different — 50 (Patreon)

Author's note: Making up for all these days of not posting! I still have four more pieces to post! We'll be up to date tonight! I promise!

tropes: domestic bliss and lots of fluff.

wc — 4.4k

The taxi ride back to Y/N’s apartment had been a blur of passing streetlights and rain-streaked windows, passed in a comfortable, heavy silence. It wasn’t the awkward silence of two people who had run out of things to say, but the profound, exhausted quiet of two people who had said everything that mattered.

When the key turned in the lock of her front door, the sound seemed to echo louder than usual. Click. Clack.

Y/N pushed the door open and stepped inside. The familiar scent of her apartment, vanilla reed diffuser, old books, and the lingering hint of her morning coffee, washed over her. Usually, coming home was just a routine. Tonight, it felt like crossing the threshold into a different universe.

She toe-ed off her shoes, the relief instant as her heels hit the rug, and turned to watch Harry step in behind her.

He closed the door, locking it with a deliberate, firm twist of his wrist.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry stood in her narrow hallway, the expensive wool coat he’d sat on earlier now damp across the shoulders from the dash from the taxi. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way possible. His curls were flattened by the wind, his cheeks were flushed from the cold and the whiskey, and his eyes, usually so sharp and guarded these last few months, were soft and unguarded.

He looked around the hallway, his gaze tracing the framed print on the wall, the pile of mail on the side table, and the coat rack. It was as if he was seeing it all for the first time. Or perhaps he was seeing it for the first time without a mental countdown clock ticking away in the background.

“I’m here,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. It was a marvel.

Y/N let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since Tuesday. “You’re here.”

Harry let out a low, rough exhale and leaned back against the door, his head tilting back to rest against the wood. He closed his eyes for a second, the tension that had been holding his spine straight all evening finally snapping.

“I honestly didn’t think I’d make it back here tonight,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I’d be at my parents’ house packing. Or staring at the ceiling in my childhood bedroom trying to figure out how to say goodbye to you.”

“Don’t,” Y/N whispered, stepping closer. The mere thought of that alternate reality made her chest ache. “We’re not doing sad thoughts tonight. You said so yourself. Drama-free zone.”

Harry opened his eyes. A slow, tired smile spread across his face, bringing out the deep dimple in his left cheek. “Right. Drama-free.”

He pushed himself off the door and reached for her.

It wasn’t a grab or a pull. It was a gravity. He simply stepped into her space and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

Y/N melted into him instantly. Her arms wound around his waist, her hands splaying flat against the broad expanse of his back through the thick wool of his coat. He felt solid. Real. Heavy.

They stood there in the hallway for a long time, swaying slightly. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the steady, rhythmic thrum of Harry’s heart against her chest.

It was different from the hug in the club or the desperate embrace on the bench. This wasn’t about passion or urgency. This was grounding. It was Harry physically untethering himself from the life he was supposed to live and anchoring himself to hers.

She felt him inhale deeply, breathing in the scent of her perfume, her shampoo, and her skin.

“I can’t believe your are staying” she murmured against his shoulder.

“I feel like I’ve just run a marathon.” he mumbled into her neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her pulse point.

“You kind of did,” she said gently, pulling back just enough to look at him. She reached up, her fingers brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “You changed your entire life in the span of 24 hours, Harry. You’re allowed to be tired.”

Harry looked down at her, his green eyes searching her face. He raised a hand, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with a reverence that made her knees weak.

“I’m not just tired,” he said quietly. “I’m relieved. I feel light. I haven’t felt light since I got that acceptance letter to Northwestern.”

“And now?”

“Now I feel like I can breathe,” he whispered.

He moved his hands to the lapels of his coat, shrugging the heavy fabric off his shoulders. Y/N moved to help him, taking the damp wool from his hands. It was a domestic gesture, simple and automatic, but the weight of it wasn’t lost on either of them.

She hung his coat on the rack next to hers. The sight of the two coats, her beige trench and his black wool, hanging side by side with sleeves touching did something to her heart. It looked permanent. It looked like a future.

