at the words. She let him guide her onto her back, his body covering hers as he kissed her again — slow, unhurried, his tongue stroking against hers with devastating care. His hand slid down between them, fingers slipping over her folds, teasing, circling her clit with a gentleness that made her gasp his name.

“Can feel how much you want me” he whispered against her mouth, lips curved in a faint smile.

Her hips jerked at his touch, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Harry… please…”

He kissed the corner of her lips, dragging his mouth down her throat, over her collarbone, pausing at the marks he’d left the night before. “Patience, love,” he murmured, easing two fingers into her slowly, carefully, curling them just right until she moaned.

Her thighs trembled around his hand, pleasure building slow and steady, every stroke intentional. He watched her face the whole time, like every sound she made was carved into him. When she clenched around his fingers, his mouth curved into a smug grin.

“That’s it, let go for me… just like that.” he praised softly, kissing the swell of her breast.

She was already spiraling when he finally pulled his hand away, shoving his boxers down with one hand. His cock pressed heavy against her thigh, hot and throbbing. He stroked himself once, slow, watching her eyes widen as he lined himself up at her entrance.

“Eyes on me,” he rasped, holding her gaze as he pushed in — slow, careful, filling her inch by inch until her walls stretched around him. She gasped, nails raking down his back, and he groaned low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressing to hers as he sank all the way in. “You feel… unreal.”

He stayed still at first, letting her adjust, letting them both savor the closeness. Then he rocked his hips, shallow thrusts that dragged against her walls in deliberate strokes. No rush. Just deep, slow rolls that made her toes curl.

Her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing the bruises as she kissed him through the moans, and he let her — let her see him, touch him, hold him in a way no one else was allowed to.

Every thrust was measured, dragging the pleasure out, his mouth finding hers again and again between murmured praises.

“No one’s ever had you like this, have they? Slow. Careful” he whispered against her lips. “Like you deserve.”

Her body arched, the slow build winding tighter and tighter until it snapped, her climax washing over her in waves. She gasped his name, clinging to him as she clenched around him. The feel of her falling apart so sweetly beneath him dragged a broken groan from his chest.

He buried himself deep one final time, spilling inside her with a shudder, his body trembling as he clutched her close.

For a long moment, neither moved. Their breaths tangled in the quiet, sweat-slick skin pressed together, heartbeats pounding in sync. Harry kissed her temple softly, a contrast to the roughness of his groans, his voice low and almost disbelieving.

“Don’t know where I end and you start, and I don’t fuckin’ care.” he whispered.

Harry’s weight pressed her into the mattress, heavy but safe, his breath still ragged against her skin. She stroked her fingers through his damp curls, tracing the nape of his neck where it curled soft and unruly.

“You’re crushing me,” she teased gently, her voice hoarse from moaning his name.

He huffed against her throat, the faintest ghost of a laugh. “You’ll live.” But he rolled to the side anyway, dragging her with him until she was tucked against his chest, their legs tangled beneath the sheets.

For a while, there was only silence — the kind that didn’t need filling. His hand traced idle patterns down her arm, over her hip, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. She tilted her head to look at him and caught him already watching her.

“What?” she asked softly, heat crawling into her cheeks.

Harry’s lips twitched, but not into his usual smirk. “Just tryin’ to figure out what the hell you’re doin’ here.”

Her brows knit. “In your bed?”

“In my life.” His voice was low, rough in a way that wasn’t about lust this time.

Her chest tightened at the honesty threading through his tone. She reached up, brushing her thumb gently over the bruise shadowing his cheekbone. “Maybe stop thinking about it and just… let me be here.”

He caught her wrist, holding it against his face for a beat, eyes closing briefly like he needed the touch. When he looked at her again, something unguarded flickered in his gaze.

“You ever wonder why I don’t talk much about… before?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges.

The sudden shift made her chest tighten. She searched his face, but he wasn’t looking at her — his eyes had drifted to the ceiling, jaw tight.

