baby — part III (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello, my darlings 🤍 Here’s the new part of Baby. Let me know what you think. I’m so excited to hear your thoughts! This isn’t the last part; I’m thinking of turning it into a 10-part series since you’ve all been enjoying it so much.

word count: 8.9k

The alarm on Y/N’s phone was set to a generic, jarring radar sound. It was the kind of noise designed to wake you up for a 6 AM shift at a café, not to rouse you from 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets in a multi-million pound townhouse.

But at 9:55 AM exactly, it blared through the silence of the master bedroom.

Harry groaned, shifting in the bed. His arm, heavy and warm, was draped over Y/N’s waist, pinning her to the mattress. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, his breathing deep and even. For a moment, just a split second, Y/N allowed herself to lean back into him. To feel the solid wall of his chest. To smell the cedarwood and sleep that clung to his skin.

Then, she remembered.

Friday, 8 PM to Saturday, 10 AM. No Sundays. No dinners. No lingering.

She reached out and silenced the alarm.

"What is that?" Harry rumbled against her skin, his voice thick with sleep. He tightened his grip, trying to pull her closer, his nose nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Turn it off. Come back here."

In February, she would have. She would have turned it off, rolled over, and spent another hour in his arms while he told her about the markets or kissed her until she was breathless.

But it wasn't February. It was March. And she was following the rules.

"I can't," Y/N said. Her voice was clear. Awake. Detached.

She took his heavy arm and lifted it off her waist, placing it gently back onto the mattress. The loss of contact made the air in the room feel instantly colder.

Harry blinked his eyes open, confusion clouding his gaze. He looked at her as she sat up and swung her legs out of bed.

"Where are you going?" he rasped, squinting against the morning light filtering through the curtains.

"It's 9:56, Harry," she said, not looking back at him. She stood up, reaching for his discarded t-shirt on the floor. No, not his. She didn't wear his clothes anymore. She reached for her own silk robe that she had brought in her overnight bag. "My shift ends in four minutes."

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows. The sleep vanished from his face, replaced by a flicker of irritation.

"Don't be dramatic," he muttered. "It's Saturday morning. I was... comfortable."

"I'm sure you were," she said. She walked to the chair in the corner where she had neatly folded her clothes the night before. Jeans. A sweater. Efficient.

Harry watched her. He hated this part. For the last three weeks, ever since he had handed her that envelope, she had been a ghost. She arrived at 8:00 PM on the dot. She let him fuck her and God, the sex was intense, fueled by a desperate, angry energy he couldn't name—and then she slept. And then she left.

No cooking. No typewriter. No arguments about toilet paper.

"I ordered coffee," Harry said, trying to soften his tone. He sat up fully, the sheet falling to his waist, exposing his chest. He looked devastatingly handsome, and he knew it. "It should be downstairs. Stay. Have a cup."

Y/N pulled her jeans on. She zipped them up with a sound that seemed incredibly loud in the quiet room.

"I can't," she repeated. "I have to get to the library."

"Y/N," Harry said, his voice dropping to a warning growl. "Sit down."

She paused, holding her sweater. She turned to look at him finally. Her face was calm. Her eyes were dry. There was none of the fire he was used to.

"Is there something else you require, Harry?" she asked politely. "Technically, I have three minutes left. If you want a quick... service, I suppose we could fit it in. But I'll need to shower after."

Harry flinched.

Whatever reaction he had expected, this wasn't it. He had expected her to cry. He had expected her to beg him to change the rules back. He had expected the passionate, fiery girl who fought with Olivia at the art gallery.

He hadn't expected to be looked at like he was a dental appointment she was trying to get over with.

"I don't want a 'service'," he snapped, offended. "I wanted to have coffee with you."

"Coffee isn't in the schedule," she reminded him gently. She pulled the sweater over her head, smoothing her hair back. "You said 'no hanging out'. I'm just respecting your boundaries, Harry."

She picked up her bag. She checked her phone.

"10:00 AM," she announced.

She looked at him sitting in the messy bed, surrounded by the luxury he valued so much. He looked lonely.

Good.

"The allowance hit my account yesterday," she said. "Thank you. I'll see you next Friday at 8."

"Y/N—"

She didn't wait. She turned and walked out the door.

Harry sat in the silence of the master bedroom. He heard her footsteps on the stairs. He heard the click of the front door opening. He heard the heavy thud of it closing.

He looked at the empty spot beside him. The sheets were still warm, but the room felt freezing.

"Fuck," he whispered to the empty room.

He snatched the pillow she had been sleeping on and threw it violently across the room. It hit the wall with a dull thud, knocking over a stack of books on the side table.

They tumbled to the floor. Among them was a small, cloth-bound volume in faded blue.

Persuasion. First Edition. 1818.

He had bought it months ago. He had meant to give it to her for Christmas, but he’d panicked and bought the typewriter instead—something practical, something that supported her career rather than her heart. The book felt too intimate. Too romantic. It was a book about second chances, and Harry didn't believe in them.

So he had kept it. He had kept it on his nightstand, intending to give it to her... eventually. Maybe for graduation. Maybe when he finally figured out how to say what he felt without choking.

