Different 46 (Patreon)

Author's note: The last two weeks have been absolute shit. I’m down to my final month of school, and I don’t think I’ve ever needed a break this badly in my life. I just want to fly to see my mom so badly. anyaway, it's the final stretch. Enjoy tonight's chapter!

The silence that followed was unbearable. It hung in the air like the aftermath of a storm — charged, waiting to break again. The smell of rain drifted in from the open door, mixing with the faint warmth of tea and the ghost of Harry’s cologne that still clung to her robe.

Theo’s eyes caught on everything he shouldn’t have seen: Harry’s half-packed suitcase by the couch, the shirt tossed on the floor, the indent of two cups on the table where they’d sat hours ago. He looked back at her once more, confusion tightening the line of his mouth.

Harry didn’t move, his hand still braced against the doorframe. The soft light from the hallway brushed across the planes of his chest and the edge of his shoulders, making him look carved out of that tension.

Y/N’s fingers clenched around the mug until her knuckles ached. “Theo,” she started, voice catching, “this is Harry—he’s—”

It was quiet then theo lifted a hand, cutting her off with a small shake of his head. “You don’t have to explain,” he said quietly. His tone wasn’t cold, but it carried something close to disappointment. He stepped backward, the takeaway cups trembling slightly in his grip. “I’ll see you at study group.”

The door clicked shut behind him. The sound was too sharp, echoing through the small flat like the start of a fault line.

Harry let out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. He bent to pick up his shirt from the floor, the motion quick, contained, a way to hide the tremor in his hands.

“Harry,” she whispered.

He didn’t look at her. “You didn’t say anything.”

“What?”

He turned then, and his expression was a mix of disbelief and hurt that made her chest tighten. “About me. About us. You stood there like I was nothing to you.”

“That’s not what—”

“Because that’s what it felt like.” His voice was low, frayed at the edges. “You’re everything to me, Y/N. Everything. And you could barely say my name.”

She took a step toward him, the floor cool under her bare feet. “He just showed up, I didn’t—”

He shook his head, almost smiling, but there was no warmth in it. “You don’t owe me an excuse. But it could’ve been anything, couldn’t it? Your boyfriend? The man who’s been in love with you for the last two years?”

The silence came back, heavier this time. The mug in her hands had gone cold.

He pulled on his jacket, movements clipped, precise. “I’ll stay with my sister,” he said, softer now. “I don’t know why I’m here anymore.”

“You don’t have to leave,” she said, the words small, almost lost to the hum of the rain outside.

Harry paused at the door. The light from the corridor turned his hair to gold for a heartbeat. “You made it pretty clear I already have.”

The door closed with a dull thud.

The sound lingered long after he was gone.

Y/N stayed there, staring at the space where he’d been, the cooling tea heavy in her hand, the smell of rain creeping back in through the cracks. Everything in the room still looked the same, but it felt completely emptied of air — like the moment right before you remember to breathe.

London looked different in the morning. Or maybe he did.

The cab wound through narrow streets slick with last night’s rain. Pavements gleamed beneath a sky the colour of pewter; shopfronts blinked awake one by one. Harry watched from the back seat, his reflection ghosted over the glass — tired eyes, jaw set, the weight of a night that hadn’t really ended.

Her silence kept replaying in his head. Not the look on her face, not even the words she didn’t say — just the quiet. That heavy, hollow quiet.

When the driver pulled up in front of Gemma’s building, Harry hesitated. The little bakery beneath her flat was already open; the smell of bread and sugar drifted up with the steam from the vents. He paid, muttered a “cheers,” and stood for a moment, suitcase handle cold against his palm.

He hadn’t told her he was coming. He hadn’t told anyone.

The buzzer echoed faintly inside. Then footsteps — quick, light — and the door swung open.

“Harry?”

Gemma’s voice was half disbelief, half laughter. She was barefoot, hair in a loose knot, cardigan slipping off her shoulder. When she saw him properly, her expression softened into something warm and familiar.

“Oh my God, what are you doing here?” She threw her arms around him before he could answer. “You didn’t tell me you were flying over!”

He smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bit of a last-minute thing.”

Gemma pulled back, still holding him by the arms, scanning his face. “You look knackered. Everything all right?”

He swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah. Just needed to get away for a bit.”

She tilted her head, suspicious but gentle. “Come on then, before you freeze. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Inside, everything was exactly as he remembered — the soft hum of the fridge, the plants by the window, her old records stacked in the corner. It smelled like toast and detergent, like home.