When she turned back, Harry was toe-ing off his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders, looking suddenly very out of place in his tailored trousers and crisp white shirt in the middle of her cozy, slightly cluttered living room.

“I realized something,” he said, looking down at his socks.

“What?”

“I have absolutely nothing to wear,” he laughed, a dry, self-deprecating sound. “My luggage is still at my parents’ house. I am currently wearing the only clothes I own in London that aren't inside a suitcase I’m currently forbidden from accessing.”

Y/N laughed, the sound bubbling up easily. “Well, unless you want to sleep in trousers, we might have to improvise.”

“I suspect your pyjamas might be a tight squeeze,” he teased, eyeing her up and down playfully.

“You left a t-shirt here,” she remembered, her brain cataloging the contents of her dresser. “The grey vintage one? I washed it, but I never gave it back because I liked sleeping in it.”

Harry’s expression softened, the playfulness melting into something warmer. “You slept in my shirt?”

“I missed you,” she admitted simply, shrugging. “It smelled like you. For the first few washes anyway.”

Harry stepped closer again, closing the distance she had created to hang up the coats. He took her hands in his, bringing them up to his lips to kiss her knuckles once, twice.

“I’m never asking for it back,” he murmured against her skin. “But I might need to borrow it tonight.”

“I think we can arrange that.”

“And,” he added, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m going to need to brush my teeth. Which is a problem, considering my toothbrush is also at my parents' house.”

“I have a spare,” she promised. “I always buy the multipacks.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your Costco membership. A woman after my own heart.”

“Come on,” she said, tugging gently on his hand. “Let’s get you out of those stiff clothes. You look like you’re about to present a thesis.”

“I feel like I just defended one,” he groaned, letting her pull him toward the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, the transformation was complete.

Harry stood in the center of her bathroom, looking down at himself in the mirror. He was wearing the vintage grey t-shirt, which was definitely a little tighter across the chest than he remembered, and a pair of plaid flannel sleep shorts that belonged to Y/N but were oversized enough to fit him, albeit snugly.

“I look ridiculous,” he decided, turning to the side to inspect the fit.

Y/N, who was already in her own silk pyjamas and currently applying moisturizer, looked at him through the mirror reflection.

“You look comfortable,” she corrected. “And honestly? I think the plaid works for you. very lumberjack chic.”

Harry snorted, picking up the spare toothbrush she had laid out for him. It was bright pink.

“Lumberjack chic,” he repeated dryly, examining the pink plastic. “With this accessory? I’m truly intimidating.”

“It cleans your teeth just the same, Styles. Don’t be a snob.”

He grinned, that boyish, unguarded expression appearing again, and squeezed a line of toothpaste onto the bristles.

They stood side by side at the small sink. It was such a mundane activity. They had done exciting things together. They had gone to galas, driven across states, and kissed in rainstorms. But standing here, brushing their teeth in silence while the radiator hissed softly in the corner, felt more intimate than any of it.

Y/N watched him in the mirror as she capped her toothpaste. He was focused on the task, his brows slightly furrowed, foam gathering at the corner of his mouth. He caught her staring and winked, not stopping his brushing.

She felt a wave of affection so strong it almost knocked the wind out of her.

When they were finished, Harry rinsed his face with cold water, patting it dry with the hand towel. He looked at his reflection one last time, taking a deep breath. The exhaustion was really setting in now. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent in the harsh bathroom light.

“let’s get some sleep”

She flicked off the light, plunging them into the soft darkness of the hallway. They moved toward the bedroom by memory.

Getting into bed felt like a religious experience. The sheets were cool and crisp. The duvet was heavy. Y/N climbed in first, shuffling to her side, and Harry followed a second later.

The mattress dipped under his weight. He didn’t stay on his side. He immediately shifted toward the center, seeking her out like a heat-seeking missile.

“Come here,” he murmured in the dark.

Y/N scooted back until her back was pressed against his chest. Harry let out a contented sigh, draping his arm heavily over her waist and pulling her flush against him. His legs tangled with hers. His chin found its resting place on the top of her head.

For a few minutes, they just lay there in the silence. The rain tapped rhythmically against the window. A car drove past outside, its headlights sweeping a brief arc of light across the ceiling before disappearing.

