while she's away — one (Patreon)

When Scarlett gets stuck at home, Y/N is left alone in paradise with her best friend’s father. What starts as an awkward mistake quickly becomes something neither of them should want. **my bff's dad edit**

A/N: let me know what you thinkkk!

word count: 15k

Y/N had known, from the very first week of freshman year, that she had chosen journalism for all the wrong reasons.

Not because she had some great, world-changing need to uncover the truth. Not because she had grown up watching reporters stand in the middle of storms and war zones with fearless eyes and perfectly placed hair, delivering breaking news as if the whole planet depended on their next sentence.

No.

Y/N had chosen journalism because, at eighteen, she had seen a woman on the evening news wearing a cream blazer, gold earrings, and the most confident red lipstick she had ever seen, and thought, I would like to look that powerful while holding a microphone.

That was it.

That was the entire foundation of her academic future.

By sophomore year, she had realised this was, perhaps, not the most emotionally stable way to pick a career. By junior year, she had stopped pretending she knew what she was doing at all. And now, with graduation becoming less of an abstract concept and more of a terrifying, fast-approaching event, Y/N had started to feel like her life was a group project where everyone else had read the instructions except her.

She liked writing. That part was true.

She liked people too, most of the time. From a safe distance. When they were not asking her what she planned to do after college.

But journalism, as a future, still felt like a dress she had bought online because it looked beautiful on the model and then refused to return because maybe, eventually, with enough confidence and better posture, it would fit.

There was one good thing the degree had given her, though.

Scarlett Styles.

And because of that, Y/N could almost forgive the university for three years of overpriced textbooks, brutal deadlines, and professors who seemed personally offended by students having sleep schedules.

Scarlett had appeared in her life at the end of freshman year, in one of those pointless filler classes that everyone needed for credit but no one respected enough to attend consistently. It was a Tuesday morning lecture, which meant half the class arrived with iced coffee, sunglasses, and the physical energy of people who had made several poor decisions the night before.

Y/N had sat in the back, pretending to understand an article she had not finished reading.

Scarlett had slid into the seat beside her ten minutes late, wearing a wrinkled white button-down, tiny gold hoops, and the kind of confidence that made lateness seem like a political statement.

The professor had stopped mid-sentence.

Scarlett had smiled politely and said, “Sorry, there was a squirrel situation.”

The professor had blinked. “A squirrel situation?”

“Emotionally, I’m not ready to discuss it.”

Y/N had laughed before she could stop herself.

Scarlett had turned, grinned, and whispered, “You seem trustworthy. Did I miss anything?”

“The syllabus.”

“Tragic. Was it good?”

“Life-changing.”

“Brilliant. I’ll pretend to care later.”

They had been inseparable ever since.

Scarlett was the kind of person who could argue with a man twice her age about public policy and somehow leave him apologising. She could make friends with waitresses, old ladies in grocery store queues, and terrifying professors no one else dared approach. She spoke her mind with frightening ease, but never in a way that felt cruel. She had opinions, standards, and a gift for making Y/N feel braver simply by existing near her.

Y/N, on the other hand, had once apologised to a chair after bumping into it.

So yes, Scarlett had been necessary.

Scarlett had taught her to send the email. To ask the question. To say no without writing a five-paragraph explanation and offering her firstborn child as compensation. To stop dressing like she was trying not to be perceived by the general public.

Which was how Y/N found herself, three years later, standing in front of her bedroom mirror wearing a red bikini that made her feel both powerful and like she had made a legal mistake.

Her phone was propped against a candle on her dresser, Scarlett’s face filling the screen from an entirely different continent.

“Alright,” Y/N said, tugging at the string tied at her hip. “Thoughts. Feelings. Concerns. Be honest, but remember I’m emotionally fragile and carrying a lot of student debt.”

Scarlett, who was lying on her childhood bed in England with a face mask on and a bag of crisps beside her, narrowed her eyes.

“Turn around.”

Y/N sighed. “You say that like you’re a professional.”

“I am. My qualifications include having eyes and being extremely judgmental.”

“Fine.”

Y/N turned, glancing at herself over her shoulder before quickly facing the mirror again.

Scarlett gasped. “Oh, that’s the one.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely.”

Y/N looked down at herself, unconvinced. “It feels… tiny.”

“It’s a bikini. That is its job.”

“No, but this one feels personal.”

Scarlett snorted. “Personal?”

“Yes. Like it knows too much about me.”

“It looks gorgeous.”

“It looks like I’m one sneeze away from a public scandal.”

“You’re going to the Bahamas, not a convent.”

Y/N pointed at the phone. “Your father is going to be there.”

Scarlett’s expression immediately flattened.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Not this again.”

“It is a valid concern.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Scarlett, I am not meeting your dad for the first time dressed like I lost a fight with dental floss.”

Scarlett wheezed, nearly dropping her crisp packet. “You are so dramatic.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being insane.”

“Respectfully insane.”

“My dad is not going to care what bikini you wear.”

“You say that because he is your dad. I say that because he is a grown man who owns property.”

“What does owning property have to do with your bikini?”

“It changes the energy.”

Scarlett stared at her.

Y/N stared back.

Then Scarlett said, “Sometimes I worry about what goes on inside your head.”

“Same. It’s very loud in there.”

Scarlett rolled onto her stomach, her face closer to the camera now. “Listen to me. My dad is going to be locked away most of the trip, drawing buildings and pretending he doesn’t need sunscreen. We’ll barely see him.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It should.”

“No. Now I’m imagining him as some pale British vampire architect lurking around corners with blueprints.”

“He is not pale.”

“Terrifying addition to the lore.”

“And he does not lurk.”

“You don’t know that. Parents have secret hobbies.”

“My father’s secret hobby is forgetting to eat lunch because he got distracted by a wall.”

Y/N paused. “A wall?”

“Architecture people are strange.”

Y/N turned back to the mirror and tugged at the top of the bikini again. “I still feel like I should buy more.”

“No.”

“Just two.”

“No.”

“One?”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“You have packed nine bikinis.”

“Ten.”

Scarlett groaned. “Why did you ask me then?”

“Because I need support.”

“You need financial supervision.”

“That too.”

“Your mother is going to see your credit card bill and start speaking in tongues.”

“I’ll tell her it was an emergency.”

“A bikini emergency?”

“This is women’s healthcare.”

Scarlett laughed loudly, and Y/N could not help but laugh with her. It was impossible not to. Scarlett’s laugh was one of those big, infectious sounds that made everyone around her feel included, even through a phone screen and a five-hour time difference.

Y/N stepped out of the bikini bottoms and reached for the next one on her bed, a pale blue set Scarlett had convinced her to order two weeks ago.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually going,” Y/N said, slipping the robe around herself for a moment. “Two whole weeks. No deadlines. No campus. No people asking me what my plans are after graduation as if I’m not one minor inconvenience away from moving into the woods.”

Scarlett hummed. “The woods would reject you.”

“Why?”

“You need iced coffee and dramatic lighting.”

“True.”

“And Wi-Fi.”

“Also true.”

“And you’re scared of raccoons.”

“They have hands, Scarlett.”

“They’re tiny.”

“That makes it worse.”

Scarlett shook her head, smiling. “I need this trip so badly. I just want to sit by the water and not think about anything that requires emotional maturity.”

“Same. I plan to become very mysterious. Maybe read by the pool. Maybe stare into the ocean like I’m waiting for my husband to return from war.”

“You don’t have a husband.”

“That’s why he never comes back. It’s layered.”

Scarlett grinned, but it faded a little too quickly.

Y/N noticed immediately.

She always did.

“What?” Y/N asked, gentler now.

Scarlett looked away from the camera, picking at the corner of her crisp packet. “Nothing.”

“Scar.”

“It’s nothing.”

“That has never meant nothing in the history of female friendship.”

Scarlett sighed.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, forgetting the bikini on her lap. “Is it Henry?”