Gemma busied herself in the kitchen, talking about nothing in particular — work, the neighbours, some programme she’d been watching. Her voice filled the space that had been empty for too long.

Harry sat at the table, fingers wrapped around the mug she handed him. The warmth stung a little.

She studied him for a moment. “How long are you staying?”

He stared at the rising steam. “Not sure yet.”

“Then stay as long as you need,” she said simply. “You don’t have to tell me what’s happened. Not until you want to.”

He nodded, grateful, though he couldn’t quite look at her. Through the window, the city blurred in soft drizzle — familiar streets, familiar skyline — and yet he’d never felt more foreign in it.

For the first time in months, he was home. And still, somehow, nowhere near where he wanted to be.

Gemma moved about the kitchen with the easy rhythm of habit — the clink of crockery, the scrape of a chair on the floorboards, the hiss of the toaster. Harry sat where she left him, both hands around his mug, watching the pale steam curl away until it disappeared.

She slid a plate in front of him. “Eat,” she said, gentle but firm. “You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

He gave a small, obliging smile. “Didn’t think I looked that bad.”

“You do,” she said cheerfully. “Like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

That coaxed an actual laugh out of him — brief, low, the kind that dies quickly but still leaves something lighter behind.

For a while, they ate in companionable quiet. The rain outside had softened to a steady drizzle; somewhere below, a delivery lorry reversed, its beeping muffled through the brick.

Gemma sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of her mug. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on?”

He pushed a crumb around his plate with one finger. “It’s… complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated,” she said. “That’s life.”

He looked up at her, a corner of his mouth lifting. “You sound like Mum.”

“She’s right sometimes,” Gemma said, shrugging. “Though don’t tell her I admitted that".

He laughed again, softer this time, but his gaze slid back to the window. The drizzle had thickened into fine mist, turning the world outside to watercolour.

His phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up. Y/N.

He froze.

Gemma caught the shift in his expression immediately. “Work?” she asked.

He shook his head once. “No.”

The name blinked on the display for a moment longer, then vanished. He turned the phone facedown.

Gemma didn’t press. She reached across the table, covered his hand with hers. “You don’t have to talk about it. But don’t run from it either.”

He nodded, staring at their joined hands. “I’m not running.” Then, quieter: “Just needed somewhere to stop.”

She squeezed his fingers, understanding in her eyes. “Then stop here for a bit.”

He managed a small smile. “Thanks, Gem.”

When she stood to clear the plates, he stayed where he was, listening to the soft clatter of dishes, the hum of the kettle restarting. Outside, the rain blurred the city into shades of grey. Inside, for the first time since he’d left her flat, the noise in his chest eased — not gone, but bearable.

He didn’t know if he wanted the phone to ring again. He only knew that if it did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer.

The flat still smelled like him.

It shouldn’t have. She’d opened the windows hours ago, let the London drizzle roll in, wiped down the counter twice — but it lingered anyway. The quiet kind of smell, faint and stubborn, the way he always was.

Her phone vibrated where it lay on the sofa.

She hesitated before reaching for it.

Gemma.

For a moment she thought about letting it ring out — she wasn’t ready to explain — but something in her tightened. She swiped to answer.

“Hey,” Gemma’s voice came, warm and surprised. “I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “Hi.”

“I’ve just had the biggest shock of my week,” Gemma said with a soft laugh. “My brother’s in my kitchen. He turned up at the crack of dawn with no warning.”

Y/N sank back into the cushions, heart kicking up again. “He came to yours?”

“Yeah. Said he needed to get away for a bit. Looked a right state, poor thing. What on earth happened?”

Y/N rubbed her forehead, trying to slow her thoughts. “I didn’t know he was coming either. He just… showed up last night.”

She paused, the memory of it still too vivid — the knock, the rain, his eyes. “It was fine, and then Theo came by this morning.”

“Theo?”

“Yeah. Study mate. He brought my notes from the library.”

“Ah,” Gemma said quietly, understanding before Y/N could finish.

“It was awful,” Y/N murmured. “Harry was still here, half awake, everything everywhere — and Theo just stood in the doorway. I tried to introduce them, but it came out all wrong. Harry thought I was hiding him, or embarrassed, or—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t. I just panicked.”

Gemma’s voice softened. “That sounds like him, you know. He feels everything all at once. Always has.”

“I know.” Y/N looked towards the rain-spotted window. “He left straight after. I didn’t even have time to explain.”

