anchored — part II (Patreon)

Author's note: And here we are—the final part of Anchored! 🥺 I’m sad to let this one go, but I am obsessed with how it ends. I really wanted to focus on that domestic bliss—Harry being cozy at home is just my favorite thing to write. i hope you like it and let me know! happy reading

Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.

word count — 6.9k

The blackout curtains in the suite were doing the Lord’s work.

Outside, the Herengracht canal was bustling, but inside, Harry was dead to the world. He was sprawled on his back, taking up seventy percent of the mattress. The duvet was pushed down to his hips, leaving his chest. A broad expanse of golden skin and scattered ink, fully exposed to the cool air of the room.

Y/N was awake, but she didn't get up. She didn't reach for her phone. She just watched him for a moment. He looked peaceful, his lips parted slightly, his breathing deep and rhythmic.

She shifted closer, needing to touch.

She started at his mouth, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips. He didn't stir. She moved to his cheek, her lips brushing against the morning stubble that scratched pleasantly against her skin. Then his jaw. Then the sensitive cord of his neck, right over his pulse point.

She worked her way down slowly, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

Harry let out a low, rumbling groan, his chest vibrating under her lips. He shifted, his hand instinctively coming up to rest heavily on the back of her head, fingers tangling loosely in her hair.

"Mmh... morning, lovie," he mumbled, his voice a thick, sleep-heavy rasp that vibrated against her ear.

Y/N didn't answer. She just kept moving, kissing her way down his sternum, her hair tickling his skin as she traced the lines of the swallows with her tongue.

Harry cracked one eye open. It was heavy with sleep, peering through the messy curls falling over his forehead. He looked down, chin tucking toward his chest, trying to focus on what was happening. When he realized exactly where she was headed, a slow, lazy smirk spread across his face.

"Oh, hello," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming wicked. "Feeling hungry, are we?”

Y/N looked up at him through her lashes, offering him a small, knowing smile, before she dipped her head lower.

She pressed a kiss to his stomach, right above the waistband of his boxers. Harry’s breath hitched. His stomach muscles contracted sharply under her mouth.

"That's it, sweetheart," he encouraged, his voice rough. "Don't be shy.”

She hooked her fingers into the elastic of his black boxer briefs. Harry lifted his hips instinctively, desperate for the friction to be gone.

She dragged the fabric down.

The moment the constriction was gone, his cock sprang free, snapping up against his stomach, heavy and thick with morning need. He was already fully hard, twitching slightly in the cool air. The sight of him was mouthwatering; the skin taut, the head glistening with a bead of pre-come, veins standing out in stark relief against his tan skin.

Harry hissed a breath through his teeth as the air hit him. "Fuck," he breathed, admiring the view of her hovering over him. "Look at you... you're keen today, aren't you?”

Y/N didn't touch him yet. She just hovered over him, letting her breath ghost over the sensitive head.

"Torture," Harry whimpered, tugging gently on her hair. "Complete torture. Go on then, love. Taste it.”

She didn't make him wait. She leaned forward and licked a long, wet stripe from the base to the tip. Harry’s hips bucked off the mattress.

Then, she took him in.

She wrapped her lips around the head, the suction hot and wet, and Harry’s head slammed back into the pillow. His mouth fell open in a silent, perfect 'O', his neck arching as the pleasure hit him like a physical blow.

"Christ," he choked out, his voice straining. "That's it. Good girl.”

She began to move, bobbing her head slowly, swirling her tongue around the ridge. It was maddening. It was too good.

Harry’s hands tightened in her hair, gripping the roots to ground himself. He watched her with hooded, darkened eyes, muttering a stream of filthy praise.

"Such a filthy mouth, sweetheart," he groaned, watching her cheeks hollow out. "Taking it so deep... yeah... just like that.”

He tried to tug her upward, conflict warring in his eyes. "Wait... ah, fuck... wait, lovie. Come up here. I want to be inside you. I want to feel how wet you are.”

Y/N ignored him.

She tightened her lips and took him deeper, swallowing him down until her nose brushed his pubic hair. She hummed against him, the vibration traveling straight down his shaft.

Harry’s resolve shattered instantly.