“I figured you just… didn’t want to,” she said carefully.

Harry hummed, not disagreeing. A long pause passed before he finally spoke again. “Wasn’t much to talk about. Nothin’ good, anyway.” His thumb resumed moving over her hip, slower now. “Never had a place that felt like this. Like I could just… lie here. Let my guard down.”

Her throat ached. “Harry…”

He shook his head, eyes flicking back to hers, sharp like he’d said too much. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not askin’ for pity.”

“I’m not pitying you,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed his bruised cheek, gentle. “I’m just… glad you let me see this part of you.”

“Y’know, no one stays,” he admitted quietly. “Not when they see what I really am.”

Her throat ached at the confession, soft but raw. She pressed closer, her lips brushing his shoulder. “I’m not no one.”

His breath hitched — so small she almost missed it. Then he pulled her tighter, his chin brushing the top of her head.

“Careful, love,” he muttered. “You keep talkin’ like that, I might start believin’ you.”

She smiled against his skin, her heart pounding at the crack in his armor. “Good. Maybe you should.”

For the first time, he didn’t argue. He just held her there, the steady thud of his heartbeat against her ear, until her eyelids grew heavy again.

Harry was the first to break the quiet, his chin still resting on the top of her head. “C’mon,” he murmured, voice rough but lighter than usual. “Get dressed.”

She tilted her head up, brows knitting. “Why?”

His lips twitched. “Gonna take you out.”

For a moment, she just blinked at him. Out? Harry didn’t do daylight. He didn’t linger in public places or stroll around like normal people. But when she searched his face, she found no trace of a smirk — just something almost… curious.

“Out where?” she asked carefully.

He shrugged, tugging the blanket back to expose her bare shoulder, his thumb brushing the skin there. “Anywhere. You pick.”

The café was small, tucked into the corner of a quiet street, with chipped mugs and handwritten menus tacked to the wall. It wasn’t the kind of place Harry belonged in, not with his broad shoulders and tattooed arms and the faint bruise still shadowing his jaw. But he followed her inside anyway, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable as the bell above the door jingled.

She slid into a booth near the back, and he sat opposite her, his back to the wall, green eyes sweeping the room once, twice, before finally landing on her.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, fighting a smile as she unfolded her napkin.

“Doin’ what?”

“Counting exits. Watching everyone like they’re about to attack you.”

Harry’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Old habit.”

“From what?” she pressed, curious.

His jaw flexed. He tapped a finger against the table, then shrugged. “Where I grew up” He said it like it was nothing, like he was commenting on the weather, but the edge in his voice made her chest ache.

She wanted to ask more, but the waitress arrived with two mugs of steaming coffee, breaking the moment. Harry grumbled when she ordered for both of them, and she grinned over the rim of her cup.

“What?” she teased. “You looked like you were gonna ask for plain toast and water.”

He smirked faintly. “I’m a simple man.”

“You’re a boring man,” she countered, kicking him lightly under the table.

His brows rose, but instead of snapping back, he leaned forward, his voice dropping low enough to curl around her ribs. “Careful, love. Keep runnin’ that mouth, and I’ll have to shut it for you.”

Her cheeks flamed instantly, but she rolled her eyes, determined not to let him see how easily he unraveled her. “Not in public.”

Harry chuckled — a rare, quiet sound that pulled something tight in her chest. He leaned back, wrapping his big hands around the mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. And for the first time, sitting across from him in the morning light, she realized he looked almost… normal. Like he could’ve been any other boy taking his girl out for breakfast.

Almost.

Because even in this soft moment, even with his shoulders relaxed, his gaze kept flicking to the door.

She reached across the table, fingers brushing his. “You’re safe here, you know.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, sharp at first, then softer when he saw her expression. His hand turned, rough palm meeting her smaller one, thumb brushing her knuckles.

