Different 45 (Patreon)

Author's note: Hey everyone! 💕 I hope you all had a wonderful Monday! 🌞Just a quick update — I had to manually upload this chapter because of the 18+ content, so thank you for your patience with that! Also, I’ll be drawing the names of the three people who won the subscription giveaway a little later today. 🎉

I’ll be doing a quick screen recording so you can all see exactly how I draw the names — full transparency! I was actually thinking of doing this every other month, just as a fun way to give back and show some extra love to you all. 💝

Thank you all so much for your support. You guys seriously mean the world to me 🥰

word count -> 4.0K

The air between them buzzed — rain, breath, and all the things neither of them had said yet.

Harry stood just inside the doorway, dripping onto the floor. His bag hit the ground with a dull thud.

Y/N didn’t move. The smell of wet fabric and cold air clung to him, sharp and familiar, and for a second she couldn’t tell if the ache in her chest was anger or relief.

He looked different up close — darker under the eyes, edges sharper, like the distance had carved new lines into him. When he finally met her gaze, it wasn’t accusation that lived there. It was something worse. Something like loss.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said quietly.

But his eyes said the opposite.

Her breath trembled out, barely controlled. “Then why did you?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. His hands shook — maybe from the cold, maybe not. “Because you didn’t pick up. Because I couldn’t sleep. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you in someone else’s sweatshirt.”

She closed her eyes, the words landing heavy. It wasn’t anger that tightened her chest — it was the exhaustion of loving someone who didn’t trust her to love him back.

“Harry…” she started, softer this time. Her voice cracked halfway through his name. “You can’t just show up like this.”

He looked at her like she’d said I missed you.

“Come in,” she said quietly. “You’ll get sick out there.”

Harry stepped inside. The air between them felt charged, like the rain had followed him in.

He looked around her flat — the half-empty mug on the table, the blanket thrown across the couch, the framed photo of her and her friends from school — a world he didn’t belong to anymore.

Then he saw it.

His hoodie.

It hung off her frame, sleeves falling past her hands, soft and worn and too familiar.

He almost smiled. “You kept that.”

Her gaze didn’t lift. “It’s warm.”

It should have been tender. It wasn’t. Something cold flickered behind her eyes — something that made his chest tighten.

“You’re angry,” he said quietly.

She let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You think?”

“Because I came?”

“Because you only come when you think I’m with someone else,” she said, her voice trembling, low but sharp. “Because you can’t stand not knowing what I’m doing. Because you don’t trust me — still.”

“That’s not true,” he said, too fast. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” She stepped closer, eyes bright now. “You know what’s not fair? That I warned you about Ivy for months. I begged you to see what she was doing, and you told me I was jealous. You made me feel crazy, Harry.” Her breath caught, the words cracking under their own weight. “And then when she hurt you — when she did the unthinkable — I was the one who cleaned it up. I was the one who stayed.”

He looked stricken — eyes glassy, throat working as he tried to speak.

“I know,” he said finally. The words barely made it out. “And I hate that you were right. I hate that you had to see me like that.”

“Then why are you doing it again?” she whispered. “Why are you here, standing in front of me, accusing me of something you know I’d never do?”

Harry’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the rainwater dripping from his sleeves. His voice rose, raw. “I just— you’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure about. And I hate that the only version of me you believe in is the one who needs saving. Because I can’t lose you again, Y/N. I can’t. I already lost you once because I was blind, and I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

Her throat tightened, tears pricking the back of her eyes. “That’s not true.”

He stepped closer, his voice rising again. “Then why do you look at me like that? Like I’m still that guy who couldn’t even fight back—”

“Because you were that guy!” she burst out, the sound cutting through the air. “You were hurt, Harry. And I was there. I stayed. But you left. You left and then you come back months later accusing me of the same kind of thing that broke you.”

Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t move. “And you’re not losing me,” she said quietly. “You’re pushing me away all over again.”

And then — silence.

The kind that makes every breath sound too loud.

Harry laughed — a rough, hollow sound that didn’t belong to humor. “Push you away? I’m the one standing in the rain begging you to talk to me.”

Her arms tightened around herself. “And I didn’t ask you to. You think this fixes anything? Showing up here like a storm, soaking my floor, throwing everything back at me?”

He stepped closer, water still dripping from his hair, eyes burning. “What was I supposed to do, Y/N? Sit there pretending I’m fine while you grab coffee with some guy who doesn’t even know what it means to lose you?”

“That’s not fair,” she said, voice trembling.

“Neither was what you did!” His tone cracked open, raw and loud. “You walked away. You let me fall apart and then moved to London like none of it mattered.”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to rewrite what happened because it hurts to remember.”