"Oh my god," he groaned, his attempt to pull her up abandoned. His grip on her hair tightened, holding her there, holding her close. "No, fuck that. Don't stop. Don't you dare stop.”

He was panting, his chest heaving, completely undone by her. "Greedy girl," he praised, his voice wrecked. "Look at you taking it all. You're going to ruin me, aren't you?”

"That's it," Harry choked out, his hips snapping up one last time, burying himself as deep as she would allow. "Take it all, lovie.”

He unraveled with a guttural groan, his entire body shuddering against the mattress. Y/N didn't pull away. She drank him down, keeping the suction tight even as he pulsed, and then meticulously licked him clean, swirling her tongue around the head until he was glistening.

"Fuck," Harry breathed, his head falling back against the pillow, chest heaving. "You are... incredible.”

She pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Harry didn't stay down for long. He engaged his core, groaning low in his throat as he pushed himself up to sit on his elbows. The movement made his abdominal muscles ripple and contract—a sharp, defined V of muscle that made Y/N’s mouth water all over again.

He looked edible. His hair was a chaotic halo of curls, his lips were swollen and red from her kisses, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and dark with a hunger that hadn't been satiated yet.

He reached out, his large hands finding her waist.

"Come here," he commanded softly.

He pulled her closer until she was kneeling between his spread legs. His hands went immediately to the hem of the vintage t-shirt she was wearing.

"Off," he murmured, bunching the fabric in his fists. "I want you bare.”

She lifted her arms, letting him pull the shirt over her head and toss it aside. His gaze dropped immediately to her chest, his pupils dilating until they swallowed the green.

"Beautiful," he whispered, reaching out to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing firmly over her nipples. "So fucking beautiful.”

He moved his hands down to her hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties. "These too, sweetheart. You don't need them.”

He dragged them down her legs, and she kicked them away, leaving her completely naked kneeling before him.

As she moved to straddle his lap, her eyes dropped to his lap. She gasped softly. He wasn't soft. He was twitching against his stomach, fully hard again, glistening from her mouth and ready.

"You're... again?" she breathed, surprised.

Harry smirked—that lazy, arrogant, filthy smirk.

"I told you," he rasped, reaching down to stroke himself, spreading the moisture over the head. "I've missed you. Once isn't going to cut it, love. Not even close.”

He gripped her hips, lifting her easily and positioning her right over him. He didn't let her sink down yet. Instead, he lined himself up and just rubbed the broad head of his cock against her wet entrance.

"Oh," Y/N gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

"Look at you," Harry praised, watching the way her body trembled. "So wet for me. Dripping all over me.”

He bucked his hips slightly—just a tease—dragging the tip through her slick folds, hitting her clit, then sliding back. It was maddening friction.

"Harry," she whined, trying to push her hips down, but he held her firm, controlling the pace.

"Patience, lovie," he murmured, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her breast, sucking the nipple into his mouth before pulling back to look at her. "Tell me you want it."

He teased her entrance again, pushing just the head inside before pulling back out, stretching her.

"I want it," she begged, breathless.

"Want what?" he challenged, his thumb moving to circle her clit as his cock rubbed against her opening. "Use your words, sweetheart."

"I want your cock," she hissed. "I want you inside me."

Harry groaned, the words snapping the last of his restraint. He looked up at her, his face open and raw and full of heat.

"Then take it," he growled, his hands tightening bruisingly on her hips. "Go on. Ride me."

Y/N didn't hesitate this time. She held his gaze, her hands sliding up his chest to rest flat against his pecs, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath her palms.

She sank down.

It was a slow, heavy descent, inch by agonizing inch. She took him fully, her body stretching to accommodate the thick length of him, the sensation of being filled so completely making her head spin. It was hot—searingly hot—the friction between them creating a wet, desperate heat that seemed to fuse them together.

Harry’s reaction was visceral.

His head tipped back against the pillows, his jaw unhinging as a broken groan tore from his throat. His brows furrowed deeply, drawn together in a look of pure, agonizing ecstasy. It was too much, and it was perfect. He looked like he was in pain, but it was the specific kind of pain that comes from pleasure so intense it borders on overwhelming.

"Christ," he hissed, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before snapping open to look at her. "You fit... fuck, you fit perfectly."