Now, it lay face down on the rug, its spine bent at an awkward angle.

He stared at it. He didn't get up to pick it up.

The routine had set in like concrete. Four weeks of this. Four weeks of Fridays that felt like funerals and Saturdays that felt like escapades.

Harry was waiting in the study when the doorbell didn't ring.

The keypad beeped. The door opened and closed.

He checked his watch. 8:00 PM precisely.

He waited for her to come to the study, as she used to. He waited for her to lean against the doorframe, looking wet from the rain and beautiful, teasing him about working too late.

He waited. And waited.

Silence.

He frowned. He stood up, abandoning the merger documents on his screens, and walked out into the hallway.

The hallway was empty. Her boots were lined up by the door—neat, military precision. Her keys were in the bowl.

"Y/N?" he called out.

"Upstairs," her voice drifted down.

He walked up the stairs, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. He found her in the bedroom. She was already undressed, wearing only the silk robe. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting.

She looked up when he entered.

"You're early," she noted. "Usually you finish work at 8:30."

"I finished early," he said, loosening his tie. He felt... awkward. In his own house. With the woman he had been sleeping with for five months. "I thought we could... I don't know. Talk? I saw that you got a First on your mid-term."

He had been checking her university portal. He had the login from when he paid the tuition. It was the only way he knew anything about her life anymore.

Y/N’s expression didn't change. "I did."

"That's impressive," he said, stepping closer. "Especially with the dissertation workload. What was the paper on?"

"Modernist poetry," she said. Short. clipped.

"And?" He prodded, desperate for a crumb of her personality. "Did you argue that Eliot was a fraud? You usually hate Eliot."

"It doesn't matter," she said, standing up and untying the belt of her robe. It slid off her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

She stood before him, beautiful and golden and completely closed off.

"Do you want to talk about poetry, Harry?" she asked, tilting her head. "Or do you want to get what you paid for?"

The words were a slap in the face.

Harry stopped moving. He looked at her naked body, and for the first time in his life, his desire warred with a crushing sense of shame.

"Don't say it like that," he said roughly.

"Like what?" She stepped closer, placing a hand on his chest. Her palm was warm, but her touch felt mechanical. She began to undo his buttons. "You were very clear, Harry. You pay for my time. You pay for my company. I'm just trying to be... efficient."

She pushed his shirt open and leaned in to kiss his neck. It was a practiced move. A move a courtesan would make.

"Y/N, stop," he said, grabbing her wrists.

She looked up, her eyes wide and innocent. "Stop? Is something wrong? Do you want me to do something else?"

"I want you to stop acting like an employee!" he shouted, the frustration finally boiling over.

Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him, and a small, sad smile touched her lips.

"But I am an employee, Harry," she whispered. "You fired the girlfriend. Remember?"

Harry stared at her, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to scream that he hadn't fired the girlfriend, he had just panicked. He wanted to drag her downstairs and make her pasta and dance in the kitchen.

But the ghost of his own words hung between them. I am not your boyfriend.

He couldn't take them back. Not without admitting he was wrong. And Harry Styles did not admit he was wrong.

He let go of her wrists. He stepped back, his face hardening into the mask again.

"Fine," he said coldly. "If that’s how you want to play it."

He stripped off his shirt and threw it on the chair.

"Get on the bed."

She did. She didn't argue. She didn't tease. She just obeyed.

And when he entered her, looking down at her beautiful, blank face, he realized with a terrifying clarity:

He was fucking a stranger. And it was entirely his fault.

The boardroom on the 40th floor of the shard offered a panoramic view of London, but Harry wasn't looking at it. He was looking at his phone under the table.

"As you can see from the Q1 projections," the Junior Analyst was droning on, pointing at a graph that Harry could have interpreted in his sleep, "volatility is expected to stabilize by mid-May."

Harry didn't care about volatility. He cared about the fact that he hadn't spoken to Y/N in four days.

Since implementing the "Friday to Saturday" rule, his weeks had become interminable stretches of grey. He found himself checking his phone constantly, hoping she would slip up. Hoping she would text him to say she missed him, or that she needed money, or even just to send him a meme about bad coffee.

But she never did. She was following his instructions to the letter.

He unlocked his phone. He opened their chat history.

Harry: Allowance cleared? (Sent: April 1st)

Y/N: Yes. Thank you. (Sent: April 1st)

That was it.

He felt a sudden, irrational spike of anger. Was she not missing him? Was she just going about her life—studying, laughing with roommates, working at that sticky-floored café—without a second thought for him?

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He shouldn't do this. It was weak. It showed a lack of discipline.

He typed anyway.

Harry: It’s pouring. Did you take a car to the library?

He hit send before he could regret it.

He put the phone face down on the mahogany table and tried to pay attention to the analyst.

Buzz.

Harry flipped the phone over instantly.

Y/N: I walked. It’s only ten minutes.

Harry frowned. He hated that. He hated thinking of her cold and wet and him not being there to run a bath for her.

Harry: Use the account. That’s what it’s there for. I don't want you getting sick.

He watched the three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Y/N: I have an umbrella, Harry. I'm fine.

Y/N: My phone is on silent while I work. I’ll see you Friday.