“Not how it works, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “Safe’s not a word I get to use.

The plates clattered down a few minutes later, steam curling from a pile of pancakes and a plate of eggs and bacon. Y/N grinned at the sight of his raised brow.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never had pancakes.”

Harry prodded the stack with his fork like it might bite back. “Not like this.”

“What do you mean, not like this?”

“Came in a box when I was a kid,” he muttered, cutting into the top one with almost suspicious precision. “Never had ‘em stacked up with sugar poured all over.”

Her heart pinched, but she forced a smile. “Well, you’re about to have your life changed.”

He gave her a flat look, but when he finally brought a forkful to his mouth, his expression flickered — the faintest surprise, quickly hidden behind a shrug.

“Not bad.”

“Not bad?” she scoffed, leaning over the table to steal a bite off his plate. “That’s culinary perfection, Styles.”

He swatted her hand with his fork, but there was no bite in it. “Oi. Order your own.”

“I did,” she said around a mouthful, pointing to her plate of eggs. “Yours just looks better.”

Harry shook his head, lips twitching as he chewed. For a moment, the lines of tension around his eyes eased, and she caught a glimpse of something rare — almost boyish.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but the roughness in his voice didn’t match the way his gaze softened on her.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, broken only when she noticed him reaching for the hot sauce. He doused his eggs until they were practically swimming.

Her eyes widened. “Harry! That’s criminal.”

“What?” he asked, deadpan. “Adds flavor.”

“You’re trying to kill your taste buds,” she teased, pushing her plate away dramatically. “How are you supposed to taste pancakes after that?”

He smirked, cutting off another bite. “Didn’t know I was sittin’ across from a food critic.”

“Didn’t know I was sittin’ across from a psychopath.”

Harry barked out a laugh, low and rough, the sound drawing stares from a table nearby. He ignored them, still grinning faintly as he stabbed another bite. “First time anyone’s called me that with a smile.”

Her grin softened. “First time you’ve laughed like that in front of me.”

The words seemed to catch him off guard. His fork stilled, eyes dropping to the plate for a moment like he didn’t know how to handle it. His jaw tightened, shoulders shifting, and then — instead of answering — he leaned across the table.

The move was sudden, deliberate. His hand caught her chin, tilting her face up as his mouth brushed hers in a kiss that was slow, unhurried, but heavy with something he didn’t want to say out loud.

When he pulled back, his thumb lingered against her jaw. His eyes locked on hers, green and guarded, but softer at the edges.

“Better than laughing,” he muttered, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

Heat spread through her chest, stealing her breath for a moment. She swallowed, smiling faintly as she whispered back, “Who says you can’t do both?” His mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, but something caught in between.

For the first time, Harry didn’t look away. He just held her there, his hand warm against her skin, like maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe her.

The street buzzed with weekend chatter, shop windows gleaming in the late morning sun. Y/N tugged Harry along by the hand, weaving them into a small boutique that smelled faintly of cedar and perfume.

His broad frame looked wildly out of place among neat racks of dresses and glass cases of jewelry.

“Relax,” she teased, smirking at his scowl. “You look like you’re about to get mugged by a mannequin.”

He shot her a look, but when she darted toward a display by the window, he followed, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

Her eyes caught on a delicate necklace — a thin gold chain with a small, teardrop-shaped pendant. Simple. Elegant. She leaned closer, admiring the way it caught the light.

“You like it,” Harry said behind her, not a question.

She startled slightly, turning to find him standing close, his green eyes sharp even in the gentle glow of the shop.

“It’s pretty,” she admitted, before quickly shaking her head. “But it’s too expensive. I don’t need it.”

Harry didn’t even glance at the tag. “I’ll get it.”

Her eyes widened. “Harry—no. It’s ridiculous.”

His brow arched, unimpressed. “Not ridiculous if I want to.”

“You don’t have to buy me things just because I looked at them,” she protested, folding her arms.