She settled all the way down, her hips resting against his, and for a moment, neither of them moved. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, their harsh, ragged breathing mingling in the small space between their lips.

"Hi," she whispered, breathless.

"Hi, baby," he choked out.

She lifted her hips to start the rhythm, but Harry’s hands clamped down firmly on her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, stopping her from rushing.

"Slow," he commanded, his voice a raw rumble in his chest that she could feel through her hands. "Don't rush it. Grind for me, love. Just like that."

He guided her, his large hands molding her glutes, lifting and lowering her with a rolling, deliberate pace. It wasn't a snap; it was a drag. He forced her to feel every ridge, every inch of friction as she slid up and down his length.

Harry watched her face, his expression open and unguarded, stripped of everything but his love for her.

"Look at you," he murmured, his thumbs pressing into her skin as he thrust his hips upward to meet her descent deep. "You're my whole world, you know that?"

He kissed her, open-mouthed and messy, tasting her breath.

"I want this," he confessed against her lips, his rhythm faltering slightly as the emotion hit him. "I want this for the rest of my life. Just you. Just waking up like this."

He gripped her hips tighter, dragging her down hard.

"I love you so much," he groaned, the words vibrating against her mouth. "It scares me how much I love you. You're it for me, Y/N. There's no one else. Never anyone else."

Y/N looked down at him, her hair falling like a curtain around them, her eyes hazy with pleasure. She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear, and whispered the words that shattered his restraint.

"I'm yours," she breathed, her voice trembling but certain. "I'm yours, Harry. Don't hold back."

Something inside Harry snapped.

He didn't stay lying down. He gritted his teeth, a low groan tearing from his throat as he sat up, meeting her halfway. The movement changed the angle instantly, forcing him past her guard, burying himself so deep it made her gasp and arch her back.

"Mine" he growled, his face inches from hers now, dark and intense. "You’re mine"

His hand flew up, wrapping firmly around her throat, his thumb pressing into her pulse point—not to choke, but to anchor her right there, impaled on him.

He gripped her throat and forced her hips down, grinding upward with a slow, punishing weight that stole the breath from her lungs.

"Harry..." she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders to steady herself against the new depth.

"Yeah," he hissed, rolling his hips against hers, dragging the head of his cock over that sensitive spot inside her with agonizing precision. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am now?"

He watched her unravel, captivated by the sight. She was completely bare, her skin flushed pink, her chest heaving right in front of his face. The only thing she was wearing was the massive oval diamond on her left hand.

As she reached up to grip his forearm, the ring caught the light from the window, flashing violently against his skin. The visual of it, his ring on her finger, his hand on her throat, his body buried deep inside her, sent him reeling.

"Fuck, you look good," he groaned, his grip on her throat tightening just enough to edge her, to keep her hovering in that space between pain and pleasure. "Naked... wearing my ring... taking me. This is exactly where you belong. Right here with me."

Y/N whined, her hips stuttering as the tension coiled tight in her belly. She tried to grind down, desperate for release, but Harry held her firm. He controlled the angle. He controlled the depth.

"Not yet," he commanded, staring into her eyes, his pupils blown wide. "You don't get to come until I say so. Look at me, sweetheart."

She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze through the haze.

"God, you are so beautiful," he choked out, his voice rough and wrecked, matching the heavy, relentless roll of his hips. "It kills me. You have no idea what you do to me.”

He thrust upward one last time, hitting her cervix, burying himself to the root and holding her there, filling every inch of her.

"I love you," he groaned, the confession torn out of him. "I love you so fucking much it scares me. You own me, Y/N. Do you feel that? Body and soul, you own every part of me."

The raw honesty of it. The total surrender in his eyes, pushed her over the edge.

Y/N screamed his name, her body convulsing as the orgasm hit her like a tidal wave. She clamped down around him, milking him, and Harry roared, following her instantly. He drove into her one last time, hard and deep, and poured himself into her, his hand still holding her throat to keep her close, holding onto the love of his life as they both came apart in the morning light.

Harry fell back against the pillows, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the aftershocks. Y/N collapsed forward, her forehead resting against his damp shoulder, her legs trembling on either side of his hips.