The name alone made Scarlett’s expression tighten.

Henry had been around for four months, which in college relationship time was either practically married or one suspicious Instagram like away from complete collapse. He was charming when he wanted to be, good-looking in that boyish, confident way that made girls forgive bad texting habits, and just insecure enough to make Y/N’s left eye twitch.

He liked Scarlett.

Y/N believed that.

She just also believed he liked having access to Scarlett. Her attention, her world, her family name, her certainty. There was a difference, and Y/N had never fully trusted him to understand it.

“He’s still being weird,” Scarlett admitted.

“Because of the trip?”

“Because I told him he couldn’t come.”

Y/N rolled her eyes so hard it almost gave her a headache. “He invited himself.”

“He said he wanted to meet my dad.”

“After four months?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Your dad is not a restaurant reservation.”

Scarlett’s mouth twitched. “No.”

“He can’t just book a table.”

“I know.”

“And anyway, wanting to meet your dad is one thing. Wanting to crash a two-week holiday in the Bahamas is another.”

“Exactly.”

“He wanted the vacation.”

“I know that too.”

“Good. Because I was trying to be supportive but my body was rejecting the lie.”

Scarlett laughed softly, though it did not quite reach her eyes.

Y/N tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m annoyed,” Scarlett said. “And a little hurt, I guess. He keeps acting like I’m hiding him because I’m ashamed of him.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then he can grow up.”

“Y/N.”

“What? I’m not saying dump him.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I think many things. I’m very complex.”

“You hate him.”

“I do not hate him.”

Scarlett gave her a look.

Y/N sighed. “Fine. I don’t hate him. I just think he has the emotional range of a wet towel.”

Scarlett burst out laughing.

“And,” Y/N continued, encouraged, “I think it’s weird that he’s making your relationship with your dad about him. You decide when someone meets your family. Not him. Not his ego. Not whatever podcast taught him persistence is romantic.”

Scarlett was quiet for a second.

Then she said, “That was actually very wise.”

“I know. I’m frightened too.”

“You’re usually wise by accident.”

“It’s my brand.”

Scarlett smiled, but her voice softened. “My dad means everything to me.”

“I know.”

“I don’t bring everyone home to him. I know that sounds dramatic—”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t,” Y/N insisted. “It sounds like you love your dad and you’re careful with who gets to be part of your life. That’s not dramatic. That’s having standards.”

Scarlett looked at her through the screen for a long moment.

Then she whispered, “See? This is why you’re my favourite person.”

Y/N pressed a hand to her chest. “I will be adding this to my resume.”

“Under skills?”

“Emotional support with light bullying.”

“That is accurate.”

Y/N smiled and picked up the blue bikini again. “Alright. Enough men causing emotional damage. Back to the real issue.”

“Which is?”

“Whether this bikini says ‘charming guest’ or ‘spring break mistake.’”

Scarlett inspected it with theatrical seriousness. “Both, but in a tasteful way.”

“Perfect. That is exactly my aesthetic.”

By the time they hung up, Y/N’s suitcase looked like a swimwear store had exploded inside it. Dresses were folded into uneven piles. Sandals were shoved into corners. A bottle of sunscreen had been wrapped in three plastic bags after what she considered a traumatic incident in high school involving coconut lotion and a white dress.

She stood over the mess with both hands on her hips.

Two weeks in the Bahamas.

It had sounded almost fake when Scarlett first mentioned it months ago.

“My dad rented the villa again,” she had said casually, as if everyone’s father rented villas in the Caribbean the way other parents booked hotels near the motorway. “You should come.”

Y/N had laughed at first.

Then Scarlett had stared.

Then Y/N had realised she was serious.

Paying for the flight had nearly killed her. She had picked up extra shifts at the campus writing centre, sold clothes she no longer wore, and survived several weeks on tragic meals that could barely be classified as dinner. But Scarlett had handled everything else with the breezy confidence of someone who did not fully understand the emotional violence of checking flight prices on a student budget.

Y/N had told herself it was worth it.

A real break.

A proper one.

Not a weekend spent half-resting, half-panicking about unfinished assignments. Not a cheap night out where she spent the next morning regretting both tequila and her taste in men. Not a nap between deadlines.

A real break.

Sun. Water. Sleep. Food she did not have to cook. Laughter with Scarlett. Maybe a little harmless flirting with someone handsome and temporary.

Nothing complicated.

Nothing serious.

Nothing that would follow her home.

At least, that had been the plan.

The next morning, Y/N arrived at the airport far too early because her anxiety did not believe in moderation.

She had slept for exactly three hours, woken up twice convinced she had forgotten her passport, and once convinced she had accidentally packed a winter coat instead of underwear. By the time she made it through security, she was exhausted, mildly sweaty, and filled with the righteous anger of someone who had watched a man argue with TSA over a bottle of shampoo the size of a newborn baby.

She called Scarlett the second she reached the coffee queue.

“I have survived,” Y/N announced.

Scarlett answered on the third ring. “Barely, from the sound of it.”

“Airport security is where joy goes to die.”

“You’re so brave.”

“A woman took her shoes off and then walked barefoot. Barefoot, Scarlett.”

“No.”

“Yes. On airport floor.”

“That’s criminal.”

“I nearly called the authorities.”

“You are the authorities?”

“I’m a concerned citizen with standards.”

Scarlett laughed, but then something shifted. A rustle. A shaky breath. Background noise that sounded far too chaotic.

Y/N frowned. “Where are you?”

There was a pause.

Then Scarlett said, “Please don’t kill me.”

Y/N stopped moving.

A man behind her cleared his throat because the coffee queue had shifted forward.

Y/N ignored him. “Why would I kill you?”

“Hypothetically.”

“Scarlett.”

“Emotionally.”

“Scarlett.”

“I need you to remember that you love me.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”

“They won’t let me board.”

For a second, Y/N heard nothing but the dull roar of the terminal around her.

Then, very slowly, she said, “I’m sorry?”

“My passport expires in less than six months.”

Y/N blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then she laughed, but only because her brain had clearly disconnected from reality.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“No, because you are Scarlett Styles.”

“I know.”

“You check restaurant menus before going out.”

“I know.”

“You make packing lists.”

“I know.”

“You once made me a packing list for a one-night trip that included three separate categories of socks.”

“I know, Y/N.”

“You alphabetise your notes.”

“I said I know!”

The man behind Y/N cleared his throat again.

Y/N turned around slowly and gave him a look so dead-eyed that he immediately became fascinated with the ceiling.

“What do you mean they won’t let you board?” Y/N asked, stepping out of the queue because coffee no longer felt medically sufficient.

“I mean exactly that. I talked to the airline. I talked to security. I talked to a woman named Denise who looked like she eats people for breakfast. No one is letting me on the plane.”

“Oh my God.”

“My dad is calling people.”

“Of course he is.”

“But even if we get an emergency appointment, I’m going to miss the flight. Probably the first few days. Maybe the first week.”

“The first week?”

“I’m so sorry.”

Y/N pressed a hand to her forehead.

The airport tilted slightly, or maybe that was just her blood pressure attempting to leave her body.

This was fine.

This was completely fine.

Her best friend was not coming. Y/N was not about to spend hundreds of dollars flying alone to a country where the only person waiting for her was Scarlett’s father, a man she had never met, whose existence had always been mostly theoretical.

A dad.

A British architect dad.

A man she had imagined as someone polite, distant, probably grey-haired, and deeply uninterested in the emotional lives of twenty year old girls.

Still.

Her chest tightened.

“So I’ll just go home,” Y/N said.

“What?”

“I’ll find someone to get my suitcase off the plane. Or maybe that’s not possible. Is that illegal? I don’t know. I’ll fake an illness.”

“Y/N.”

“I can cough.”

“You have allergies. It won’t be convincing.”

“I can cry.”

“That would be convincing, but unnecessary.”