Harry stared at the screen. She was dismissing him. She was effectively telling him to stop bothering her while she worked.

"Mr. Styles?"

Harry’s head snapped up. The entire boardroom was looking at him. The analyst looked terrified.

"Sir?" the analyst repeated. "I asked for your thoughts on the merger timeline."

Harry looked at the graph. He looked at the terrified kid in the cheap suit. He felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him.

"It's ambitious," Harry said, his voice flat. "But acceptable. Proceed."

He looked back down at his phone.

Harry: Friday. I’m taking you to dinner. I made a reservation at Nobu.

He waited. He needed her to say yes. He needed to break the routine. He needed to sit across from her and force her to look at him, really look at him, not just through the lens of a transaction.

Buzz.

Y/N: I'm afraid that’s not possible.

Harry’s blood ran cold.

Harry: Why?

Y/N: The agreement stipulates 8 PM arrival at the residence. I have a shift at the café until 7:30. I won't have time to change for Nobu. I will see you at the house at 8.

Harry gripped the phone so hard the case creaked. She was quoting the agreement back to him. She was using the cage he built to lock him out.

Harry: Skip the shift. I'll cover the wages.

Y/N: I can't. I'm the shift lead. I have responsibilities.

Y/N: I will see you at 8, Harry. Please let me get back to work.

Harry didn't reply. He couldn't.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and stood up abruptly. The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor.

"Meeting adjourned," he announced to the room of stunned executives.

"But sir," the VP stammered, "we haven't discussed the risk assessment."

"The risk is manageable," Harry snapped, walking toward the door. "Figure it out."

He stormed out of the boardroom, loosening his tie as he walked down the corridor. He needed air. He needed a drink.

He needed Friday to come, so he could shake her until the mask fell off.

London was finally blooming. The grey sleet had given way to tentative sunshine and daffodils.

Harry was walking through Soho. He usually avoided this area on weekends—too many tourists, too much noise—but he had a meeting with a creative director for the bank's rebranding, and the man insisted on meeting at a "trendy" members club on Dean Street.

Harry was in a foul mood. Friday night had been... straining. Y/N had arrived, they had sex, and she had gone to sleep. When he tried to wake her up at midnight to talk, she had mumbled something about being tired from her shift and rolled over.

He felt like he was living with a ghost.

He turned the corner onto Dean Street, checking his watch.

Laughter.

It was a bright, loud, uninhibited sound that stopped him in his tracks.

He looked across the street.

There was a pub with tables spilling out onto the pavement. It was crowded, noisy, and full of young people drinking pints in the sun.

And there she was.

Y/N was sitting at a wobbly wooden table, surrounded by three other people—two girls and a boy. She was wearing a denim jacket he had never seen and sunglasses pushed up into her messy hair. She was holding a cider.

She threw her head back and laughed at something the boy said.

Harry stood frozen on the opposite pavement.

He hadn't seen her laugh in two months. Not really. Not like that.

He watched as the boy—a scruffy thing with bleached hair and a nose ring—leaned over and stole a chip from her plate. Y/N slapped his hand away playfully, grinning. She looked radiant. She looked alive.

She looked happy.

Without him.

The realization hit Harry like a physical blow to the gut. He had convinced himself that she was miserable too. He had told himself that she was just enduring the "Cold War" until he cracked.

But looking at her now, he saw the truth. She wasn't miserable. She had compartmentalized him. He was just a Friday night appointment. The rest of her life, her real life, was happening right here, in the sunshine, with people who probably didn't know his name.

He felt a surge of jealousy so potent it tasted like bile. He wanted to cross the street. He wanted to walk up to that table, pull her out of that chair, and kiss her until she forgot the boy with the nose ring existed. He wanted to remind her that she belonged to him.

But he couldn't.

Because it was Saturday. It was 2:00 PM. And according to the rules he wrote, she didn't belong to him right now.

Y/N turned her head slightly. For a second, he thought she saw him.

Harry panicked. The Great Harry Styles, who stared down CEOs for breakfast, panicked.

He turned on his heel and ducked into the nearest shop doorway, hiding in the shadows like a stalker.

He watched her for another minute, his heart hammering against his ribs. Then, unable to bear the sight of her happiness any longer, he turned and walked away.

He cancelled the meeting with the creative director. He went home, sat in his dark study, and drank a glass of whiskey that cost more than that entire pub, feeling poorer than he ever had in his life.

The air in the Kensington townhouse was heavy, pressing against the windows like a physical weight. It was late May, and the humidity had arrived early, turning London into a sticky, grey soup.

Harry sat on the velvet sofa in the living room. He wasn't working. The monitors in his study were dark for the first time on a Friday in years.

On the coffee table in front of him sat a bottle of Pinot Noir—opened, breathing—and two crystal glasses. Next to them was a silver tray with a selection of cheeses and figs. It was a pathetic offering, really. A peace offering disguised as an appetizer.

He checked his watch. 7:48 PM.

He smoothed his hands over his knees. He had changed his clothes three times. He had started in a suit, then changed into sweatpants (too casual, too presumptuous), and finally settled on dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater. He wanted to look approachable. He wanted to look like the man she had danced with in the kitchen three months ago.