“Then tell me!” he shouted. “Tell me what I missed. Because from where I’m standing, you didn’t just move on — you forgot how to love me.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back down. “You think I forgot? You think I could ever forget what it was like watching you disappear into yourself? Watching you hate the sight of your own reflection because of what she did?” Her voice broke, the anger spilling over into tears. “You think I didn’t bleed for you, Harry?”

He froze. The fury drained from his face as fast as it had come, leaving something hollow and shaking behind it.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she whispered, cutting him off. “You meant every word. Because that’s easier than admitting you don’t know how to love me anymore without breaking.”

For a second, everything stopped — the sound, the movement, even the air.

Harry took one small step toward her, his chest rising and falling hard, eyes wet but fierce.

“I do know how to love you,” he said, voice low and shaking. “I just don’t know how to do it from so far away.”

“Harry, look at what you’ve done!” Her voice broke on his name. “You left everything you’ve worked for, all the nights you’ve sweated through, for me. For this.”

Her hands flew up, shaking. “Do you even understand what that means? You scare me when you do things like this. You make me feel like I’m the reason you’ll burn your whole world down.”

He stepped forward, eyes wet, jaw tight. “You are my world.”

“That’s not fair,” she whispered, tears spilling. “That’s not what I asked for. I never wanted to be the thing you had to save or the thing you’d ruin yourself over.”

He laughed, broken. “You didn’t ruin me. You’re the only reason I’m still standing.”

Something inside her cracked. She pressed her palms to her face, shaking her head. “Then why does it hurt so much to love you?”

“Because we keep running,” he said. His voice was low now, fraying. “And every time I reach for you, you pull back.”

She dropped her hands and met his eyes—red, wet, furious. “Because I’m scared you’ll disappear again.”

“I’m right here.”

He reached for her wrist. She didn’t pull away. His fingers were cold, trembling, desperate.

Her chest heaved, the space between them shrinking with every uneven breath. “You drive me insane,” she said, half-choked, half-laughing through the tears.

“Then hate me,” he whispered. “But don’t stop feeling something.”

And then she did what she’d been fighting all along—she closed the distance, grabbed the front of his soaked shirt, and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was all the shouting, all the heartbreak, all the years of unfinished sentences colliding at once.

“We study together. I told you that.” It wasn’t a defense, just a fact. But the way his gaze hardened made her stomach twist. He wanted it to mean more, to admit to something she hadn’t done.

He stared at her for a long moment, the conflict raging in his eyes. Then, with a low, guttural sound, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim. A desperate, hungry, jealous kiss that stole the air from her lungs. His lips were forceful, demanding a response she was already eager to give. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting of mint and a uniquely Harry flavor she’d ached for. She moaned into him, her fingers twisting into the soft leather of his jacket, pulling him closer.

This was what she’d missed. This fire. This all-consuming need.

He released her wrist, his hand sliding down to grip her hip, yanking her body flush against his. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection press insistently against her stomach, and a fresh wave of liquid heat pooled low in her belly. His other hand left the wall and tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss even further. It was aggressive, possessive, and it set every single one of her nerve endings on fire.

When he finally broke for air, they were both panting. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes squeezed shut. “I’ve been going out of my mind,” he confessed, his voice ragged. “Thinking about you here. Alone. With him around.”

“There is no one else,” she said, gasping the words out. “It’s only ever been you.”

Her words were the final key. The last vestige of his control shattered. His mouth found hers again, but the anger had melted away, replaced by a scorching, undeniable hunger. His hands roamed her body, mapping her through the thin fabric of her sweater. He pushed the material up, his palms skating over the bare skin of her stomach, making her gasp.

He broke the kiss to yank the hoodie over her head, tossing it to the floor without a glance. His eyes darkened as they took in the sight of her in her simple lace bra. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growled, the words full of reverence and want.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his lips and teeth tracing a searing path down to her collarbone. She whimpered, her head falling back against the wall as sensations overwhelmed her. The scrape of his stubble, the suction of his mouth, the firm grip of his hands on her hips—it was all too much and not enough.

His fingers made quick work of her bra clasp, and he groaned as her breasts spilled into his waiting hands. He kneaded them gently before his thumbs circled her nipples, already hard and aching for his touch. He lowered his head, taking one into his mouth, his tongue lashing and swirling around it until she was crying out, her fingers gripping his hair to hold him there.

“Harry, please,” she begged, her voice a broken whisper. She was throbbing with need, a desperate, empty ache beginning to radiate from her core.