“What am I supposed to do without you?”

“Go.”

Y/N stared at nothing. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.”

“Scarlett.”

“Y/N.”

“I am not flying to the Bahamas to stay alone with your dad.”

“My dad is not some random man from Craigslist.”

“That is not the comforting sentence you think it is.”

“He’s already there.”

“Again, not comforting.”

“He’ll make sure you’re okay.”

“I don’t want your father to make sure I’m okay. I want you to make sure I’m okay.”

Scarlett’s voice softened. “I know.”

Y/N swallowed.

The disappointment hit then, sudden and childish and embarrassing. She had been looking forward to this so much. To Scarlett. To the two of them sharing a room, stealing each other’s sunscreen, gossiping until midnight, laughing at rich tourists, pretending to be women with uncomplicated lives.

Instead, Scarlett was stuck in an airport because of a passport rule Y/N had only vaguely known existed, and Y/N was standing near Gate B12 trying not to have a breakdown beside a vending machine.

“I can’t do it,” Y/N said quietly.

“Yes, you can.”

“It’ll be weird.”

“Only if you make it weird.”

“That is a lot of responsibility for someone who once laughed during a funeral because the priest mispronounced your aunt’s name as Lasagna.”

“Her name was Luz Elena. He had no excuse.”

“Focus.”

“I am focusing,” Scarlett said. “Listen to me. You worked so hard to pay for this flight. You skipped takeout for a month.”

“I became a woman of soup.”

“You became unbearable, actually.”

“I was hungry.”

“You are not wasting this trip because my passport decided to betray me.”

Y/N closed her eyes. “Scar…”

“My dad has known you were coming for weeks. He won’t mind. He likes having people around, even when he pretends he doesn’t.”

“I’ve never met him.”

“I know.”

“What if he hates me?”

“He won’t.”

“What if I say something stupid?”

“You will.”

“Scarlett.”

“You will, and he’ll find it funny.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It should. He likes funny.”

Y/N opened her eyes again. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll have your own room. The villa is huge. He’ll probably work most of the time. You can sit by the pool, read your little murder book, eat fruit, get a tan, and wait for me.”

“My little murder book is literature.”

“It has a woman holding a bloody knife on the cover.”

“It’s feminist.”

“Text me when you land,” Scarlett said, ignoring that. “And give my dad a hug from me.”

Y/N made a strangled sound. “A hug?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know him.”

“He’s my dad.”

“That’s exactly why.”

“Y/N.”

“I will wave warmly from a respectful distance.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m traumatised.”

“I love you.”

“That is emotional manipulation.”

“It is.”

Y/N sighed, looking at the gate screen. Boarding would start soon.

She could still leave.

She could turn around, go home, unpack the ten bikinis of questionable morality, and spend spring break in bed watching reality television until her eyes burned.

But then she imagined Scarlett’s disappointed face.

And the money.

God, the money.

And the ocean.

The sun.

The possibility, however small, that maybe being alone for a few days would not kill her.

“Fine,” Y/N said.

Scarlett exhaled. “Thank God.”

“But if your dad is scary, I’m haunting you.”

“He’s not scary.”

“If he makes me feel awkward, I’m haunting you.”

“You feel awkward when waiters ask if you’re still working on your food.”

“Because it’s a loaded question.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I hate that phrase.”

“I know.”

Y/N took a breath, trying to force her pulse back into something less dramatic. “Get your passport sorted.”

“I’m trying.”

“And call me.”

“I will.”

“And don’t let Henry make this about him.”

Scarlett was quiet for a beat.

Then she said, “I won’t.”

“Good.”

“I really am sorry.”

“I know,” Y/N said, softer. “I’m sorry too. This sucks.”

“It does.”

“I’ll text you when I land.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more. Even though you’ve abandoned me in international waters.”

“I haven’t even reached the water.”

“Emotionally, you have.”

Scarlett laughed, and the sound loosened something in Y/N’s chest.

They hung up a minute later.

Y/N stood still, phone in hand, watching people move around her with all the confidence of travellers whose plans had not exploded thirty minutes before boarding.

Then she looked down at her airport outfit: leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, trainers, and hair that had been thrown into a claw clip with more hope than skill.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Great. Fantastic. Amazing. We are a woman of adventure.”

A toddler nearby screamed.

Y/N looked over.

“Same,” she muttered.

By the time she boarded, Y/N had acquired an iced coffee she no longer wanted, a bottle of water she knew she would forget to drink, and a bag of pretzels because panic made her incapable of choosing real food.

Her seat was by the window, which would have been exciting under better circumstances. She shoved her carry-on into the overhead compartment with the quiet desperation of someone trying not to be judged by the entire plane, then dropped into her seat and immediately texted Scarlett.

Y/N: I’m on the plane.

Y/N: Against my will.

Y/N: This is kidnapping but with boarding groups.

Scarlett responded almost immediately.

Scarlett: Proud of you.

Scarlett: Dad says Marcus will pick you up when you land.

Scarlett: He also said to tell you not to panic.

Y/N stared at the message.

Y/N: Horrible thing to say to someone who is actively panicking.

Scarlett: He guessed that.

Y/N: I hate how well he already knows me.

Scarlett: Wait until you meet him.

Y/N frowned at the screen.

That was a strange thing to say.

Before she could respond, someone stopped in the aisle beside her.

“Looks like I’m your neighbour.”

Y/N looked up.

The man standing there was tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly well-rested for someone on a morning flight. He had warm brown skin, dark curls cropped close at the sides, and a smile that looked like it had been used successfully in many social situations. He wore a linen shirt open over a white T-shirt and had a backpack slung over one shoulder.

Y/N blinked at him, then at the empty seat beside her.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. Yes. Sorry. I was having a private crisis.”

His smile widened. “Do you need me to come back?”

“Can you?”

“I could stand in the aisle and pretend I’m looking for row twenty-eight.”

“That would be kind.”

He glanced down at his boarding pass. “Unfortunately, I’m row twelve. I think people would become suspicious.”

“Shame.”

He lifted his bag into the overhead compartment with infuriating ease. Y/N looked away because she had already had enough emotional instability for one morning and did not need to add arm muscles to the list.

He sat beside her, leaving a polite amount of space between them, and buckled his seatbelt.

“I’m Anthony,” he said.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“You too. Sorry in advance.”

“For?”

“I don’t know yet. But I like to set expectations low.”

Anthony laughed, and Y/N immediately decided she did not hate him, which was progress.

The flight attendants began their safety demonstration. Y/N pretended to pay attention while secretly rereading Scarlett’s last message.

Wait until you meet him.

Her stomach dipped.

She locked her phone.

“So,” Anthony said once the plane began to taxi. “Private crisis?”

Y/N turned her head. “You heard that?”

“You announced it.”

“Right. Forgot.”

“It sounded serious.”

“My best friend was supposed to be on this trip with me.”

“Supposed to be?”

“Her passport chose violence.”

Anthony winced. “Expired?”

“Not expired enough for normal people to care, apparently. But expired enough for airport people to ruin lives.”

“Less than six months?”

Y/N pointed at him. “You know about this?”

“My cousin got stuck in Miami once because of it.”

“Why is everyone aware of this except us?”

“Travel trauma teaches.”

“Beautiful. Love that for society.”

“So she’s not coming at all?”

“She’s coming later. Maybe in a few days. Maybe a week. Depends how quickly England forgives her.”

“And you’re still going?”

Y/N let out a laugh that was mostly fear. “Against my better judgment, yes.”

“Brave.”

“Stupid.”

“Sometimes they look similar.”

“That sounds like something embroidered on a pillow in a beach rental.”

Anthony grinned. “I’m full of wisdom.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I say things confidently.”

“That is most men’s entire personality.”

He placed a hand over his chest. “Wounded.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might.”