The silence stretched, heavy and sweet, until Y/N let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Well," she wheezed, lifting her head just enough to look at him, her chest still rising and falling rapidly. "That Pilates membership... is definitely paying off."

Harry burst out laughing.

It was a loud, breathless sound that vibrated right through his chest and into hers. He opened his eyes, the darkness gone, replaced by a bright, crinkly-eyed fondness.

"You're ridiculous," he rasped, reaching up to push the damp, messy hair off her forehead.

His large hand, which had been so possessive just moments ago, was incredibly gentle now. He used his thumb to fan her skin, trying to cool her down, tracing the bright pink flush that stained her cheeks.

"Look at you," he teased softly, admiring the color high on her cheekbones. "You're absolutely roasting, love. Turning into a little tomato."

"You're one to talk," she countered, leaning into his cool palm, too tired to actually argue. "You're a furnace."

Harry smiled—a soft, lazy thing. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her down until she was curled against his chest, safe and solid. He pressed a kiss to her damp temple, holding her close.

"Worth it," he murmured into her hair. "Definitely worth it."

Harry shifted eventually, but only because his protective instincts kicked in.

"Water," he murmured, untangling his limbs from hers with a reluctant groan. "You need water. Stay there."

He climbed out of bed, completely unselfconscious about his nudity, and padding across the plush carpet to the mini-bar. Y/N watched him go, admiring the way the morning light hit the broad expanse of his back and the slow, relaxed way he moved now. The frantic energy of the tour was gone, replaced by a loose-limbed, satisfied laziness.

He returned a moment later with two chilled glass bottles. He cracked the lid on one and handed it to her, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching intently as she took a long drink.

"Better?" he asked, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Much," she sighed, handing the bottle back. She stretched her legs under the duvet, wincing slightly. "Although... I think my legs have officially resigned. They are jelly, Harry. Complete jelly."

Harry took a sip from the bottle, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You would," she rolled her eyes, poking his thigh with her toe. "You're very proud of yourself, aren't you?"

"Massively," he grinned, leaning down to press a quick, loud kiss to her knee. "I'm a provider. I provide jelly legs. It’s a service."

He crawled back up the bed, abandoning the water on the nightstand to pull her back into his arms. He settled her against his chest, pulling the high-thread-count duvet up to their chins, cocooning them against the world.

"So," he murmured, his fingers idly playing with the engagement ring on her left hand, twisting it back and forth. "What is the plan, Mrs. Styles-to-be? We have..." He twisted his neck to look at the clock on the wall. "About six hours before I have to start thinking about soundcheck tomorrow. What do you want to do?"

"I want food," Y/N stated instantly. "Real food. Not room service club sandwiches."

"Stroopwafels," Harry nodded solemnly. "It's a medical necessity at this point."

"And maybe fries," she added. "Dutch fries with the mayo."

"Done," Harry agreed. "We'll bundle up. I've got that big coat you like. We can wear beanies. No one will look twice."

He squeezed her hand, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"And maybe," he added softly, "we can find that furniture store I told you about. I saw a sofa in the window last time I was here. Big, velvet thing. Looked like it could fit us and Barnaby."

Y/N tilted her head back to look at him. "You're sofa shopping? On tour?"

"I'm nesting," he defended, looking a little bashful. "The house in London needs a new sofa. The old one is rubbish for naps. This one... this one looked like a serious nap sofa."

Y/N smiled, her heart squeezing. "Okay. Sofa shopping. Fries. Stroopwafels. In that order?"

Harry kissed her forehead, lingering there. "Perfect. But give me five more minutes here? Just five."

"Okay," she whispered, closing her eyes and snuggling closer. "Five minutes."

The air in Amsterdam was crisp enough to wake the dead.

After the warmth of the hotel duvet, the wind whipping off the canals felt like a slap in the face, but it was a welcome one. It smelled of damp bricks, exhaust, and the faint, sugary promise of waffles drifting from a corner shop.

They were in full "incognito mode."

Harry was practically swallowed by a massive, oversized black puffer coat that went down to his knees. He had a thick charcoal beanie pulled low over his ears, hiding his curls, and a pair of dark sunglasses that—on a cloudy day—probably drew more attention than his actual face would have. But he walked with his head ducked, hands buried deep in his pockets, shrinking his usually commanding frame into something smaller.