He understood. With a final, sucking kiss on her breast, he maneuvered them the two steps to her bed. He laid her down, his body following to cover hers, his weight a delicious, familiar anchor. He kissed her again, deeply, as his hand slipped past the waistband of her jeans. He cupped her through her damp panties, and she arched into his touch with a broken cry.

“All for me,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire and a hint of smug satisfaction.

He peeled her jeans and panties down her legs in one swift, impatient movement. He paused only to shuck off his own jacket and shirt, and then he was back over her, his skin hot against hers. The feel of his bare chest against her sensitive nipples was electric. He kissed her, his tongue mimicking the rhythm his hips were already grinding against her thigh.

He broke away to look down at her, his eyes blazing with pure, unadulterated lust. “I need to be inside you. Right now.” It wasn’t a question. It was a shared, urgent need.

She nodded frantically, reaching for the button of his jeans. “Yes. Now, Harry.”

He fumbled with his own jeans, his movements hurried and clumsy with desire. He kicked them off, and then he was there, poised at her entrance. The broad head of his cock pressed against her, and she held her breath, her eyes locked with his.

He pushed inside.

The sensation was breathtaking. A stretch, a fullness, a completion she hadn’t felt in what felt like a lifetime. A moan was torn from both of their throats in unison as he sank into her to the hilt. For a moment, he just stayed there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.

“God, I missed this,” he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. “Missed you.”

Then he began to move.

His thrusts started slow, a deep, rhythmic claiming that had her seeing stars. Each drive of his hips hit a spot deep within her that made her toes curl. The slick, wet sound of their joining filled the small room, a filthy, perfect soundtrack. She wrapped her legs high around his waist, pulling him in deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a roll of her own hips.

“My turn,” she whispered, her voice husky.

She didn’t give him time to respond. Straddling his hips, she felt him, still hard , pressed against her core. A shudder of pure anticipation wracked her body. She leaned forward, her hair curtaining their faces, and kissed him. It wasn't the desperate, angry clash from before. This was slower, deeper, a claiming of her own. She poured every ounce of her frustration, her longing, her own possessive need into that kiss, her tongue exploring his mouth with a languid confidence that made him groan into her.

She broke the kiss, sitting up fully, her knees tightening around his thighs. She took him in her hand, guiding him to her entrance. Her eyes never left his as she sank down onto him, a slow, exquisite descent that made her breath hitch. So full. He filled her so completely, stretching her in the most perfect way. She let her head fall back, a soft moan escaping her lips as she took all of him.

Harry’s hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into her skin, not to guide her, but to hold on. “Fuck, Y/N…”

She began to move. A slow, rolling rhythm at first, learning the angle, the feel of him deep inside her. Her hands braced on his chest, fingertips pressing into the hard planes of his pectorals. She could feel the coarse hair under her palms, the feverish heat of his skin. Her breasts swayed with the motion, and she saw his gaze drop, his lips parting as he watched her.

She arched her back, deliberately, offering herself to his view, to his hunger. The motion drew a gasp from her as it changed the angle, sending a jolt of pure pleasure straight to her core. She picked up the pace, her hips finding a rhythm that was entirely her own—a steady, driving pace that was for her pleasure, first and foremost.

And he was just… watching. Enraptured. His grip on her hips was bruising, his own hips lifting to meet her every downward stroke, but he let her lead. His eyes were glued to her body, to the way her breasts bounced with every movement, the hardened nipples grazing his chest with each descent.

She leaned forward again, placing her hands on the pillow on either side of his head. The new angle was devastating, rubbing her clit against the base of his shaft with every rock of her hips. The pace became frantic, less controlled. Her breasts swung freely now, just inches from his face.

His control shattered. With a guttural growl, he captured one peak with his mouth, sucking her nipple deep, his tongue lashing it relentlessly. The sensation was electric, a direct line of fire to where they were joined. She cried out, her rhythm faltering for a second, overcome by the dual sensations.

He switched his attention immediately, lavishing the same fierce, wet attention on her other breast, sucking and nibbling until she was seeing stars. Her movements became wild, desperate. She was riding him hard now, chasing her own climax, using him for her pleasure, fueled by the raw, hungry sounds he was making against her skin.

She could feel her own release coiling tight in her abdomen, a familiar, unbearable pressure. She was so close. The sight of his mouth on her, the feel of him pistoning inside her, the sheer dominance of having this powerful man writhing beneath her…

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice ragged.

Her eyes, heavy-lidded with pleasure, found his. The connection was absolute. His green eyes were black with lust, filled with a reverent awe that was more powerful than any possessive fury.

“I want to see you come on me,” he gritted out, his hands sliding from her hips to grip her ass, helping her move, intensifying every stroke.