The plane sped down the runway, and Y/N gripped the armrest on instinct. She was not afraid of flying exactly, but takeoff always made her feel like she had placed her life in the hands of science and vibes.

Anthony noticed.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Convincing.”

“I’m fine. I just don’t enjoy the part where the giant metal tube fights gravity.”

“That’s unfortunately a big part of flying.”

“I know. I’ve filed a complaint.”

“With who?”

“The sky.”

Anthony laughed again, and the sound helped distract her as the plane lifted.

Once they were in the air and the seatbelt sign blinked off, Y/N relaxed enough to breathe normally. She pulled her book from her bag, though she did not open it. Anthony noticed the cover.

“Murder?”

“Mystery,” Y/N corrected.

“There’s blood on the knife.”

“It’s metaphorical blood.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Good to know.”

“What about you?” she asked. “Business? Vacation? International crime?”

“Spring break.”

“Suspiciously normal.”

“I’m going with friends. We’re staying at a resort near Nassau.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those people.”

“What people?”

“Resort people.”

“I didn’t realise there was judgment attached.”

“There is always judgment attached. I’m a journalism major.”

“That explains the intense questioning.”

“I haven’t even started.”

Anthony leaned back, amused. “Should I be nervous?”

“Depends. Why the Bahamas?”

“Sun. Surfing. Friends. Poor decision-making in a controlled environment.”

“Honest. I respect it.”

“And you?”

“Girls’ trip. Allegedly.”

“Right. Passport violence.”

“Exactly. Now it’s just me, a suitcase full of bikinis, and my best friend’s dad.”

Anthony’s eyebrows lifted.

Y/N groaned immediately. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your eyebrows said plenty.”

“I’m just processing.”

“There is nothing to process.”

“You’re going to stay with your best friend’s dad?”

“At a villa. That was already arranged. With my best friend. Who betrayed me through poor document management.”

“Is he… nice?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

Anthony turned his head slowly, fully invested now. “You’ve never met him?”

“No.”

“And you’re staying with him?”

“Please stop repeating it back to me like I’m a missing person’s case.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You are absolutely judging.”

“I’m concerned.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughed. “Sorry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“That is what everyone keeps saying.”

“Who is everyone?”

“My best friend.”

“So one person.”

“Emotionally, she counts as several.”

Anthony nodded. “Fair.”

Y/N looked out the window at the clouds spreading beneath them like white fabric. “She loves him. A lot. So I’m sure he’s perfectly lovely. Probably very normal. Very dad-like.”

“Dad-like?”

“Yes. You know. Beige shorts. Sensible sandals. Says things like ‘while we’re young’ when everyone is already moving.”

Anthony considered that. “What if he’s cool?”

Y/N made a face. “No.”

“No?”

“I don’t want him to be cool.”

“Why?”

“Because then I have to be cool back, and I don’t have the range.”

“You seem cool.”

“That’s because we’re strangers and I’ve curated this version of myself for public consumption.”

“Ah.”

“In reality, I cried last week because I dropped pasta in the sink.”

“How much pasta?”

“Enough.”

“Then that’s valid.”

“Thank you.”

Anthony smiled at her for a second longer than necessary.

It was not uncomfortable.

Actually, it was nice.

Anthony had the kind of charm that did not feel like a performance. He listened. He responded. He did not interrupt just to hear himself speak. When he teased her, he did it lightly, leaving room for her to tease back.

Safe.

That was the word that came to mind.

He felt safe.

Easy.

Age-appropriate.

Uncomplicated.

All the things this trip was supposed to be.

“So, journalism,” Anthony said after the flight attendants came by with drinks. “Future reporter?”

Y/N accepted a cup of water and balanced it carefully on her tray table. “That is the million-dollar question.”

“Expensive question.”

“Very. Especially with tuition.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not.”

“About journalism?”

“About anything, really. But journalism is the current villain.”

Anthony’s expression softened with interest. “Why did you pick it?”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “You’re going to think I’m shallow.”

“Try me.”

“I thought reporters looked pretty.”

Anthony stared at her.

Y/N covered her face. “I know.”

“No, wait. That’s incredible.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s honest.”

“I was eighteen.”

“Everyone’s stupid at eighteen.”

“Yes, but some people are stupid in cheaper ways.”

He laughed. “Fair.”

“I saw this news anchor with perfect hair and a blazer that probably cost more than my laptop, and I thought, Yes. That. I would like to be a woman who says important things while looking expensive.”

Anthony was grinning. “And now?”

“Now I know blazers wrinkle, cameras are terrifying, and journalism requires significantly more emotional stamina than I possess.”

“But you like writing?”

“I do.”

“That’s something.”

“It is,” she admitted. “I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

Anthony nodded, not rushing to fill the silence. “Maybe you don’t have to know yet.”

Y/N looked at him.

He shrugged. “People act like college is supposed to hand you your entire life in a neat little folder. It doesn’t. Most people are guessing.”

“That is either comforting or horrifying.”

“Both can be true.”

“Another pillow quote.”

“I told you. Wisdom.”

She smiled, and for the first time since Scarlett’s call, she felt her shoulders loosen.

They talked for most of the flight.

Anthony told her he worked part-time for a marketing agency and hated the phrase “brand synergy” with a passion that seemed deeply personal. He loved surfing, though he admitted he was not nearly as good as he looked carrying a board. His friends had planned half the trip around beaches, boat days, and one club someone had apparently recommended on TikTok, which made him suspicious but willing.

Y/N told him about Scarlett, about school, about the campus coffee shop that charged criminal prices for drinks that tasted like regret. She did not tell him too much. Not the tender things. Not the parts of her that felt lost. But enough.

Enough that by the time the plane began its descent, Anthony felt less like a stranger and more like someone she would not mind running into again.

“So,” he said, pulling out his phone once they landed and everyone immediately stood up despite the doors not being open. “I feel like, for safety reasons, someone should make sure you survive the mysterious dad villa.”

Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Safety reasons?”

“Purely noble.”

“Of course.”

“And maybe if your best friend doesn’t make it for a few days, you could come out with us. My friends are mostly normal.”

“Mostly?”

“One of them says ‘vibes’ too much, but we’re working on it.”

“That’s brave of you.”

“We believe in rehabilitation.”

Y/N laughed and handed him her phone.

Anthony typed in his number, then paused. “Can I put an emoji next to my name or is that too forward?”

“That depends entirely on the emoji.”

“Surfboard?”

“Predictable.”

“Palm tree?”

“Tourist.”

“Red flag?”

“At least self-aware.”

He laughed and saved himself as Anthony Plane Guy, which made Y/N laugh harder than it should have.

“There,” he said, handing the phone back. “In case you ever want to escape, surf badly, or be introduced to people who say vibes in moderation.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You should.”

She looked at him, still smiling. “Thanks for making the flight less terrible.”

“My pleasure.”

They moved slowly with the rest of the passengers, gathering bags, shuffling into the aisle, waiting, stopping, waiting again. At baggage claim, Anthony stayed beside her until her suitcase appeared, bright green ribbon tied around the handle because Scarlett had once convinced her that black suitcases were how people got kidnapped by inconvenience.

Anthony grabbed it from the belt before she could.

“Oh,” Y/N said. “Thank you.”

“Trying to prove my usefulness early.”

“Smart strategy.”

“It’s marketing.”

“Brand synergy?”

He grimaced. “Take that back.”

“Never.”

Outside the terminal, warm air wrapped around Y/N the second the sliding doors opened. It was humid and soft, carrying the smell of salt, sunscreen, and something fried that immediately reminded her she had survived on pretzels and panic.

The Bahamas looked exactly the way postcards promised places could look when they were trying to make you forget your student loans.

Bright sky. Palm trees. Sunlight bouncing off every surface. People moving with a kind of holiday ease Y/N envied instantly.

Anthony stopped near a group of guys waving from a van.

“That’s me,” he said.

Y/N looked toward the curb, where a man in a neat short-sleeved shirt held a sign with her name on it.