Y/N was wrapped in a similar fortress of wool and down, her arm looped tightly through his.

"This," Harry mumbled into his scarf, steering them expertly around a parked bicycle, "is the best air in the world. Smells like bicycles and freedom."

"It smells like cold water," Y/N corrected, huddling closer to his side. "And I think my nose is about to fall off."

"We'll get you a warmer," Harry promised. He scanned the street, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. "Fries first. Priorities."

They found the place—a tiny hole-in-the-wall spot with a line of locals snaking out the door. Harry insisted on waiting. When they finally emerged, he was triumphantly holding a paper cone filled with thick-cut golden fries, smothered in a dollop of creamy mayonnaise.

They leaned against the railing of a canal bridge, watching the tour boats chug by below.

"Go on then," Harry urged, holding the cone out to her. "tell me that isn't the best potato you've ever met."

Y/N took a fry, dipping it heavily in the mayo. She took a bite, steam rising from the hot potato. "Okay. You win. That is... spiritual."

Harry grinned, stealing a fry for himself. He watched her eat, looking weirdly proud of the potato. "Told you. The Dutch don't mess around."

He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth to wipe away a stray smudge of mayo. The gesture was so casual, so domestic, that for a second, Y/N forgot they were standing in public. He didn't pull his hand away immediately; he let his thumb linger on her lip, his gaze dropping to her mouth behind his sunglasses.

"You've got a little..." he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register from the hotel room.

"Harry," she warned softly, glancing around at the passing pedestrians.

He smirked, pulling his hand back and popping another fry into his mouth. "Right. Behave. Furniture."

He finished the fries with impressive speed, tossed the cone in a bin, and grabbed her hand again. "Come on. The shop is two streets over. I need you to see this sofa. I've been thinking about it for three months."

"You have been thinking about a sofa for three months?"

"I have a vision, Y/N," he said seriously, pulling her down a cobblestone side street. "A vision of comfort."

The shop was a dusty, cluttered antique store that smelled of beeswax and old wood. It was quiet inside, a relief from the wind. Harry navigated through a maze of mid-century lamps and oak tables until he stopped in front of it.

It was massive. A deep, crushed-velvet sofa in a rich, dark emerald green—almost the exact shade of the jacket he’d worn on stage the night before. It looked less like furniture and more like a place to hibernate.

"Look at it," Harry whispered reverently.

He didn't wait. He sat down on it, sprawling out immediately, his long legs stretching halfway across the floor. He patted the empty space beside him. "Sit. Test the bounce."

Y/N sat. It was impossibly soft. She sank in, the velvet swallowing her up.

"Okay," she admitted, running her hand over the fabric. "It's nice. It's very... you."

"It's us," Harry corrected gently. He took off his sunglasses, finally, revealing eyes that were bright and earnest. "Picture it in the living room in London. Right in front of the fireplace."

He gestured with his hands, painting the picture.

"You're here," he pointed to the corner Y/N was sitting in. "I'm here." He patted his own thigh. "And Barnaby is right there in the middle, probably shedding blonde hair all over the velvet, but we don't care because we're comfortable."

Y/N looked at him. He looked so hopeful, sitting there in his ridiculous puffer coat, planning their domestic layout while on a massive world tour. It hit her then—how much he craved that stillness.

"Barnaby would love it," she agreed softly. "He'd claim it immediately."

"Exactly," Harry beamed. He turned to the shop owner, an older man who was reading a newspaper behind the counter and paying them zero attention. "We'll take it!"

"Harry!" Y/N laughed, grabbing his arm. "You can't just buy a sofa on a whim!"

"I can," he grinned, squeezing her hand. "I'm nesting. You said it yourself." He kissed her knuckles. "I want to come home to this. To you, the dog, and this green sofa."

He actually bought it. It took ten minutes of logistics and shipping addresses, but Harry walked out of the store looking lighter, like he had just secured a vital piece of his future happiness.

"Mission accomplished," he declared, wrapping his arm around her shoulders again as they stepped back into the cold. "Now. Dessert."

They found a bakery two blocks away, the scent of caramel leading them there like a beacon. Harry ordered two fresh stroopwafels—massive, warm, and oozing with syrup.

"Wait," Y/N said before he could take a bite. "I need proof."