He was nervous. The realization made his stomach turn. He was Harry Styles, a man who moved millions of pounds with a phone call, and he was terrified of a twenty-two-year-old student walking through his front door.

But he had a plan. Tonight, he wouldn't let her march upstairs. Tonight, he would stop her in the hall. He would pour her a drink. He would ask her about the dissertation—really ask, not just check the box. He would force the warmth back into the room, by sheer will if necessary.

7:59 PM.

He stared at the front door.

8:00 PM.

The keypad beeped. The electronic chirp echoed through the silent house like a gunshot. Then came the mechanical clunk of the lock disengaging.

The door swung open.

Y/N stepped inside. She looked exhausted. That was the first thing Harry noticed—the dark purple smudges beneath her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped under the weight of her backpack. Her hair was pulled back in a messy, functional bun, stray strands sticking to her neck in the humidity.

She didn't look at the living room. She turned automatically toward the console table to drop her keys.

Clink.

She began to toe off her sneakers.

"Hello," Harry said.

Y/N jumped. She spun around, her hand flying to her chest. She hadn't expected him to be there. For the last six weeks, he had been in the study or the bedroom.

"Harry," she breathed, her eyes widening. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry," he said, standing up slowly. He kept his hands open, non-threatening. "I didn't mean to lurk."

She stared at him, taking in the jeans, the sweater, the lack of a phone in his hand. Her gaze flicked to the wine and cheese on the table, then back to his face. Her expression didn't soften. If anything, it became more guarded.

"Is everything okay?" she asked cautiously. "Did the schedule change?"

"No," Harry said quickly. "No change. I just... I finished early. I thought we could have a drink. Unwind a bit before... before going upstairs."

He gestured to the sofa. "I opened the Pinot you liked. The 2015. And I got those rosemary crackers.”

Y/N looked at the wine. She looked at the crackers. She looked at the comfortable spot on the sofa where they used to sit for hours, her legs thrown over his lap while they debated literature.

She tightened her grip on her backpack strap.

"I can't," she said softly.

Harry felt a crack in his chest. "You can't have a glass of wine?"

"I'm on antibiotics," she lied. Or maybe she wasn't. He didn't know. He didn't know anything about her health anymore. "And I'm exhausted, Harry. It was a long day."

"Then just sit," he pressed, sounding desperate to his own ears. He took a step forward. "You don't have to drink. Just sit down for five minutes, Y/N. Tell me about... tell me about your roommates. How is Sarah?”

He remembered the name. He had made a point to remember it.

Y/N looked at him with genuine confusion. "Sarah? You want to know about Sarah?"

"I want to know about you," he corrected. "I feel like I haven't spoken to you in months."

"You speak to me every Friday," she pointed out, her voice devoid of emotion.

"I speak to an employee," he said, the bitterness leaking into his tone despite his best efforts. "I want to speak to you."

Y/N let out a short, tired sigh. She shifted the weight of her bag.

"Harry, please. I've been studying since 6 AM. I walked here in the humidity. I feel gross, and I'm tired, and I really just want to take a shower."

She looked at him, pleading not for affection, but for space.

"Can we just do the usual?" she asked. "Please?"

The rejection was total. She wasn't just rejecting the wine; she was rejecting the intimacy. She preferred the cold, transactional routine to his attempt at connection.

Harry let his hand drop. The hope that had been buoyancy in his chest turned into a lead weight.

"Fine," he said quietly. "Go shower."

She walked past him. She walked right past the wine, the cheese, and the man who was practically begging for her attention.

Harry stood there, watching her ascend the stairs. He listened to the heavy tread of her tired feet.

He looked down at the two empty glasses.

He picked up the bottle and took a long swig straight from the neck, the expensive vintage tasting like vinegar in his mouth. Then he followed her.

By the time he entered the bedroom, the shower was already running.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't undress. He sat in the dark, listening to the water running in the bathroom, waiting for his "appointment" to be ready.

Ten minutes later, the water stopped. The door opened. A cloud of steam billowed out, carrying the scent of his eucalyptus body wash—the only thing they still shared.

Y/N walked out, wrapped in a towel. Her skin was pink from the heat, her hair damp and curling around her face. She looked soft. Vulnerable.

She dropped the towel and reached for her silk robe.

"Don't," Harry said.

His voice was rough. He hadn't meant to say it.

Y/N froze, her hand hovering over the silk. She looked at him in the dim light.

"Don't what?"

"Don't put the robe on," he whispered. "Just... come here."

She hesitated. For a long, agonizing moment, she just stood there. Then, she walked toward the bed. She didn't crawl over to him. She didn't smile. She laid down on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm ready," she said.

The words were a bucket of ice water.

Harry moved over her. He braced his arms on either side of her head, caging her in. He looked down into her eyes. They were open, but they were empty. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking through him.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice shaking.

She focused her eyes on his. "I'm looking, Harry."

"Where are you?" he demanded, searching her face for a spark, a flicker of the girl who had called him a 'grump' and made fun of his triple-ply toilet paper. "You're right here, but you're not here."