“That’s me,” she said. “Or my kidnapping.”

Anthony followed her gaze. “Looks official.”

“That’s what all kidnapped people say at first.”

He smiled. “Text me when you confirm he’s not a criminal.”

“I’ll add it to my travel checklist.”

“And Y/N?”

She looked back at him.

Anthony’s smile softened, turning a little less teasing. “Try to enjoy yourself. Even if the trip started weird.”

Y/N felt something warm and grateful settle in her chest.

“I’ll try.”

“Good.”

He backed away, walking toward his friends. “And remember, if the dad is terrifying—”

“I text Plane Guy?”

“Exactly.”

She laughed. “Bye, Anthony.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

For a moment, she watched him go.

Then her phone buzzed.

Scarlett: Landed??? Alive???

Scarlett: Please answer before I start crying in public again.

Y/N smiled despite herself and typed back.

Y/N: Landed. Alive. Met a plane guy.

Y/N: Not dead yet.

Scarlett responded immediately.

Scarlett: PLANE GUY?

Scarlett: Explain.

Y/N glanced once more at Anthony as he climbed into the van with his friends, laughing at something one of them said.

Then she looked at the driver holding her name.

At the island sun.

At the beginning of a trip that already felt nothing like it was supposed to.

Y/N: Later.

Y/N: Going to meet your father now.

Y/N: Pray for me.

Scarlett’s reply came three seconds later.

Scarlett: Be normal.

Y/N slipped her phone into her bag.

“Impossible,” she whispered.

Then she walked toward the man holding her name.

Marcus, the driver, looked relieved when Y/N approached him, as if he had spent the last fifteen minutes quietly preparing himself to chase a confused college girl through the arrivals terminal.

“Miss Y/N?” he asked, lowering the sign with her name printed neatly across it.

“That depends,” she said, shifting the strap of her tote higher on her shoulder. “Are you Marcus, or have I just walked confidently toward a stranger holding my name?”

His smile widened at that, warm and immediate. “I’m Marcus. Mr. Styles sent me.”

“Good. Great. Fantastic.” Y/N glanced around once, half expecting Anthony to still be close enough to witness her being awkward with yet another stranger. He was already near the resort van, surrounded by his friends and sunlight, one hand braced against the open door as he said something that made the group laugh. “Sorry. It’s been a long morning.”

“Travelling usually is,” Marcus said kindly, reaching for her suitcase. “First time in the Bahamas?”

“Yes.” She released the suitcase to him and then immediately felt useless standing there while he handled it with ease. “Is it obvious?”

“Only because you’re staring like the airport is part of the tour.”

Y/N looked away from the bright doors, the palm trees, the ridiculous wash of blue sky. “In my defence, everything looks fake.”

Marcus laughed. “You get used to it.”

“I’m not sure I want to. That seems like a waste.”

He led her toward a black SUV parked at the curb, polished so cleanly it reflected the movement of tourists dragging luggage behind them. The heat sat on Y/N’s skin like a hand, humid and unfamiliar, softening the edges of everything. Back home, airport air always felt recycled, dry, metallic. Here, even the pavement seemed to breathe salt.

Marcus loaded her bags into the boot while Y/N stood beside the passenger door and checked her phone.

Scarlett had sent six messages.

Scarlett: Did you find Marcus?

Scarlett: He’s nice, I promise.

Scarlett: Don’t accidentally leave with a stranger.

Scarlett: Actually, you would do that.

Scarlett: Y/N????

Scarlett: I am too fragile for this right now.

Y/N snorted under her breath and typed back.

Y/N: Found Marcus. Not kidnapped yet.

Y/N: He called me Miss Y/N so I think I have become rich by proximity.

Scarlett replied before Y/N had even climbed into the car.

Scarlett: Enjoy it.

Scarlett: Dad does that too sometimes. He gets very proper when he’s trying to be polite.

Scarlett: It’s annoying.

Y/N’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Dad.

Every time Scarlett used the word, the situation rearranged itself in Y/N’s mind. It was so normal to Scarlett. So simple. Her dad. The man who sent a driver. The man waiting at a villa. The man who apparently got proper when he was trying to be polite.

To Y/N, he was still faceless.

A presence without a shape.

That almost made it worse.

“Ready?” Marcus asked, holding the back door open for her.

Y/N locked her phone and offered him a smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

The inside of the SUV smelled faintly of leather, coconut air freshener, and the kind of expensive cleanliness that made Y/N afraid to touch anything. She settled into the backseat and buckled herself in, pressing her knees together and smoothing both palms over her leggings even though there was nothing to smooth.

Marcus pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of airport traffic with a calmness Y/N deeply envied.

For the first few minutes, she watched Nassau unfold through the window in pieces. Bright buildings. White walls. Painted signs sun-faded around the edges. Scooters weaving between cars. A woman in a yellow dress balancing a bag against her hip while speaking animatedly to someone on the phone. A cluster of tourists in matching hats looking lost but thrilled about it.

Everything seemed louder in colour here.

The sky was not just blue. It was offensively blue. The kind of blue that made you wonder if every grey day you had ever lived through had been a personal insult. Even the shadows looked warmer, slipping under balconies and palm fronds in soft, sleepy shapes.

Y/N leaned her head lightly against the seat and tried to let the view distract her from the nervous twisting in her stomach.

It did not work.

She took her phone out again.

Y/N: How old is your dad again?

Scarlett did not answer immediately.

Y/N regretted the question the second she sent it.

Why had she asked that? Why did it matter? She knew Harry was older. Obviously. Scarlett was twenty-two, which meant her father could not be young young. He had to be somewhere in his forties, maybe late forties. A grown man. A parent. A person with tax documents and opinions about home insurance.

Her phone buzzed.

Scarlett: Thirty- nine

Scarlett: Why?

Y/N stared at the number.

Thirty-nine

That was exactly adult enough to make her feel silly for being nervous, and yet somehow not old enough to make the situation immediately harmless in her head. Which was an annoying discovery, because Y/N would have preferred harmless. Harmless would have been convenient.

Y/N: No reason.

Y/N: Just trying to imagine him so I don’t act weird.

Scarlett: You will act weird either way.

Y/N: Cruel.

Scarlett: Honest.

Scarlett: He’s easy, I promise. Just be yourself.

Y/N made a face at her phone.

“Terrible advice,” she muttered.

Marcus glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, amused. “Everything okay?”

“Yes. Sorry. My best friend just told me to be myself.”

“That bad?”

“It has historically caused problems.”

He laughed, and the sound loosened some of her nerves.

They left the busiest streets behind after a while, the road opening into stretches of coastline where the ocean flashed between buildings and trees. It appeared suddenly, almost rudely, too beautiful to be casual about. Turquoise water, bright as glass, rolling softly toward pale sand. Little boats rocked near docks. Children ran barefoot along the edge of the shore. A man selling fruit from a roadside stand lifted a hand as Marcus drove past, and Marcus lifted one in return.

“Does everyone know each other here?” Y/N asked.

“Not everyone,” Marcus said. “But enough.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. Most days.”

Y/N smiled and watched a cluster of pastel houses drift by, their porches shaded, their windows open. Laundry fluttered on a line. Somewhere, music played from a radio, the beat passing through the car in a brief, cheerful pulse before disappearing behind them.

She tried to imagine Scarlett here. It was easy. Scarlett would have her sunglasses pushed on top of her head, complaining about humidity while secretly loving it. She would insist they stop at every pretty view, take too many pictures, and make Y/N pose until she threatened to walk into the sea.

The ache of missing her returned then, small but sharp.

It was strange to miss someone who was still texting you. Stranger to miss someone you had expected to be sitting beside you.

Y/N glanced down at her phone again, but there were no new messages.

Maybe Scarlett was busy trying to save her passport from administrative ruin. Maybe she was crying in a bathroom. Maybe Henry was making everything worse.