Harry paused, holding the steaming wafel up near his face. He pulled his beanie up slightly so his curls poked out, and flashed a cheeky, closed-lip smile. Y/N snapped the picture on her phone.

"Receipts," she said, showing him the screen. "Now the internet won't call me a liar."

Harry chuckled, finally taking a bite. A string of caramel stretched from his lip. "Tell them it was the best thing I've ever eaten," he mumbled around a mouthful.

He swallowed, then looked down at her, his expression softening as the sugar rush hit. The wind blew a strand of hair across her face, and he reached out to tuck it back, his cold fingers brushing her warm cheek.

"Happy?" he asked quietly, ignoring the bustle of the street around them.

Y/N looked at him—fed, warm, loved, and currently the owner of a new green velvet sofa.

"Yeah," she smiled, leaning into his touch. "Really happy."

Harry leaned down, pressing a quick, syrup-sweet kiss to her lips, right there in the middle of Amsterdam.

"Good," he whispered against her mouth. "Me too."

The suite was quiet again, but it was a different kind of silence than the morning.

The room service cart sat untouched in the corner. Two burgers and fries that had gone cold because they had gotten… distracted. The duvet was kicked to the bottom of the bed, a casualty of the last hour, leaving them tangled together under just the top sheet.

Harry was lying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding Y/N firmly against his side. His skin was damp, his hair sticking to his forehead in messy curls, and he was staring up at the ceiling with a lazy, half-lidded smile that he couldn't seem to wipe off his face.

Y/N was tracing the line of his ribs, her head resting on his chest, listening to his heart rate slowly returning to normal. Her lips felt swollen, her body thoroughly exhausted in the best possible way.

"You know," Harry rasped, his voice vibrating through his chest. "I think that sofa is going to be a good investment."

Y/N laughed, a tired breath of air against his skin. "You're still thinking about the sofa?"

"I'm thinking about the naps," he corrected, turning his head to kiss the top of her hair. "And how good you're going to look sitting on it."

He shifted, pulling the sheet up higher to cover her bare shoulder, tucking it in tight. The protective instinct never really turned off, even when he was this wrecked.

"I don't want to leave," Y/N admitted quietly, listening to the faint sound of a boat horn drifting up from the canal. "This bubble is nice."

"The bubble is coming with us," Harry promised deeply. He squeezed her arm. "We fly out at ten. Land in London by noon. And then we have three whole days before I have to leave for Munich."

"Three days?"

"Three days," he confirmed. "Just us. The house. Barnaby. And that Indian takeout place you like."

He sounded so desperate for it—for the mundane, boring reality of being home. It was the other side of the rock star coin; the man who just wanted to order curry and sit on a velvet sofa with his fiancée.

"Come here," he murmured, shifting so he could look her in the eye.

He reached up, his thumb brushing her cheekbone, his gaze tracing her face in the dim light of the city outside.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For coming," he said simply. "For being here. For..." He gestured vaguely between them, referencing the day, the sex, the quiet. "For resetting me. I was spinning a bit before you got here. Now I feel... solid."

Y/N leaned into his hand, kissing his palm. "You're solid, H. You're doing great."

"Better with you," he countered. He yawned then, a jaw-cracking yawn that signaled the end of the day. He pulled her closer, settling his chin on top of her head, locking his arms around her like a vice.

"Sleep now," he mumbled, his eyes already closing. "London tomorrow. Home tomorrow."

"Home tomorrow," she echoed.

Within minutes, his breathing evened out, deep and heavy. Y/N fell asleep to the sound of his heart and the knowledge that, for the first time in weeks, they were waking up in the same time zone.

The sky over London was a flat, slate grey—a stark contrast to the crisp brightness of Amsterdam—but to Harry, it looked like the most beautiful thing on earth.

The black Range Rover crunched over the gravel of the driveway, the tires kicking up wet stones. Rain was spitting against the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm that matched the exhaustion settling deep in their bones.

Harry was driving. He always insisted on driving when they were home. It was a control thing, a way to ground himself after weeks of being chauffeured in vans and buses. His hand was resting on the gear stick, his knuckles brushing against Y/N’s knee.