"I'm tired," she said simply. "Do you want to do this or not? It's getting late."

Harry made a sound of frustration, a low growl in his throat. He lowered his head and captured her lips.

He kissed her hard. He kissed her with a desperate, bruising intensity, trying to force a reaction out of her. He used his tongue, he bit her lip, he tangled his hands in her damp hair and angled her head back.

She let him. She opened her mouth. She moved her lips against his.

But she didn't kiss him back.

She was a mirror, reflecting his actions but generating no heat of her own. Her hands didn't come up to grip his hair. They rested limp on the duvet.

Harry pulled back, gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Kiss me back," he pleaded, his forehead resting against hers. "Please. Y/N. Kiss me back."

"I am," she whispered.

"No, you're not. You're just... enduring it."

She didn't deny it. She just closed her eyes.

"Can we just get on with it?" she asked. "I really need to sleep."

Harry stared at her closed eyelids. He felt a wave of nausea. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to cry.

But he was a man who had demanded a transaction. And she was honoring the contract.

"Fine," he spat out.

He stripped off his clothes with angry, jerky movements. He positioned himself between her legs. He entered her without fanfare, without foreplay, without love.

It was mechanical. It was friction. It was exactly what he had asked for, and it felt like dying.

He finished quickly, chasing the release just to make the feeling stop. He collapsed onto the mattress beside her, his breathing ragged, sweat cooling on his skin.

Usually, this was the moment she would curl into him. Usually, she would rest her head on his chest and he would wrap his arm around her, and they would lie in the afterglow.

Harry turned his head, waiting for her.

Y/N was already moving away.

She rolled onto her side, facing the window, putting her back to him. She pulled the duvet up to her chin, creating a wall of white cotton between them.

"Goodnight, Harry," she mumbled into her pillow.

Harry reached out. His hand hovered over her shoulder. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to pull her back against his chest and hold her so tight she couldn't breathe.

But he looked at the rigid line of her spine. The tension in her shoulders. She was repelling him without even touching him.

He let his hand drop to the mattress.

He lay on his back in the darkness, listening to the rain pick up outside, staring at the ceiling of the house he owned, in the bed he had paid for, next to the woman he was paying to be there.

He had never been more alone in his entire life.

The text arrived at 3:00 PM on a Friday afternoon.

Harry was at his desk at the bank. He saw the notification pop up on his private phone—the one only five people had the number for.

Y/N: Dissertation submitted. 12,000 words. It's done.

Harry stared at the screen.

It was the first time she had texted him first in two months.

His heart leaped. A genuine, physical jump in his chest. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to share the news. This was it. The crack in the ice.

He typed back immediately, his fingers flying.

Harry: Congratulations. That is a massive achievement. I knew you would crush it.

He paused. He waited.

Harry: Let's celebrate tonight. No cooking. No ordering in. I'm picking you up. We're going to that Italian place you love in Shoreditch. The one with the paper tablecloths.

It was a peace offering. It was a surrender. He was offering to go to her world, to a place he hated, just to see her smile.

He watched the bubbles appear.

Y/N: I can't.

Harry closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against his expensive leather chair.

Harry: Why?

Y/N: I'm going out with my roommates. They planned a pub crawl. It's a student thing.

Harry: Cancel it. Spend it with me.

Y/N: I can't cancel. They've been planning it for weeks. And besides...

The bubbles paused for a long time. Harry held his breath.

Y/N: It's Friday, but it's only 3 PM. My contract doesn't start until 8. I'll see you then.

Harry: You're going to a pub crawl before coming to see me? You'll be drunk.

Y/N: I'll be sober by 8. Don't worry, I won't be late.

Harry stared at the phone.

She chose the sticky floors. She chose the cheap beer and the roommates and the noise over a private celebration with him.

He slowly lowered the phone to the desk.

He felt a strange calm wash over him. It wasn't peace. It was the clarity of a man who realizes he is watching a car crash in slow motion, and he is the one behind the wheel.

She was leaving him. Not physically—she would still show up at 8 PM because she needed the tuition money for graduation. But emotionally? She had checked out weeks ago.

He picked up the phone again. He opened his calendar.

June 20th. Graduation.

He stared at the date.

He had told her he wouldn't go. He had yelled at her for even asking.

But as he sat there in his glass tower, looking at the grey London skyline, Harry Styles made a decision.

He was going to that graduation. And he wasn't just going to sit in the audience. He was going to win her back.

It was a bright, blindingly sunny day. The kind of June day that made London feel like a completely different city—alive, golden, and optimistic.

Harry sat in the back of his black Range Rover, parked on a double yellow line on a side street near the Barbican. The engine was idling, a low, powerful purr that vibrated through the chassis. The air conditioning was blasting, keeping the interior at a sterile sixty-eight degrees, sealing him off from the heat and the noise of the world outside.

He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses. He felt ridiculous. He felt like a spy. Or worse, a criminal returning to the scene of a crime.

"Sir?" his driver, Paul, asked from the front seat, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. "We’ve been here for twenty minutes. Traffic enforcement is circling."

"Let them circle," Harry murmured, not looking away from the window. "I’ll pay the ticket."

He stared through the tinted glass.