Y/N hoped he was not.

She hoped, with a sudden seriousness, that Scarlett would not let him turn this into something it was not. Scarlett had always seemed so certain, so impossible to push around, but even the strongest girls made themselves smaller for the wrong men sometimes. Y/N had seen it happen. She had almost done it herself more than once.

The thought made her sit back with a sigh.

“Long trip?” Marcus asked.

“Long life, actually.”

His eyes crinkled with another smile. “You’re too young to say that.”

“I’ve been through airport security today.”

“Fair enough.”

They drove another fifteen minutes before Marcus turned off the main road and onto a quieter stretch that sloped gently upward. The houses grew farther apart, hidden behind white walls, flowering hedges, and gates that looked like they belonged to people who had never checked their bank account before ordering appetisers.

Y/N sat up straighter.

The road curved along the edge of a hill, and suddenly the ocean opened fully to her left. It was everywhere. Wide, glittering, endless. The afternoon sun scattered across the surface in broken gold, and for a moment, her nerves quieted beneath the sheer force of it.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Marcus glanced back. “That’s the usual reaction.”

“I think I just became religious.”

He laughed.

The villa appeared at the end of a private road lined with palms and thick bursts of red flowers. It was larger than Y/N expected, though she had expected it to be large. Two stories of pale stone and glass, softened by wood beams and wide balconies. The roof dipped in clean, elegant lines, and the entire house seemed built to face the sea, as if even architecture knew when to shut up and admire the view.

A low wall framed the front garden, where glossy green leaves trembled in the breeze. Beyond the house, Y/N could glimpse a slice of blue pool water and, past that, the ocean.

It was not a villa.

It was a threat.

Y/N reached blindly for her phone.

Y/N: Scarlett.

Y/N: Be honest.

Y/N: Is your dad secretly in organised crime?

The reply came fast.

Scarlett: What?

Scarlett: No.

Scarlett: Why?

Y/N: This house is offensive.

Scarlett: Told you it was nice.

Y/N: Nice is a candle. This is generational wealth with windows.

Scarlett: Don’t say that to him.

Y/N: No promises.

Marcus pulled up near the front entrance and parked. “Here we are.”

Y/N looked at the villa again, then down at herself.

Leggings. Sweatshirt. Trainers. Hair barely surviving in a claw clip. Face slightly shiny from travel. Soul hovering six inches outside her body.

Perfect.

Very charming guest.

Very not at all swamp creature after a flight.

Marcus opened her door, and warm air rushed in again. Y/N stepped out slowly, trying not to look as intimidated as she felt. Her trainers crunched lightly against the pale gravel drive. Somewhere nearby, water moved — maybe the pool, maybe the ocean, maybe the rich people fountain she was too overwhelmed to locate.

Marcus unloaded her suitcase and tote, then led her through a shaded entryway toward a set of enormous wooden doors.

Before he could knock or reach for the handle, one of the doors opened from the inside.

Y/N did not know what she expected.

A housekeeper, maybe. Another driver. Someone named Elena who would offer her lemonade and explain which rooms she was not supposed to enter.

Instead, a voice carried from somewhere inside.

“Yeah, I know. Tell them I said the east elevation doesn’t work if they keep pretending the sun rises out of convenience.”

The voice was British.

Deep, irritated, and threaded with the kind of distracted authority that suggested whoever owned it was used to being listened to, even when he was saying something ridiculous.

Y/N froze.

Marcus stepped in first, rolling her suitcase over the threshold.

The entryway was cool and bright, all pale stone floors and high ceilings, with sunlight pouring through glass doors at the far end of the house. The ocean glittered beyond them like it had been framed deliberately. There were plants in large clay pots, artwork on the walls, a console table holding a bowl of limes and a stack of design magazines.

And then he appeared.

Harry Styles came down the stairs barefoot, phone pressed to his ear, wearing navy swim shorts and an open white linen shirt. His hair was thick and brown, pushed back from his face in a slightly messy way that looked effortless rather than careless, the front falling just enough to soften the style. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw and upper lip, giving him a rougher edge than Y/N had expected. His skin was warm from the sun, lightly bronzed, and the open collar of his shirt revealed glimpses of tattoos against his chest and arms.

Y/N forgot every normal greeting she had ever learned.

He was not grey-haired.

He was not beige.

He was not wearing sensible sandals.

He was, unfortunately, beautiful.

Not in the polished, distant way some older men were handsome because they had money and good lighting. Harry was beautiful in a way that felt lived-in and careless, as if he had not asked to be looked at but had grown used to it happening anyway. His skin was warm from the sun, a little pink across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. Dark curls fell loosely around his forehead, damp as if he had come from the pool not long ago. Tattoos disappeared beneath the open edges of his shirt and curved down one arm, ink against tanned skin.

He looked like someone’s holiday mistake.

Which was deeply inconvenient, because he was someone’s father.

Scarlett’s father.

Y/N’s brain slammed that fact onto the table like evidence in court.

Harry’s gaze moved from Marcus to her, and something in his expression shifted. The professional irritation softened. The frown loosened. He said something into the phone that Y/N did not catch, then lowered it slightly.

“She’s here,” he said, still speaking to whoever was on the other end. His eyes stayed on Y/N for a beat too long, or perhaps Y/N imagined that because she had become temporarily insane. “Yeah. I’ll call you back. Let me know as soon as they confirm the appointment. Love you.”

Scarlett, then.

The reminder helped.

Barely.

Harry hung up and slipped the phone into the pocket of his shorts as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His presence filled the entryway with ease, not because he tried to, but because everything about him seemed calm in a way Y/N was not. He moved like someone comfortable in his own body, comfortable in beautiful houses, comfortable with people arriving flustered at his door.

“You must be Y/N,” he said.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing happened.

Marcus, traitor that he was, smiled to himself and stepped quietly toward the luggage.

“Yes,” Y/N managed. “Hi. That’s me. Unless there’s another Y/N coming, in which case I can explain why I’m here, but it may take a minute.”

Harry blinked.

Then he laughed.

It was not a polite laugh either. It was real, quick and warm, and it made his face change completely.

“Scarlett warned me,” he said.

Y/N’s stomach tightened. “That sounds threatening.”

“She said you were funny.”

“Oh.” She swallowed. “That’s better.”

“And nervous.”

“That’s worse.”

“A little dramatic too.”

Y/N looked toward the ceiling, betrayed. “She has said so many personal things.”

“All with affection.”

“I’ll be speaking to her lawyers.”

“I’ll let her know.” Harry stepped closer, not too close, and offered his hand. “I’m Harry.”

Y/N looked at his hand for half a second too long before taking it.

His palm was warm. His grip firm but gentle. Normal. Polite. Completely appropriate.

Still, Y/N felt the contact travel up her arm like a spark and immediately hated herself for noticing.

“Y/N,” she said, even though he already knew that.

His mouth twitched. “We’ve established.”

“Right. Sorry. Airport brain.”

“I’ve heard that can be fatal.”

“It nearly was this morning.”

“So I gathered.”

His eyes moved over her face briefly, not in a way that felt invasive, but attentive. Assessing. He must have seen the tiredness there, the panic she had tried to smooth out before leaving the car.

“Long journey?” he asked.

“Long enough that I considered faking my own disappearance at Gate B12.”

“That bad?”

“My best friend abandoned me through passport negligence.”

Harry winced, and there was enough fatherly exasperation in it that some of the strangeness eased. “She’s mortified.”

“She should be.”

“She is.”

“Good.”

He smiled. “She also told me to make sure you didn’t get back on a plane and go home.”

“I considered it.”

“I know.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “She told you that?”

“She told me many things.”

“That family is far too comfortable discussing me.”

Harry’s smile deepened, but he lowered his gaze for a second, as if to hide the full force of it. When he looked back up, there was something softer in his expression. “She cares about you.”