“He didn’t say much here either,” Gemma admitted. “Just that he needed to be home for a bit. He looks… tired. Properly worn down.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “Is he okay?”

“He will be,” Gemma said. “You both will, once you stop trying to talk around each other.”

A silence stretched between them — not awkward, just heavy.

Y/N sighed. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just—when Theo showed up, everything felt… exposed. Like I’d done something wrong even when I hadn’t.”

“That’s what happens when you care,” Gemma said gently. “Everything feels like the end of the world.”

Y/N laughed weakly. “You sound like you’ve had practice.”

“Living with him for twenty years will do that.”

For the first time all morning, Y/N smiled. “Tell him I’m sorry?”

Gemma hesitated. “Maybe you should.”

Y/N stared at the phone, thumb hovering above the screen. The thought of hearing his voice again made her chest ache — but so did not hearing it.

“I will,” she whispered. “Just… not yet.”

“All right,” Gemma said. “Take your time. I’ll keep him from brooding too much.”

“Good luck with that.”

Gemma laughed softly. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

When the call ended, Y/N set the phone down on the table beside her tea — cold again — and watched the rain blur the city outside.

For a moment, she almost reached for the phone again.

But then she didn’t.

The rain never really stopped that afternoon. It just changed tempo — sometimes a fine mist against the windows, sometimes a steady rhythm on the roof that made conversation sound softer.

Gemma had insisted on keeping him busy. She dragged him out to the market around the corner, bundled him into her coat that was a size too small, made him carry the bags back up the stairs. By the time they were home, the flat smelled of coffee and roasted tomatoes, something baking in the oven.

For a while, it almost felt normal.

They sat at the little kitchen table, two bowls of pasta between them, steam curling into the dim light.

“So,” Gemma said, twirling her fork, “how’s uni?”

Harry gave a small laugh. “Gruelling.” He leaned back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. “I knew medicine would be hard, but I didn’t think it’d be like that. It’s constant. You wake up already behind.”

Gemma smiled gently. “That’s not new for you. You’ve always tried to do everything at once.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, voice quiet, “it’s different now. Back home it feels like everyone’s moving forward, getting somewhere, and I’m just—” He gestured vaguely, a loose circle in the air. “Existing.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

He shook his head. “It’s not about that. I just—” He hesitated, staring at the pattern of steam swirling above his bowl. “It’s lonely, Gem. Properly lonely. I come back to the flat after shifts, and it’s just… silence. Sometimes I don’t even bother turning the lights on.”

Gemma’s fork stilled. “You’ve got friends there, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He laughed under his breath. “Good people. But it’s not the same.”

She watched him carefully. “You mean her.”

He didn’t answer, but the muscle in his jaw tightened.

Gemma sighed softly. “I knew it.”

Harry looked up then, meeting her gaze. “It’s not like I planned it. I thought distance would make it easier, you know? Start over, focus on school. But every time something good happens, I want to tell her. And when something goes wrong…” He trailed off. “She’s still the first person I think of.”

Gemma leaned back, letting him speak.

“I’d drop it all if she asked,” he said finally. The words were quiet but sure. “I’d transfer, move back, whatever it took. I hate being that far away from her. I hate knowing someone else is there when I’m not.”

The admission hung in the room, small but heavy.

Gemma reached out, resting her hand on his wrist. “You can’t build your whole life around someone else, H. You love her, that’s clear, but you’ve worked too hard to throw everything away because it hurts right now.”

He exhaled, staring at the steam from his tea. “I know. I just don’t know what’s right anymore.”

She smiled gently. “Then don’t decide tonight. Just… rest. Let yourself miss her without trying to fix it straight away.”

Harry gave a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “You always make it sound easy.”

“It’s never easy,” Gemma said. “That’s why we talk about it over pasta instead of pretending we’ve got it all figured out.”

He smiled for real then, the first proper one of the day. “Thanks, Gem.”

“Anytime.” She stood, collecting their plates. “You’ll stay here a few days, yeah? Get some sleep, see people, breathe a bit.”

He nodded, looking toward the rain-blurred window. “Yeah. I think I need that.”

For a moment she just looked at him, her little brother — older now, worn around the edges but still so recognisably himself — and felt something ease in her chest.

“Good,” she said softly. “Then start with another cup of tea.”

He laughed under his breath, and for the first time since he’d landed, the flat felt a little less heavy.

Gemma had gone to bed. The flat was quiet now except for the distant hum of the city — taxis passing on wet roads, someone laughing far below.