The Barbican’s brutalist concrete courtyard was swarming with life. Students in black robes and mortarboards were spilling out of the main hall, a sea of fabric and excitement. They were clutching scrolls, laughing, screaming, throwing their caps into the air for photos.

Harry scanned the crowd. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that made his palms sweat.

Where is she?

He saw a hundred girls who looked like her from behind. He saw a hundred smiles. But none of them were her.

Then—there.

She walked out of the main glass doors.

Harry’s breath hitched.

She looked... radiant. That was the only word for it. She wasn't wearing the expensive clothes he had bought her. She was wearing a simple white dress under her open robe, and the gown was slightly too big for her, billowing in the wind. Her hair was loose, blowing across her face.

She was laughing. Her head was thrown back, her eyes crinkled shut, looking up at the sky as if thanking the universe.

She wasn't alone.

An older couple flanked her.

The man was wearing a grey suit that looked a little tight in the shoulders, probably pulled out of the back of a wardrobe for the special occasion. He had a kind, weathered face. Her father.

The woman was wearing a floral dress and holding a bouquet of flowers. Not roses. Not the terrifyingly expensive arrangements Harry ordered from his florist. They were bright, chaotic, colorful flowers wrapped in clear cellophane. Supermarket flowers.

Harry watched as Y/N’s father pulled her into a crushing hug. He watched her mother wipe tears from her eyes with a tissue. He watched Y/N beam at them, looking lighter and happier than he had seen her in six months.

She looked loved. Not "possessed." Not "kept." Loved.

Harry’s hand moved to the door handle.

Go, a voice in his head urged. A desperate, reckless voice.

Get out.

Walk over there.

Introduce yourself.

Shake her father’s hand.

Tell them you’re the one who bought the typewriter.

Tell them you’re the one who knows how she takes her coffee.

Tell them you’re the one who loves her.

He gripped the silver handle. His knuckles turned white.

He imagined it. He imagined stepping out of the £100,000 car in his bespoke suit. He imagined the silence that would fall. The confusion on her parents' faces. The look of panic in Y/N’s eyes as her two worlds collided—the wholesome reality of her family, and the dark, transactional secret of him.

I am not the man you bring home to meet Daddy, he had told her.

He had said it to hurt her. He realized now, with a crushing weight, that he had simply been stating a fact.

If he stepped out of this car, he wouldn't be adding to her joy. He would be ruining it. He would be the stain on the photograph.

Just then, a group of students ran over.

Harry recognized them instantly. The boy with the nose ring. The girls from the pub. The "sticky floor" crew.

They tackled Y/N in a group hug, nearly knocking her over. They were loud, messy, and young. They were cheering, taking selfies, lifting her up.

They belonged together. They were the reality.

And Harry... Harry was just the luxury. And luxuries didn't belong on the pavement; they belonged behind glass.

"Sir?" Paul asked again, softer this time. "Do you want to get out?"

Harry stared at Y/N one last time. She was posing for a photo with her dad, holding her diploma high, her smile blinding. She didn't look like she was missing anything. She didn't look like she was waiting for anyone.

Harry let go of the door handle. He sat back in the leather seat, the air leaving his lungs in a rush, leaving him hollow.

"No," Harry whispered, his voice cracking.

He looked at the scene one last time—a perfect tableau of a life he couldn't buy.

"No," he repeated, closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. "Take me home."

Harry stood at the wet bar, the heavy crystal decanter cool against his palm. The only light in the townhouse came from the under-cabinet LEDs, casting a sterile, amber glow over the marble.

He poured two fingers of scotch. The liquid hit the glass with a sharp splashed sound that seemed too loud in the dead silence of the room. He didn't drink it. He just gripped the glass, watching the condensation form, counting the seconds in his head.

It was Friday. 8:00 PM.

His body knew the time before his watch did. It was a physical reaction—a tightening in his chest, a dryness in his throat. The Pavlovian response of a man waiting for his fix.

In a moment, the front door would open. She would walk in. She would move with that terrifying, cold efficiency she had perfected over the last three months. She would walk past him without a word, go up the stairs, and lie down on the bed.

She would wait for the appointment.

And he would go to her. He would touch her because the contract said he could, and he would hate himself for it because he knew her mind was miles away. But he needed it. He needed the physical proof that she was still here, still safe, still under his protection.

Click.

The lock disengaged.

Harry froze. He didn't turn around. He took a quick, bracing sip of the scotch, the burn settling in his stomach. He stared at the rows of bottles in front of him, waiting for the familiar pattern: door opens, door closes, footsteps on the stairs.

The door opened. The door closed.

But the footsteps didn't go to the stairs.

They clicked against the hardwood floor. Click, click, click. Slow. Deliberate. Coming toward the living room.

Harry frowned. She never came in here. The living room was for talking, and they didn't talk.

He slowly turned around, arranging his features into the mask of the bored, detached billionaire. He leaned back against the bar, crossing his ankles, preparing to make a cutting remark about her deviation from the routine.

But when he saw her, the air left his lungs.

Y/N was standing in the archway.

She wasn't wearing her usual library clothes. She wasn't wearing the comfortable things she usually stripped off efficiently.