The sentence should not have made Y/N’s throat tighten, but it did. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because she missed Scarlett. Maybe because hearing it from Scarlett’s father made the friendship feel bigger somehow, more real, like it existed outside the small world of campus apartments and late-night calls.

“I care about her too,” Y/N said.

“I know.” His voice warmed. “She doesn’t shut up about you.”

Y/N’s lips parted in mock offence. “That is so sweet and so humiliating.”

“She’s proud of you.”

That was worse.

Y/N looked away, pretending to examine the entryway because the alternative was standing there emotionally exposed in travel clothes. “Well. She’s annoying.”

“That too.”

They shared a smile, and for one dangerous second, the air between them felt easy.

Then Marcus rolled her suitcase forward.

“Where would you like this, Mr. Styles?”

Harry turned, the moment breaking cleanly. “Guest room upstairs, please. The blue one.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can take it,” Y/N said quickly, stepping toward the suitcase.

Marcus looked amused. Harry looked unconvinced.

“It’s alright,” Harry said. “Marcus has it.”

“I’m capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“That sounded patronising.”

“It was meant to sound hospitable.”

“Very thin line.”

Harry laughed again, quieter this time, and Y/N decided his laugh was going to become a problem if he kept doing it at her.

Marcus carried the luggage upstairs, leaving Y/N alone with Harry in the wide, sunlit entryway.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside, the breeze shifted through the open glass doors and carried the smell of salt into the house. Somewhere in the distance, gulls cried over the water. The villa was so quiet compared to the airport that Y/N became aware of every small thing: the hum of air conditioning, the faint rustle of Harry’s linen shirt, the rapid beat of her own pulse.

Harry cleared his throat first.

“I should apologise,” he said.

“For the house?”

“For Scarlett.”

“Oh.” Y/N blinked. “No. Don’t. It’s not your fault her passport has commitment issues.”

“It is a bit my fault for not checking.”

“She’s twenty-two.”

“She’s still my daughter.”

There it was again.

The word daughter landed between them, sturdy and necessary.

Y/N smiled because she was supposed to. “She’ll sort it out.”

“She will,” Harry said, though worry passed through his face before he covered it. “She’s at the passport office now. Or about to be. I’ve called in a few favours.”

“Very mysterious.”

“Very expensive.”

“That too.”

“I’m hoping she’ll be here in a few days.”

Y/N nodded, relieved and disappointed for reasons that made no sense and therefore needed to be ignored. “Good.”

“In the meantime,” Harry continued, gesturing toward the house, “you’re welcome to make yourself at home. I know this is probably not what you had planned.”

“That’s one way of saying it.”

“Scarlett said you might feel awkward.”

“Scarlett says many accurate and unkind things.”

“She also said you like iced coffee, mystery novels, and that if anyone offers you a green juice, you’ll assume they’re trying to punish you.”

Y/N stared at him.

Harry lifted a brow. “Was she wrong?”

“No, but I hate how detailed that was.”

“I’ll avoid the green juice.”

“Thank you.”

“I can offer actual coffee, though. Or food. You must be hungry.”

Y/N’s stomach chose that moment to make a small, traitorous sound.

Harry looked down.

Y/N closed her eyes. “That was private.”

His mouth twitched. “Sounded serious.”

“I had pretzels for breakfast.”

“That’s bleak.”

“I was under emotional distress.”

“Come on, then.” He nodded toward the back of the house. “Let’s feed you before Scarlett accuses me of neglect.”

Y/N hesitated, glancing toward the stairs where Marcus had disappeared with her suitcase. Part of her wanted to go straight to the guest room, close the door, and scream into a decorative pillow until she felt normal again. Another part, the part ruled by pretzels and poor decisions, wanted food more than dignity.

Food won.

She followed Harry through the open-plan living area, trying very hard not to stare at the way he knew the space. His hand brushed the back of a chair as he passed it. He nudged aside a pair of sandals with his foot. On a large table near the windows, architectural drawings were spread beneath a tablet, a laptop, and a mug that looked abandoned halfway through the morning. There were pencils everywhere, some sharpened, some chewed at the ends. A linen shirt hung over one chair, and a pair of sunglasses sat on top of a thick notebook.

The house was stunning, but those details made it feel lived in.

Harry noticed her looking.

“Sorry about the mess.”

Y/N glanced at the spotless room. “This is not mess.”

“It is to me.”

“That’s because you’re rich.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Am I?”

“Harry.”

He looked back at her over his shoulder, amused by the sudden use of his name.

Y/N gestured vaguely at the enormous windows, the ocean, the furniture that looked expensive enough to have opinions. “This house has emotional distance from tax brackets.”

He laughed properly then, head tipping back, the sound filling the kitchen as they entered it.

Y/N smiled despite herself.

The kitchen opened onto a terrace, where the pool stretched toward the horizon in a sheet of impossible blue. Beyond it, the ocean moved in slow, shimmering folds. A shaded dining table sat beneath a wooden pergola, already set with a jug of water, sliced fruit, and covered plates.

Harry walked to the fridge. “I had lunch brought in earlier. Nothing fancy.”

Y/N eyed the covered plates. “I don’t trust rich people when they say nothing fancy.”

“I’ll remember that.”

He pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her first. She took it gratefully, drinking half before she realised he was watching her with quiet satisfaction.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“You have a dad face.”

“A what?”

“A dad face. Like you were about to say hydration is important.”

“Hydration is important.”

“Oh my God.”

Harry laughed, holding up both hands. “I’m sorry. Occupational hazard.”

“Architecture causes that?”

“Fatherhood.”

The word should have made the moment less strange.

It did.

Mostly.

Y/N sat at the kitchen island while Harry uncovered plates and explained what everything was. Grilled fish, rice, salad, plantains, some kind of sauce he promised was not too spicy unless she had “a tragic tolerance.” Y/N told him she had survived campus dining for three years, so her body no longer feared consequences.

He gave her a plate, and she ate like someone who had recently considered pretzels a meal.

For a while, the conversation stayed safe. Easy. Scarlett. Flights. The villa. The weather. Harry asked if she needed anything from town, and Y/N said she needed her best friend and a new personality. Harry said he could probably manage snacks, but the personality might take longer.

She laughed with her mouth full and immediately covered it with her hand.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I was raised better.”

“Were you?”

“Debatable.”

Harry smiled, leaning back against the counter with his own plate balanced in one hand. He had buttoned nothing. The white linen still hung open, sun-warmed skin visible beneath it, ink shifting when he moved.

Y/N forced her eyes to the food.

Food was safe.

Rice was moral.

Plantains did not have daughters.

“So,” Harry said after a moment, “journalism.”

Y/N looked up slowly. “Scarlett really did give you my biography.”

“She gave me highlights.”

“Did she include my weaknesses?”

“Green juice. Airport anxiety. Raccoons.”

Y/N set her fork down. “That woman is dead to me.”

“She said you’re a good writer.”

That made her still.

Harry’s expression was casual, but his eyes were attentive again, the way they had been when he first saw her. Not prying. Just present.

“She thinks that because she loves me,” Y/N said lightly.

“Maybe.”

“Definitely.”

“Or maybe she loves you and you’re a good writer.”

Y/N glanced down at her plate, uncomfortable with the kindness. Compliments always felt easier when she could swat them away, turn them into jokes, make them harmless before they could settle too deeply.

“You haven’t read anything I’ve written.”

“No,” Harry said. “But Scarlett has. She doesn’t praise things she doesn’t mean.”

That was true.

Scarlett could be supportive, but she was not dishonest. If Y/N wrote something terrible, Scarlett would say, “This has potential,” in the exact tone doctors used before delivering bad news.

Y/N picked at a grain of rice with her fork. “I like writing. I just don’t know what I’m doing with it.”

“That seems normal.”

“It does?”

“At your age? Yes.”

“You say that like you’re ancient.”

“I’m not ancient.”