Harry sat on the sofa with the lamp turned low, a blanket draped over his knees and a mug cooling between his hands. He’d meant to sleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her door, the look on her face when Theo had walked in, the way she hadn’t said his name.

He leaned back, eyes half-closed, letting the quiet press against him. It was almost peaceful — almost.

His phone lay on the coffee table, dark screen catching the reflection of the lamplight. He reached for it, hesitated, then thumbed it awake. No new messages.

He scrolled anyway — through old photos, old texts. A picture from last summer in the garden behind her flat: Y/N laughing, hair pulled back, sunlight on her cheeks. He remembered the smell of the air that day, the sound she made when she laughed too hard, how he’d thought then that nothing could pull them apart.

He locked the phone quickly, as if the memory itself had burned him.

The flat creaked softly as it settled. From Gemma’s room came the faint sound of her breathing — steady, comforting. He envied it.

He set the mug aside and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “What am I doing?” he whispered to the empty room.

The city outside didn’t answer.

When he finally moved, it was to stand by the window. Rain streaked the glass, blurring the streetlights into long ribbons of gold. Somewhere beyond that horizon, she was probably awake too — pacing, thinking, regretting. Or maybe not. Maybe she was fine.

He exhaled, the fog of his breath briefly clouding his reflection. “I miss you,” he said quietly, a confession meant only for the night.

Then he turned away, switching off the lamp.

The room fell into darkness, but the thought of her stayed — soft, persistent, impossible to quiet — until the sound of the rain became everything.

The air in Anne’s kitchen was thick with the smell of roast beef, rosemary, and gravy.

The familiar warmth hit Harry the moment he and Gemma stepped through the back door: the radio low, the clatter of dishes, Anne calling for someone to fetch more napkins. It was the kind of noise that belonged to home, the sort he’d missed without realising it.

“Look who’s finally dragged himself back from America,” Anne said, appearing from behind a cloud of steam. Her eyes softened as she pulled him into a hug. “My boy.”

“Hi, Mum.” His voice was muffled against her shoulder.

“You look thin,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. “You need proper food.”

Gemma laughed, slipping past them to set the wine on the counter. “That’s why we’re here.”

The living room hummed with chatter: Harry’s cousins arguing about football, kids weaving between the adults with handfuls of crisps, someone opening another bottle of wine. Harry shook hands, hugged people, smiled where he should. It felt good and heavy all at once.

He was reaching for a drink when he saw her.

She was half-turned toward the window, a glass of water in her hand, talking quietly with Anne. The sight hit him like a held breath finally released. The light caught on the edge of her hair, turning it gold. For a second he thought he’d imagined her, that his mind had conjured her up again, but then she looked over—and froze.

Anne must have followed his gaze, because she touched Y/N’s arm gently. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, turning back to him. “Gemma mentioned you two had a bit of a row. I thought it might be nice for you both to… see each other.”

Harry swallowed, his pulse thudding in his throat. “Right,” he managed. “Yeah. Nice.”

Gemma winced from across the room, mouthing sorry.

Y/N set her glass down, still watching him. She looked uncertain, hands fidgeting with the hem of her jumper, as if ready to bolt. The chatter around them blurred into a soft hum; he could hear the clock ticking in the hallway, the rain starting again against the conservatory roof.

He moved first, because someone had to.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said quietly when he reached her.

“Didn’t expect to be here,” she admitted. “Your mum called this morning. I—she sounded so kind, I couldn’t say no.”

He smiled faintly, nerves twisting under his ribs. “That sounds like her.”

For a moment they just stood there, surrounded by the noise of family and the smell of roast potatoes, two people pretending they weren’t both coming apart.

Then Anne’s voice rang from the kitchen: “Dinner’s ready!”

Everyone started toward the table. Y/N brushed past him, close enough for him to catch the familiar scent of her shampoo, and something in his chest tightened.

He followed her in, trying to ignore how his hands were shaking.

The dining room glowed with that particular kind of afternoon light that made everything softer — the silverware gleaming, the glasses sweating faintly in the warmth, the air rich with the smell of roast potatoes and gravy.

Anne had gone all out, as she always did on Sundays. The table was crowded: Gemma pouring wine, her boyfriend cracking a joke about football, cousins passing plates back and forth, laughter bubbling in pockets. It was noisy, familiar, safe — for everyone except him.