“Harry?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Mmm?” His voice was thick with sleep already.

“When did you decide?”

He shifted slightly, his hand splaying out flat on her stomach, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against the fabric of her pyjama top.

“Decide what?”

“To stay. To go to UCL. Was it really just today?”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. She thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he took a deep breath, his chest expanding against her back.

“I think I knew I couldn’t leave the moment I saw my suitcase,” he admitted quietly. “My mum had it all packed. It was sitting by the door in the hallway. And every time I looked at it, I felt sick. Like physically ill.”

Y/N laced her fingers through his where his hand rested on her stomach.

“I kept telling myself to just get on with it,” he continued, his voice low and rumbling against her ear. “I told myself it was just two more years. I could do two years. I could come back and visit. We could FaceTime.”

He paused, tightening his grip on her slightly.

“But then I thought about waking up on Sunday morning in Chicago. I thought about walking to that coffee shop on campus by myself. And I just… I couldn't do it, Y/N. The idea of it felt like giving up.”

“You were terrified,” she whispered, remembering the look on his face in the club.

“Petrified,” he agreed. “Walking into Dr. Hemmings’ office was the scariest thing I’ve ever done. I had no appointment. I had no plan B. If he had said no, I would have burned every bridge I had for nothing.”

“But he didn’t say no.”

“No,” Harry murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “He didn’t. And the second he said he’d make some calls, the sickness went away. Just like that.”

He nuzzled his face into her hair, inhaling deeply.

“I’ve spent my whole life doing what was expected of me,” he whispered. “The right school. The right grades. The right path. Today was the first time I just did what I wanted.”

Y/N turned in his arms, shifting until she was facing him in the dark. She couldn't see his expression clearly, just the outline of his features and the glint of his eyes.

“I’m really proud of you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Not just because you stayed. But because you fought for what you wanted.”

Harry reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips.

“I fought for you,” he corrected gently. “Make no mistake about that. The school is great. London is great. But I’m here because you’re here.”

“That’s a lot of pressure,” she teased weakly, trying to lighten the heavy emotion in the room.

“Good thing you’re tough,” he whispered.

He leaned in, finding her mouth in the darkness.

The kiss wasn’t lazy. It was a collision.

Harry made a low noise in his throat, shifting his weight instantly until he was hovering over her, his forearms bracing himself on either side of her head. The heavy duvet seemed to disappear. The only heat that mattered was his.

He broke the kiss to look down at her, his breathing already ragged. His hand slid from her cheek down to her waist, his palm burning through the thin silk of her pyjamas.

“I thought you were tired?” she breathed, her hands finding the hem of the grey t-shirt he was wearing.

Harry looked down at her, his pupils blown wide in the darkness, all traces of exhaustion gone from his face.

“I’m not that tired,” he murmured.

He lowered his head again, capturing her mouth with a hunger that had been building for months. His hand slipped under the hem of her top, skin meeting skin, erasing the last bit of distance between them.

The conversation was over. The sleeping could wait.

The panic hit Y/N before she even opened her eyes.

It was a physical jolt that started in her chest and radiated out to her fingertips. Her internal clock, which had been set to a countdown for weeks, screamed at her. It’s Friday. It’s morning. The flight leaves at noon. Traffic will be bad. He hasn’t packed.

She sat up in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs, her breathing shallow and fast.

The room was filled with the pale, watery grey light of a London morning. The rain had stopped.

“Harry,” she gasped, turning to the other side of the bed, ready to shake him awake, ready to tell him they had to leave now if he was going to make the gate.

But her hand froze in mid-air.

Harry was fast asleep.

He wasn’t curled in a ball of anxiety. He wasn’t tossing and turning. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, one arm thrown carelessly over his head. The duvet had been kicked down to his waist, leaving his bare back exposed to the cool morning air.

He looked completely and utterly at peace.

Y/N stayed frozen for a second, her hand hovering over his shoulder, waiting for her brain to catch up with reality.

There was no flight.

There was no countdown.

He wasn’t leaving.