"We need milk," he murmured, staring out at the familiar hedges of his neighborhood. "And tea bags. I think we’re out of Yorkshire Gold."

"I ordered a grocery delivery for 4 PM," Y/N reassured him, squeezing his hand. "Milk, tea, eggs, and the fancy butter you like."

Harry let out a sigh of pure relief. "You," he said, turning to look at her as he put the car in park, "are the love of my life. Truly. The fancy butter? Marry me faster."

"I'm trying," she laughed.

They sat there for a second in the quiet of the car. The engine ticked as it cooled. The house stood in front of them—brick, sturdy, and covered in ivy that was dripping with rain. It wasn't a hotel. It wasn't a venue. It was theirs.

"Ready?" Harry asked.

"Ready."

They didn't grab the bags yet. They just made a run for the front door to escape the drizzle. Harry fumbled with his keys—a mundane, normal human struggle that felt wonderfully ordinary—and unlocked the heavy front door.

Before the door was even fully open, they heard it.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of a heavy tail hitting the hallway wall repeatedly. Then, the scrambling of claws on hardwood.

"Is that him?" Harry’s face lit up, the exhaustion melting away instantly.

He pushed the door open, and a golden blur launched itself into the hallway.

Barnaby.

He had grown since Harry last saw him—broader in the chest, his coat thicker—but the energy was exactly the same. He was vibrating with joy, letting out high-pitched yips, his entire back half wiggling as he tried to decide who to greet first.

"Hey! Hey buddy!"

Harry didn't even bother taking off his coat. He dropped to his knees right there on the doormat, indifferent to the expensive fabric of his trousers.

"Oof!"

Barnaby collided with him, a mass of golden fur and wet nose. He licked Harry’s face aggressively, knocking his beanie askew, whining with pure, unadulterated happiness.

"I know, I know," Harry cooed, his voice pitching up into that embarrassing 'dog dad' register that he only used in private. He buried his face in the dog’s neck, ruffling the soft fur behind his ears. "I missed you too. I missed you so much, you big lump. Were you a good boy? Were you?"

Barnaby barked—a sharp, happy sound—and then turned his attention to Y/N, headbutting her thigh until she crouched down to join the pile.

"Hi, sweet boy," she whispered, scratching his chest right in the sweet spot. "We're home."

Harry sat back on his heels, breathless and laughing, wiping dog slobber off his chin. His eyes were crinkling at the corners, bright and unguarded. Watching him there—on the floor of their hallway, suitcases abandoned outside, letting a dog maul him with affection—Y/N felt a lump form in her throat.

This was it. This was the "home" he had talked about on stage. Not the building, but this feeling.

"He smells like digestive biscuits," Harry noted, sniffing the top of Barnaby’s head deeply. "Why does he smell like biscuits?"

"Your mum probably gave him treats when she dropped him off," Y/N guessed.

"Good woman, Anne," Harry nodded approvingly. He stood up, groaning slightly as his knees popped. "Right. Come on then, Barnaby. Let's inspect the garden. I need to make sure the squirrels haven't taken over while I was gone."

Barnaby trotted after him immediately, their bond instantaneous, leaving Y/N to watch the two of them disappear into the kitchen.

"He is home" she whispered to the empty hallway.

The fire was crackling in the hearth—a real wood fire that Harry had spent twenty minutes building with the focus of a structural engineer. The rain was lashing against the French doors, but inside, the room was a sanctuary of warmth, flickering light, and the overwhelming scent of garlic naan.

They were doing exactly what Harry had fantasized about in Amsterdam: eating Indian takeout on the floor.

The coffee table was covered in foil containers. Chicken Tikka Masala, Lamb Rogan Josh, Pilau rice, and a tower of onion bhajis that Harry was guarding like a dragon guarding gold. Barnaby was resting his chin on the table, eyeing a piece of poppadom with tragic, soulful eyes.

"No," Harry said firmly, without looking away from his curry. "Don't look at me like that. It's spicy. You'll get the runs, and I am not dealing with that in the rain."

Barnaby let out a heavy, dramatic sigh and slumped onto the rug.

Y/N groaned, putting down her fork. "Oh no."

Harry paused, a piece of naan halfway to his mouth. "What? What's wrong? Is the lamb dry? I told them to make it extra saucy."