Harry sat between Gemma and one of the younger cousins, doing his best to nod and smile at the right moments. Across the table, Y/N sat beside Anne, her hair caught by the sunlight, the faintest pink still on her cheeks. She laughed at something Anne said, polite, quiet, but he could tell her mind was somewhere else. His, too.

He reached for the gravy boat at the same time she did. Their fingers brushed — barely — and both pulled back too quickly. The clink of metal against the plate sounded louder than it should have.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

He shook his head, forcing a small smile. “You’re fine.”

Anne caught the exchange and smiled faintly, like she’d been waiting for it. “Harry, love, pass the Yorkshire puddings down to Y/N, will you?”

He did, careful not to touch her hand this time. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

Gemma kicked him lightly under the table. When he looked up, she gave him a be polite look that was half stern, half teasing. He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink to hide the smile threatening to break through.

Conversation swelled and dipped around them. The cousins debated music, Anne fussed over portion sizes, and the dog barked from somewhere near the back door. Through it all, Harry kept catching little things — the way Y/N twisted her napkin when she wasn’t speaking, the way she glanced at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, the soft huff of breath she gave when someone made her laugh.

At one point, Anne leaned toward her. “You’ll stay for dessert, won’t you?”

Y/N hesitated. “If that’s all right.”

“Of course it is,” Anne said, eyes flicking to Harry. “We’ve got enough to feed the whole street.”

Gemma’s fork clinked softly against her plate, a warning in the shape of sound.

When the table quieted for a moment — plates scraping, glasses refilling — Harry found himself speaking before he thought better of it. “How’s school?”

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Busy. Always is.”

He nodded, taking a breath. “You still with the same study group?”

“Mostly.” She hesitated. “Theo’s been helping with research.”

The name hit like a flicker of static. He managed another nod. “Right. Good.”

Across the table, Gemma changed the subject with bright efficiency, asking about Anne’s new garden project. The noise filled in again, mercifully.

For the rest of the meal, they didn’t speak. But when everyone stood to clear the table, Y/N reached for the same serving dish he did again — this time, neither moved away.

Her hand brushed his once more, slower now. Their eyes met.

For a second, everything else — the laughter, the rain against the windows, the smell of roast still in the air — went quiet.

Then Gemma’s voice broke through. “Harry, can you grab the pudding from the kitchen?”

He blinked, pulling back. “Yeah. Sure.”

As he stepped past Y/N to leave the room, she said his name — soft, barely there.

He didn’t turn around, but the sound of it followed him all the way to the kitchen door.

The kitchen was warm and close, the windows fogged from the oven and the scent of sugar and cinnamon filling the air. The noise of the house carried in from down the hall — laughter, clinking glasses, Anne’s voice — but here it all seemed to fade, the way sound does under water.

Harry stood at the counter, sleeves pushed up, trying to look busy. The spoon in his hand trembled slightly as he dished custard into bowls.

He heard the door behind him and knew it was her before she spoke.

“Your mum asked me to help,” Y/N said softly.

He looked over his shoulder. “Right.”

They worked side by side without speaking for a while. The scrape of metal on ceramic was the only sound between them.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was low. “I didn’t know she’d invited me. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known you’d be here.”

Harry set the spoon down. “She didn’t tell me either.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He gave a small, humourless laugh. “You keep saying that.”

She folded her arms, staring down at the counter. “I don’t know what else to say.”

He turned then, really looking at her. “You could start with the truth. Because I crossed an ocean to see you, Y/N. I flew halfway across the world thinking that if I just showed up, you’d understand. That maybe it would be enough.”

Her breath caught.

“You’re everything to me,” he went on, quieter now. “And you looked at me like I was a stranger.”

She closed the distance between them a little, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared. You don’t know what it’s been like without you.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “I know exactly what it’s like. It’s lonely. And it’s loud. And it doesn’t stop.”

For a heartbeat they just stood there, the air heavy with things unsaid. Then Y/N reached out, fingers brushing his forearm. The touch was light, hesitant, but it made him still.

“Harry,” she whispered.

He didn’t pull away. “You can tell me to go, and I will. But if you don’t—”

She stepped closer until the space between them was almost nothing. Her hand slipped down his arm to his wrist, and he covered it with his own, their fingers catching.

Neither of them spoke. Outside, the rain softened against the glass; the voices from the other room rose and fell, a reminder that the world still existed beyond this small kitchen.

When Anne called again for dessert, they both flinched slightly, breaking apart but not fully letting go.

“I’ll take the tray,” Y/N said quickly.

Harry nodded, his thumb brushing the back of her hand before he released it.