That was all it took. His words, raw and filthy and perfect, sent her flying over the edge. A broken, sobbing cry was torn from her throat as her orgasm slammed into her, a convulsing, mind-blanking wave of pleasure that clenched around him again and again. Her body seized, her head falling forward as she rode out the incredible pulses.

The silence that followed was alive. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper against the windows, soft and uneven, like the rhythm of their breathing. Her body was still trembling — not from the aftershocks of pleasure, but from everything that had come before it. The shouting. The years. The weight of finally being seen and touched and understood again, all at once.

Harry’s hand moved slowly along her side, his thumb tracing lazy, thoughtless circles over her skin. The gesture was grounding, almost apologetic. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, then another to the back of her neck. For the first time in months, his touch wasn’t desperate. It was steady. Careful.

“I didn’t plan this,” he said, his thumb brushing her skin. “I just knew I couldn’t keep pretending I didn’t miss you.”

Her breath hitched. She turned her head to look at him — the man she’d loved in so many different versions, all of them flawed, all of them real. “And now?” she asked quietly.

He held her gaze. There was no bravado left in him, no jealousy, no sharp edges. Just exhaustion and a kind of quiet honesty she hadn’t seen in him for a long time. “Now I want to figure it out,” he said. “Whatever it takes. However long it takes.”

She didn’t answer right away. The truth was, she didn’t know if they could untangle everything they’d done to each other. But in that moment, with his arm heavy around her waist and the storm finally fading outside, it didn’t matter. There was space — fragile, but there. And maybe that was enough.

He kissed her temple, his lips lingering there. “You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “Just… don’t shut me out yet.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m not,” she said softly.

They stayed like that — quiet, tangled, listening to the faint hum of the city beyond the rain. Somewhere beneath the ache and the fear, something small and unfamiliar began to bloom. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, hope.

When she woke, the world was soft. The first thing she noticed was the quiet — no rain, no shouting, no heavy words hanging in the air. Just the faint hum of the city and the low rhythm of his breathing beside her.

Harry lay on his stomach, one arm draped over her waist, his face half-buried in the pillow. In the morning light, he looked younger — like the years between them hadn’t happened at all. His lashes brushed his cheeks, his lips parted slightly with each slow breath.

For a moment, she let herself just look. Not as someone who had been hurt, or someone who had built walls, but as the girl who used to wake up to this exact sight — and thought it would last forever.

Her chest ached.

She carefully slid out from under his arm and sat up, pulling the sheet around her. The room smelled like rain and skin and something she didn’t want to name. Her clothes were scattered across the floor — his hoodie, her jeans, the ghosts of everything they’d said and done last night.

She found her sweater and tugged it on, padding softly toward the kitchen. The kettle clicked as it heated, the sound startling in the stillness.

Behind her, the sheets rustled. “Morning,” Harry’s voice came, rough and low, still half-asleep.

She turned, leaning against the counter. “Morning.”

He sat up, raking a hand through his hair. “You were gone,” he said softly, like the words meant more than they should.

“I was making tea,” she said, holding up the mug as proof. “You still take it black?”

A small smile curved his mouth. “You remembered.”

She shrugged, trying not to smile back. “Hard to forget.”

The kettle clicked off. She poured the water, the steam fogging the window above the sink. The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore — just delicate. Like something new was trying to grow there, and neither of them knew whether to touch it or leave it alone.

Harry moved behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, but not touching. “Last night…” he started, his voice careful. “I don’t want you to think it was just—”

She turned, cutting him off gently. “I know.” Their eyes met. There was understanding there — and maybe fear, too. But it was the first time in a long while that neither of them looked away.

And then, a knock.

Both of them froze.

She frowned, setting the mug down. “Who—”

Another knock, firmer this time.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” She crossed toward the door, tightening the belt of her robe, but before she could reach it, Harry was already there. He yanked it open.

Theo stood on the other side, holding two takeaway cups and a paper bag. His grin faltered the instant he saw Harry.

“Oh,” Theo said, blinking. “I—uh—I didn’t realize you had company.”

The air shifted again, thick and electric.

Harry’s hand was still on the doorframe, shoulders squared, shirt rumpled, hair tousled in a way that told the whole story without a single word.

Y/N’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Theo, wait—”

But Theo’s gaze had already flicked from Harry to her — the sweater, the flush still on her neck — and back again. “Right,” he said, his voice tight now. “Guess I’ll, uh… see you at study group.”

He turned, but Harry’s voice stopped him. “You’re Theo.”

Theo turned back slowly, his expression guarded. “And you’re Harry.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.