She was dressed to go out.

She was wearing a black slip dress that clung to her frame, stopping high on her thigh—a tiny, devastating thing meant for crowded clubs and loud music. Her hair was done, blown out in soft waves. She looked stunning. She looked like the kind of girl who was about to spend all night dancing with people who weren't him.

But then he looked at her face.

The contrast was jarring. Beneath the perfect hair and the party dress, she looked shattered. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and there were dark, heavy shadows beneath them that spoke of sleepless nights. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together wrong.

Harry checked his watch, a reflex to hide his shock. "You’re late."

Y/N didn't flinch. She just looked at him with dull, tired eyes.

"I didn't know we still had a schedule," she said.

Harry lowered his wrist. "It’s Friday. The contract stipulates 8:00 PM. Unless you’ve decided to take a holiday."

"I graduated," she said.

"I know."

"So the contract is done."

Harry swirled his drink, the ice clinking softly. "Is it?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. "I don't recall seeing an expiration date on the paperwork."

He wasn't bluffing. He genuinely believed it. The lack of an end date hadn't been an oversight; originally, it was a practical choice, a way to ensure flexibility so neither of them felt the pressure of a ticking clock. It was meant to keep things simple. But over the last few months, that open-ended clause had morphed from a convenience into a lifeline. He was clinging to the technicality now because he was terrified of the reality: that without this paper binding her to him, he had absolutely no reason to ask her to stay.

"I’m terminating it," she said.

She didn't shout. She didn't cry. She just said it with the flat resignation of a soldier surrendering.

She walked over to the glass coffee table. She didn't sit down. She opened her small clutch bag and pulled out the folded document. She tossed it onto the table.

"I can't do this anymore, Harry. I’m out."

Harry stared at the papers. A cold, sharp spike of adrenaline pierced his chest. She couldn't leave. He hadn't prepared for her to actually leave.

He looked at her, standing there in that short dress, ready to disappear into the night. He felt a surge of defensive anger rise up to cover the panic clawing at his throat.

"Of course you are," he spat, pushing off the bar and walking toward her. "You got what you came for, didn't you?"

She blinked, confused. "What?"

"The money," Harry said cruelly. "The tuition. The degree. You stuck it out, you played the part, you let the old man pay the bills, and now that you have the diploma in your hand, you're cutting the cord. It’s very efficient, Y/N. I’m impressed."

"You think this is about the money?" she whispered.

"It’s always about the money," Harry lied. "That’s why you stayed, isn't it? For four months, you walked in here, laid down, and let me use you because the check cleared on the first of the month. Don't pretend it was anything else. You never felt anything."

"I stayed because I hoped!" she cried, her voice cracking.

"Hoped for what? A bonus?"

"I hoped you would come back!" she yelled, the exhaustion finally breaking into anger. "I hoped that one day, you would stop treating me like an employee and start treating me like a person again! I stayed because I wanted you, you idiot!"

Harry flinched. The raw honesty in her voice struck him harder than a slap.

"Don't," he warned, his voice dropping. "Don't rewrite history to make yourself feel better about leaving. You're leaving because you're happy. You're leaving because you have a life out there that is better than this."

He gestured to her dress, to her hair. "Look at you. You look incredible. You're going out, aren't you? To continue the celebration? You have your friends, you have your degree. You're happy without me."

"Happy?" she choked out a laugh, a wet, broken sound. "You think I'm happy?"

"I know you are."

"I have been in hell," she said, stepping toward him. "I haven't slept a full night in weeks. I'm wearing this dress because my friends dragged me out tonight. They wanted to keep celebrating. They think I should be happy."

She wiped a tear from her cheek, ruining her perfect makeup.

"But I couldn't do it. I couldn't fake it for one more second. I had to leave them. I had to come here because I haven't eaten in three days, Harry. Does this look like happiness to you?"

She took a breath, shaking her head.

"I walked across that stage four days ago," she said. "And everyone was cheering. My parents were crying. And all I could do was scan the crowd. Looking for one face. Looking for you."

She looked at him with profound disappointment.

"I thought you would come. I thought, 'He's Harry. He makes grand gestures.' But you weren't there. You didn't care. You just let the contract run out."

"I was there!"

The shout tore out of Harry’s throat before he could stop it. It was a roar of pain, raw and jagged.

The room went dead silent.

Y/N froze. She stared at him, her hand half-raised. "What?"

Harry breathed heavily, his chest heaving beneath the silk shirt. He turned away from her, unable to look at the shock in her eyes. He paced toward the window, looking out at the city lights he hated.

"I was there," he admitted, his voice rough. "On the 20th. At the Barbican."

"You... you were inside?"

"No," Harry whispered. "I was outside. I sat in the Range Rover. I parked on the double yellows. I sat there for two hours."

He turned back to face her.

"I saw you come out," he said. "I saw you with your parents."

"Then why..." Her voice trembled. "Why didn't you get out? Why didn't you come find me?"

"Because I couldn't!" Harry shouted. "I sat there with my hand on the door handle, watching you laugh with your father. And I realized I couldn't do it."

"You couldn't do what? Say hello?"