The realization washed over her like warm water, dissolving the knot of panic in her chest instantly. She let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders dropping. She sat there for a moment in the silence, just watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

She looked at the bedside table. Her phone was there, face down. His phone was next to it. It was buzzing silently, the screen lighting up with a call, but he had put it on Do Not Disturb. She didn’t need to look to know it was likely his mother.

She ignored it.

She lay back down, but not on her own side. She scooted closer to him, sliding her arm around his waist and pressing her cheek against the warm skin of his shoulder.

Harry stirred instantly. He made a low, sleepy sound in his throat and shifted, rolling onto his side so he was facing her. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his hair a chaotic mess of curls sticking up in every direction.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice rough with sleep.

Harry pried one eye open. It was bright green and completely unfocused.

“Hi,” he rasped. His voice was deep, scratching with sleep.

“Did I wake you?”

“Mmm. No.” He reached out blindly, his hand finding her hip under the duvet and pulling her closer until their legs were tangled together. “Is it time to go?”

The question hung in the air for a split second, a reflex from an old life.

Y/N smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with her thumb.

“No,” she said softly. “It’s not time to go anywhere. You live here now. Remember?”

Harry’s eyes opened fully then. He blinked a few times, processing the words. Then, a slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them at the edges.

“Right,” he whispered, relieved. “I live here.”

He moved his hand up her back, his touch warm and heavy. The grey t-shirt he had been wearing earlier was on the floor somewhere, discarded in the dark hours of the night.

“What time is it?” he asked, burying his face in the pillow again but keeping his eyes on her.

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted. “Maybe nine? Ten?”

“We should probably get up,” Harry mumbled, making absolutely no move to do so. “I should probably… deal with things.” He gestured vaguely toward his buzzing phone.

“Later,” Y/N said firmly. She wasn’t ready to let the world in yet. She wasn’t ready for explanations and arguments and logistics. She just wanted this. The quiet. The warmth. The boy who stayed.

“Later,” Harry agreed easily.

He pulled her in for a kiss, lazy and unhurried. He tasted like sleep and warmth. He held her there for a long time, just breathing her in, as if he was trying to memorize the feeling of waking up next to her without a deadline.

“Coffee?” he suggested against her lips.

“Please.”

“I’ll make it,” he offered. “But I’m stealing your robe. It’s cold.”

“Deal.”

They eventually dragged themselves out of bed. Harry, true to his word, shrugged on her white terry-cloth robe. It was too short in the sleeves and didn’t quite wrap around his chest properly, but he tied the belt with a dignified air that made Y/N laugh out loud.

She picked up the grey vintage t-shirt from the floor and pulled it on. It hung to her mid-thighs.

They padded into the kitchen. The apartment was bright now, the gloom of the storm gone. Y/N sat on the counter, swinging her legs, watching Harry navigate her kitchen.

He moved with an easy familiarity, filling the kettle, getting the mugs down from the shelf. He hummed quietly to himself as he worked, a soft, tuneless melody that sounded like pure contentment.

“You know,” he said, spooning coffee grounds into the French press. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no,” she teased. “Already?”

He turned to lean against the counter while the kettle boiled, crossing his arms over his chest. The robe slipped a little, revealing the scattering of tattoos on his chest.

“I was thinking about breakfast,” he corrected, grinning. “And I was thinking that since I am now a resident of this fine city again, we should start a tradition.”

“What kind of tradition?”

“Pancakes,” he declared. “Every Friday. To celebrate the fact that I am not on a plane.”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. She hopped off the counter and walked over to him, stepping into the space between his legs. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his chest.

“I like that tradition,” she whispered.

Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. He kissed the top of her head.

“Good,” he murmured into her hair. “Because I plan on keeping it for a very long time.”

The kettle whistled behind them, sharp and loud, breaking the moment. But for once, the noise didn’t sound like an alarm. It just sounded like morning.

The coffee didn't solve everything, but it made the inevitable slide back into reality feel a little more manageable.

They moved to the sofa in the living room. Y/N curled her legs under her, cradling her mug, while Harry sat on the edge of the cushion. He finally reached for his phone on the coffee table.