"The lamb is fine," Y/N sighed, looking toward the utility room. "But I just realized... I asked you to switch the laundry over before we sat down."

Harry froze. He chewed slowly. He swallowed.

"I did," he lied. It was a terrible lie. He looked like a deer in headlights.

"Harry."

"I... thought about it?" he offered weakly. "I walked towards the utility room. But then the delivery driver rang the doorbell, and the smell of the bhajis... it was very distracting, love. It was a sensory overload."

"So my favorite jumper is currently sitting in a damp pile of wet towels? Getting mildewy?"

"It's marinating," Harry corrected, reaching for his wine glass. "Like the chicken. It's fine. I'll do it in a minute. I'll put it on the 'extra dry' setting. I'll iron it myself. Naked."

Y/N fought a smile, picking up a piece of onion bhaji. "You're lucky you're cute. Otherwise, I'd make you sleep in the garden with the foxes."

"You wouldn't," he grinned, smug and secure. "You love me. I bought you a velvet sofa."

"Which isn't here yet."

"It's coming," he promised. "And when it gets here, we are going to sit on it and plan this wedding. Because I was thinking..." He dipped his naan into the masala sauce. "Italy."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "Italy?"

"Lake Como," he nodded enthusiastically. "Or maybe Tuscany. Somewhere with wine and pasta. Just us, our families, and Barnaby in a little tuxedo."

"You want to fly the dog to Italy?"

"He's the ring bearer, Y/N. He's essential personnel."

Harry shifted, abandoning his food to crawl around the coffee table until he was sitting next to her, leaning his back against the old sofa. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in.

"I'm serious though," he murmured, his voice dropping to that soft, late-night register. "I don't want a circus. I just want... good food. Good music. And you in a white dress."

"And the honeymoon?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder. "Where do we go after the pasta?"

"Japan," Harry said instantly. "Tokyo. For the shopping. And then Kyoto for the quiet. Or..." He kissed her temple. "We could just go back to that cabin in fluffing... where was it? Upstate New York? The one with no WiFi?"

"You'd get bored," she teased. "You need stimulation. You'd be rearranging the furniture by day two."

"I wouldn't," he argued, offended. "I am excellent at doing nothing. I am the King of Chill. Watch me."

He slumped dramatically against the sofa, closing his eyes and going limp to prove his point.

"Look at this. Relaxed. Zen. No thoughts, head empty."

"Your leg is bouncing," Y/N pointed out.

Harry stopped his leg immediately. "Muscle spasm. Unrelated to my chillness."

He opened one eye, looking down at her. "Seriously though. I'll load the dryer. I promise. But first..."

He reached for the last onion bhaji on the tray.

"Split it?"

Y/N smiled, leaning forward to take a bite from his hand. "Deal."

Harry finished the rest, wiped his hands on a napkin, and then pulled her properly into his lap, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the woodsmoke from the fire.

"You know," he murmured, his voice low and warm in her ear. "I was thinking."

"About the dryer?" she teased softly, leaning back against him.

"No," he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. "I was thinking that I’ve been to a lot of places. I’ve played stadiums that hold eighty thousand people screaming my name."

He paused, tightening his hold on her, pulling her flush against his chest so she could feel the steady beat of his heart.

"But right here?" he whispered. "Sitting on this rug, eating takeout with you, arguing about laundry... this is it for me. There is nowhere else I would rather be in the entire world.”

Y/N turned in his arms to look at him. His eyes were soft, reflecting the dancing flames of the fire, filled with such genuine, overwhelming affection that it made her chest ache.

"I love our life, Y/N," he said simply, searching her face. "I just... I really love our life."

Before she could answer, a wet nose shoved its way into the space between them. Barnaby, sensing the group hug, had decided he was being excluded. He let out a soft woof and rested his heavy head on Harry’s knee, looking up at them expectantly.

Harry laughed—a bright, happy sound that filled the room.

"And you," Harry amended, reaching down to scratch the dog’s ears. "I love you too, you big hairy monster. Even if you do want my poppadom."

He looked back up at Y/N, grinning that dimpled, boyish grin.

"Family meeting adjourned," he declared, kissing her nose. "Now, let's go rescue your jumper from the washing machine before you divorce me."