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Not buyin’ it because you looked at it. Buyin’ it ‘cause I want you wearin’ it.” His voice dropped low, his gaze flicking briefly to her collarbone. “Right here.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, but she shook her head stubbornly. “It’s still too much.”

Harry leaned in, his words a quiet growl meant only for her. “Money’s the one thing I don’t worry about, sweetheart. And I don’t give a fuck what it costs if it’s for you.”

Her chest tightened. It wasn’t just the words — it was the way he said them, so matter-of-fact, like spending on her was the easiest choice he’d ever made. She wondered briefly what it meant, how he had “enough” when she knew the scars on his body told stories of how he earned it. But the thought tangled with the warmth pooling low in her stomach at the idea of him wanting her adorned in something he chose.

“Harry…” she started, softer now.

“Don’t argue,” he muttered, already signaling the clerk.

Minutes later, he pressed the small velvet bag into her hand as they stepped back onto the street. She tried one last weak protest, but his smirk was infuriating.

“Too late. It’s yours.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Already told you that,” he said easily, taking her hand again as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk back to Harry’s apartment was quieter, with a record bag that they had bought, swinging lightly from Y/N’s hand. He stayed close, his palm brushing hers now and then, rough knuckles grazing like a habit he hadn’t realized he’d picked up.

When they stepped inside, the familiar scent of smoke and leather greeted her. Normally, his place felt sharp, guarded — a cage of steel and shadows. But tonight, with sunlight still filtering through the blinds and the record bag set on the counter, it felt softer. Warmer.

Harry shed his jacket, tossing it carelessly over a chair. He stretched, wincing slightly at the pull on his bruised ribs, then nodded toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll make somethin’.”

Y/N blinked. “You?”

His smirk twitched. “Don’t get used to it.”

He came back ten minutes later with two mugs of tea and a bag of crisps ripped open between them. She laughed when he set it down like it was a gourmet spread.

“What? This is five-star,” he said, mock-offended, sinking onto the couch beside her. His thigh pressed against hers, solid and warm.

They flicked through channels on the muted TV, letting the record she’d chosen spin on the turntable instead. The scratchy hum filled the apartment, softening the edges of the room. Y/N leaned into his side, and his arm slid around her shoulders automatically, pulling her close.

For a while, neither spoke. Then Harry’s voice broke the quiet, low and steady against her hair.

“Stay.”

She blinked, tilting her head up. “Stay?”

“Tonight.” His eyes found hers, guarded but intent. “Don’t wanna wake up without you here.”

Her chest tightened. “Harry… I have a paper due. I really should—”

“Then do it here,” he cut in easily, as if the answer was obvious. “Got a laptop. Use it.”

Her lips parted. “You’d actually let me work here? While you… what, sit there and brood?”

He smirked, brushing his thumb along her shoulder. “Don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

“Shut it,” he muttered, though his eyes softened with amusement. His hand tightened at her side, grounding her. “Just… stay. One more night.”

Something in his tone tugged at her, deeper than the words themselves. Like he was asking for more than just company. Like he was asking her to choose him, even in the small ways.

Her throat worked as she nodded slowly, her smile faint but sure. “Okay. One more night.”

Harry’s chest rose with a quiet breath, almost like relief. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, lingering there longer than necessary.

“Good girl,” he murmured, softer than she’d ever heard it.

The words settled over her like a blanket, not rough or teasing this time, but full of something heavier, something fragile. She tilted her head up, catching his eyes in the dim light. Before she could think better of it, she whispered, “Kiss me.”

He didn’t hesitate. His mouth found hers, slow and lingering, tasting faintly of tea and something unguarded. The kiss deepened as he shifted, pulling her into his lap with a hand firm at her waist. She straddled him easily, knees pressing into the couch cushions, her fingers threading into his curls.