"I couldn't ruin it!" Harry roared. "Don't you get it? If I had opened that car door... if I had walked up to you and your parents... I would have destroyed everything."

He gestured to himself, to the tattoos, to the heavy rings, to the exhaustion in his own face.

"I am twenty-four years older than you, Y/N. Think about that. I am old enough to be your father's friend. I come with baggage that fills cargo planes. I have enemies. I have scandals. I have a reputation that is stained with ink and whiskey."

He took a step toward her, his eyes wild.

"If I stood next to you on that sidewalk, your parents would have looked at me with disgust. They would have looked at their daughter standing next to a man pushing fifty and they would have been sick. The press would have swarmed. They would call you a gold digger. They would say I was having a midlife crisis. It would have become the 'Harry Styles Show,' and your achievement would have been forgotten."

He gripped the back of the leather chair, his knuckles white.

"I stayed in the car because I realized that the best thing I could do for you—the only good thing I could do—was to stay away. To let you have the light. To keep my darkness away from you."

Y/N stared at him. She looked at the man who had convinced himself he was a monster.

"You arrogant idiot," she whispered.

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Since when are you worried about hearsay?" she demanded, her voice gaining strength. "Since when do you care what the neighbors think? Or what the papers say? You built an entire career on not giving a damn!"

"This is different! This is about you!"

"It is about you!" she screamed back. "It’s about your fear! It’s about your self-loathing! You didn't stay in the car to protect me. You stayed in the car because you were afraid to be seen trying! You were afraid my parents wouldn't like you!"

"I am trying to protect you!" Harry argued. "I am trying to give you a chance at a normal life!"

"I don't want a normal life!" she yelled. "I want you!"

The words hung in the air.

"I don't care about the age gap," she said, stepping closer, her eyes fierce. "I don't give a fuck about the twenty-four years. I don't give a fuck about the press. I care about the man who sat in a hot car for two hours just to make sure I was okay."

She reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, shaking him.

"I am choosing you, Harry. Why can't you let me choose?"

Harry stared down at her. Her face was open, raw, beautiful in that tight dress he hadn't bought for her. She was offering him everything. She was offering to take on the burden of him.

And he was too terrified to let her.

He couldn't be the reason she stopped laughing. He couldn't be the reason her life got complicated and dark. He loved her too much to let her ruin her life for him.

He slowly reached up and peeled her fingers off his shirt.

He stepped back. He put the barrier of distance between them.

"You don't know what you're choosing," he said, his voice dead. "You're young. You'll wake up in five years and realize you wasted your youth on a man who was too tired to keep up. You'll resent me."

"I won't," she sobbed.

"You will," Harry said. "And I won't let that happen. The contract is done. You're right. You graduated. You're free."

He turned his back on her. He stared at the fireplace. "Go home, Y/N. Go live your life."

He heard her intake of breath. He heard the sound of her heart breaking.

"No," she said softly.

He heard movement behind him.

"Y/N, go," he commanded, closing his eyes.

"I'm not doing this anymore," she said. "I'm not going to beg you to see me."

She walked to the coffee table.

"I'm terminating the contract," she said. "Not because I have my degree. But because I can't save you."

She reached into her clutch.

"Don't," Harry whispered. He knew what was coming.

She pulled out the heavy brass key. The key to the townhouse. The key to the cage.

She dropped it.

Clink.

The sound was tiny, insignificant against the glass table, yet it echoed louder than any scream. It lay there next to the paperwork.

"Goodbye, Harry," she whispered.

She turned and walked away.

Harry stood frozen. He listened to her heels clicking on the marble—the sound of her leaving him. He listened to the front door open. He listened to it close.

Thud.

She was gone.

The silence rushed back in, violent and suffocating. It pressed against his eardrums.

Harry slowly turned around. The room was empty. The scent of her—vanilla and expensive perfume—still lingered in the air, mocking him.

He walked to the table. He looked at the key. It sat there, shiny and cold.

She had left. She had actually left. He had driven her away. He had won. He had protected her.

And it felt like dying.

A roar built up in his chest, a primal, animalistic sound of grief and rage and self-hatred.

"FUCK!"

He lashed out. He swept his arm across the table, sending the contract flying, the key skittering across the floor under the sofa.

But it wasn't enough. The pain was too big. It was consuming him.

He turned to the sideboard. There, resting on the runner, was the antique crystal bowl. It was heavy. It was expensive. It was perfect. Just like the life he had built.

He grabbed it with both hands.

He didn't think. He just felt.

With a scream that tore his throat raw, he hurled the bowl across the room.

CRASH.

It hit the far wall with the force of a bomb. The crystal exploded into a thousand glittering shards, showering the hardwood floor in jagged diamonds. The sound was catastrophic, a symphony of destruction that echoed through the empty, million-pound townhouse.

Harry stood amidst the wreckage, his chest heaving, his hands shaking violently. He looked at the shattered glass. He looked at the empty room.

He didn't make another sound. He just stood there, a solitary figure in a broken room, staring blankly at the ruin he had created.

Let me know what you think 😉 Do you think Harry deserves it? Or do you think he’s suffered enough… or should he suffer even more? anxious to read what you think!