He stared at the screen for a long time. His expression didn't look scared anymore. It just looked resigned.

“Bad?” Y/N asked softly.

“Impressive, actually,” Harry noted, his tone dry. “Forty-two missed calls. Twenty from my mother. Five from my dad. And the rest are from Gemma.”

He swiped a thumb across the screen, his brow furrowing.

“I need to call Gemma,” he said, looking up at Y/N. “She’s sent me about a dozen texts. She’s not angry. She just sounds scared. She thinks I’ve done something reckless.”

“You did do something reckless,” Y/N pointed out gently. “You just happened to have a plan while you were doing it.”

“I need to explain it to her first,” Harry decided. “If I can get Gemma on my side, she can help handle Mum. She’s the only one who might actually listen to the logic of the transfer before screaming about me throwing my life away.”

“Do you want me to leave the room?”

Harry reached out, catching her free hand and squeezing it tight.

“No. Stay. Please.”

He put the phone back down on the table, face down again. He wasn't ready to make the call just yet. He needed a few more minutes of peace.

“We need to figure out logistics,” he said, shifting gears. The medical student in him was taking over, compartmentalizing the emotional mess to focus on the practical solutions.

“Okay,” Y/N nodded. “Logistics. Number one is your clothes. We can go shopping today. Or I can sneak into your parents' house and stage a heist for your suitcase.”

Harry laughed, a short burst of genuine amusement. “I’d pay good money to see that. But no. I’ll deal with getting my things later. I’m talking about living arrangements.”

Y/N felt a sudden spike of nerves. “Oh.”

“I can’t stay at my parents' house,” Harry stated simply. “Obviously. Even if they don’t kick me out, which they might, I can’t study there. Not with this atmosphere. It’s going to be a war zone for weeks.”

“You can stay here,” Y/N offered immediately. The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about them. “I have space. Well, not a lot of space. But enough.”

Harry softened. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles.

“I know,” he said softly. “And I probably will stay here. A lot. Most nights, if you’ll have me.”

“But?”

“But I think I need to find my own place,” he said firmly. “Somewhere close to UCL. Maybe Bloomsbury or Fitzrovia. Walking distance to the hospital.”

Y/N tilted her head, studying him. “Why? If you’re going to be here anyway?”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his messy curls.

“Because I need to prove a point,” he admitted. “My parents think I’m staying in London solely for a girl. They think I’m abandoning my education to chase a romance. If I move straight in with you, I’m just proving them right.”

He looked at her, his green eyes intense and serious.

“I need to show them that I’m taking this transfer seriously. I need a flat near the library. I need a desk. I need to treat this like a job. I want to build a life here, Y/N. A real one. And that means standing on my own two feet.”

Y/N felt a swell of pride so strong it actually stung her eyes. He wasn't the boy who needed her to drive him home anymore. He was a man making a life for himself.

“That makes sense,” she agreed quietly. “It’s smart.”

“Plus,” Harry added, a mischievous glint returning to his eye. “If I have my own flat, you can come over. And since I won’t have roommates, we won’t have to be quiet.”

Y/N laughed, nudging his leg with her knee. “Okay. Sold. We’ll look at listings online after you call Gemma.”

“Deal.”

Harry took a deep breath. He picked up his phone again. The screen lit up with another notification.

“Okay,” he exhaled, squaring his shoulders. “Phase two begins. I’m going to call Gemma. Then I’m going to email Dr. Hemmings to confirm the paperwork. Then I’m going to look for a flat.”

He looked at Y/N. He looked at the grey t-shirt she was wearing. He looked at the rain drying on the window of the apartment that had been his sanctuary.

“It’s going to be messy,” he warned her. “My family is going to make this difficult. It might get ugly before it gets better.”

“I don’t care,” Y/N said honestly. And she meant it. Compared to the pain of saying goodbye at an airport terminal, a few angry voicemails felt like nothing.

“We’ll figure it out,” she promised.

Harry smiled. It was the smile from the club, the smile from the bench, the smile of a man who had finally dropped the weight of the world.

“Yeah,” he said, unlocking his phone. “We will.”

He hit dial.