Harry’s other hand slid down her spine, broad palm splayed between her shoulder blades, holding her close. His lips moved against hers unhurried, like he wasn’t chasing fire this time but something quieter, sweeter.

When he pulled back, his hand lingered at her cheek, thumb sweeping lightly across her skin. His voice dropped, quieter than she’d ever heard it. “Feels… different with you. Like I can breathe.”

His throat bobbed as he searched her face, something raw flickering in his eyes. Then he kissed her again, deeper this time, but still unhurried.

Between kisses, his words slipped out low, ragged. “Scares the shit out of me… how easy this feels.”

Her forehead rested against his, their breaths mingling. “Doesn’t scare me,” she whispered. “Not even a little.”

Harry’s laugh was soft, almost disbelieving. He brushed his mouth over hers once more, lingering, before burying his face in the crook of her neck. His grip around her tightened, steady and grounding.

Harry still hadn’t moved from where he held her, his face buried against her neck, his breath warm on her skin. For once, it didn’t feel like he was hiding — just resting. Letting himself be.

Eventually, Y/N shifted, wriggling off his lap with a smile tugging at her lips. “If I’m staying, I really should at least look at this paper.”

Harry groaned, reaching out to tug her back, but she ducked away and grabbed the laptop sitting closed on his desk. She flopped back onto the couch with it, balancing it on her knees as he watched with a lazy smirk.

“You sure you trust me on here?” she teased, powering it on.

He arched a brow. “What d’you think I’m hidin’?”

“I don’t know,” she said with mock seriousness, tapping at the keyboard. “Secret fight schedules? Blackmail files? Maybe a hidden folder called taxes.”

Harry chuckled, low and rough. “Sweetheart, if I had a folder called taxes, you should be worried.”

She grinned, biting back a laugh as the laptop whirred to life. The desktop background was plain black, and only a handful of icons lined the screen. Surprisingly… ordinary.

“Wow,” she said, feigning disappointment. “Not a single incriminating file? You’re letting me down, Styles.”

His smirk deepened as he stretched out along the couch, one arm draped behind her shoulders. “You’re nosy.”

“And you’re boring.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head as she settled back into his side, typing a few lines into her document. He leaned over, reading the first sentence aloud in a dramatic tone, and she elbowed him in the ribs, careful of the bruises.

“Shut up,” she laughed, cheeks warming.

He hummed, not shutting up at all. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there before muttering, “Could get used to this.”

The words hung between them, quiet but heavy, the record still spinning soft in the background.

Y/N’s fingers stilled on the keys. She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Me too.”

Harry shifted beside her, pressing one last kiss to her hair before pushing himself up from the couch.

“Back in a sec,” he muttered. “Bathroom.”

Y/N nodded, still tapping at the keys, trying to coax another sentence out of herself. She heard the bathroom door click shut, the quiet hum of the record still filling the room.

That was when his phone buzzed on the coffee table.

She glanced at it absently at first, the screen lighting up with an unfamiliar number. The buzzing stopped, then started again, insistent this time, the device rattling against the wood.

“Harry,” she called, but there was no answer over the running water.

The phone buzzed again, and before she could think better of it, she reached for it.

“Hello?”

For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then a man’s voice, smooth but cold, cut through the line.

“…Who is this?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Uh—I, I’m a friend of Harry’s. He’s—he’s not here right now.”

Another long pause. Then a low chuckle, humorless and sharp.

“Harry’s got himself a friend, has he?” the voice drawled. “That’s new.”

Her throat went dry. “Can I… can I take a message?”

“No need.” The words were soft, almost amused. “Just tell him I called. He’ll know what it’s about. And tell him… she’s got a sweet voice.”

The line went dead.

Y/N sat frozen, the phone trembling in her hand, her pulse thundering in her ears.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Harry stepped back into the room. His eyes immediately found her pale face, the phone clutched tight in her grip.

“Y/N,” he said sharply, crossing the room in two strides. “What did you do?”