“No?”

“I’m seasoned.”

Y/N laughed. “That’s what food says before it expires.”

Harry pointed his fork at her. “Careful.”

“Sorry. Respecting elders. Very important.”

“Elders?”

“You said seasoned.”

“I’m thirty-nine.”

“Exactly. A historic age.”

Harry looked offended for half a second before amusement took over. “You’re very cheeky for someone eating my food.”

“It’s how I show gratitude.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Deep cultural practice.”

“I’ll tell Scarlett you arrived safely and immediately insulted me.”

“She’ll say I was being myself.”

“She already warned me about that too.”

Their laughter settled into the warm kitchen air.

It would have been simple, Y/N thought, if he had been boring. If he had been stern, awkward, too parental, too distant. It would have been simple if he had treated her like one of Scarlett’s friends in the broad, dismissive way some parents did, as if everyone under twenty-five were part of the same noisy species.

But Harry was not dismissive.

He listened when she spoke. He smiled like he was actually entertained. He made jokes quietly, without needing to dominate the room. He asked questions and then waited for the answers.

It was a dangerous kind of charm because it did not announce itself.

It just made you comfortable.

And comfort, Y/N knew, was how people ended up telling strangers too much.

She reached for her water and took another sip.

“I should probably shower,” she said. “Before I permanently become airplane.”

Harry pushed away from the counter at once, as if reminded of his role as host. “Of course. I’ll show you to your room.”

“You don’t have to. I can wander until I find something guest-shaped.”

“This house is confusing the first day.”

“Because it’s offensive.”

“Because it’s badly laid out,” he corrected. “Which pains me.”

“You’re the architect.”

“I didn’t design this one.”

“Convenient.”

“True.”

He led her upstairs, the air cooling as they moved away from the sunlit kitchen. The hallway was wide and quiet, lined with framed sketches of buildings Y/N assumed were his. Some were modern, all sharp lines and glass. Others looked older, softer, full of arches and shaded courtyards. She slowed near one drawing without meaning to.

Harry noticed.

“That was in Seville,” he said.

“You designed it?”

“A hotel renovation. Years ago.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He was quiet for a second.

When Y/N looked at him, he seemed almost caught off guard by the compliment, which made no sense because surely people told him that all the time. People probably paid him obscene amounts of money because of things like that.

“Thank you,” he said.

There was something different in his voice now. Softer. Less teasing.

Y/N looked away first.

The guest room was at the end of the hall, behind a white door Harry pushed open with his shoulder. The room beyond was bright and airy, with pale blue walls, white curtains, a large bed, and glass doors leading onto a private balcony overlooking the water. Her suitcase sat near the wardrobe, her tote placed carefully on a cushioned bench.

Y/N stepped inside and forgot to pretend not to be impressed.

“Oh.”

Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching her reaction with quiet amusement. “Will this do?”

She turned to him slowly. “I think my entire apartment could fit in the bathroom.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“This room is nicer than my life.”

“I’ll take that as yes.”

She walked toward the balcony doors, drawn by the view. The ocean spread below, endless and bright. The pool glittered to the left. Farther down, a narrow path curved through tropical greenery toward what looked like a private beach.

The sight did something strange to her chest.

For the first time all day, she felt the possibility of the trip again.

Not the ruined version. Not the version with Scarlett missing and panic sitting heavy in her stomach.

A different version.

One she did not understand yet.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

Behind her, Harry did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was lower. “Scarlett loves this room.”

Y/N turned.

He was looking past her, toward the water, but his expression had changed. The fondness there was unmistakable, touched with worry and distance. It reminded Y/N so sharply of Scarlett that any strange flutter in her stomach cooled into something more tender.

“She’ll be here soon,” Y/N said.

Harry looked at her then.

“I know.”

The silence that followed was not awkward, exactly. It was too full to be awkward. Full of Scarlett’s absence. Full of the strange intimacy of being two people connected by someone who was not there.

Then Harry straightened, clearing his throat.

“I’ll let you settle in. Fresh towels are in the bathroom. There’s sunscreen in the drawer by the sink, because my daughter thinks I’m incapable of keeping guests alive without written instructions.”

“Smart woman.”

“She is.”

“If I need anything, should I call you? Text? Scream dramatically from the balcony?”

“The last one might alarm the neighbours.”

“You have neighbours?”

“Somewhere.”

“Of course.”

He smiled. “Texting works. Or I’ll be downstairs.”

“Okay.”

Harry stepped back into the hall, hand resting on the door.

For a second, Y/N thought he might say something else.

Instead, he gave her a small, polite nod. “Welcome, Y/N.”

There was nothing inappropriate about the way he said it.

Nothing at all.

So why it felt like something warm had pressed beneath her ribs, Y/N could not say.

“Thank you, Harry.”

His name felt different in her mouth now that they were alone in the doorway of a bedroom.

Apparently, Harry noticed too.

His eyes flickered, just slightly.

Then the moment passed.

He smiled once, closed the door behind him, and left Y/N standing in the middle of a room that was far too beautiful for the thoughts currently forming in her head.

She waited three full seconds.

Then she grabbed her phone.

Y/N: Scarlett.

No answer.

Y/N paced once across the room.

Y/N: SCARLETT.

Still nothing.

She stared at the closed door, then at the balcony, then at her suitcase.

Her phone finally buzzed.

Scarlett: What???

Scarlett: I’m at the passport office.

Scarlett: Are you okay?

Y/N typed, deleted, typed again.

Y/N: Your dad is not beige.

Scarlett replied with a string of question marks.

Y/N groaned and dropped face-first onto the bed.

The mattress was absurdly soft.

Of course it was.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly above her.

This was bad.

Not catastrophic bad. Not yet. But bad in the way a candle too close to a curtain was bad. Technically nothing had happened. Technically everything was fine. Technically Harry had been kind, polite, funny, and entirely appropriate.

Technically, Y/N was the problem.

She covered her face with both hands.

“No,” she whispered into her palms. “Absolutely not.”

Her phone buzzed again.

Scarlett: What does that mean?

Y/N looked at the message.

Then she looked toward the closed door.

Then she did what any loyal, moral, completely sane best friend would do.

She lied.

Y/N: Nothing.

Y/N: He’s nice.

Y/N: The house is insane.

Y/N: I’m going to shower.

Scarlett sent back a heart, a crying emoji, and then:

Scarlett: Thank you for going. I know it’s weird.

Scarlett: Love you.

The guilt was immediate.

Sharp and clean.

Y/N stared at the words until they blurred slightly.

Love you.

Scarlett trusted her. Of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? There was nothing to distrust. There would never be anything to distrust.

Y/N sat up, suddenly annoyed with herself.

Harry was attractive. So what? Attractive people existed. She had survived attractive people before. Professors. Baristas. Anthony Plane Guy with his unfair smile and his “text me if the dad is terrifying” joke. Attraction did not mean anything unless someone fed it, and Y/N had no intention of feeding this.

This was Scarlett’s father.

That was the beginning and end of it.

Decision made.

Moral compass restored.

She stood, unzipped her suitcase, and began pulling out toiletries with unnecessary force.

The shower helped.

For fifteen minutes, Y/N stood beneath cool water and let the day wash away in layers. Airport sweat. Plane anxiety. The sticky salt of the island air. The lingering embarrassment of meeting Harry looking like someone who had been assembled in the dark.

By the time she stepped out, wrapped in a towel softer than any fabric had the right to be, she felt almost human again.

Almost.

She dressed carefully, which was irritating because careful meant she was thinking. She did not want to be thinking. She wanted to throw on the first thing she found and prove to herself that Harry’s existence had not affected her ability to choose clothing like a normal person.

But the suitcase betrayed her.

Every outfit suddenly seemed wrong.

Too casual. Too dressy. Too obvious. Too much skin. Too little personality. Too “girl trying hard not to look like she tried,” which was, embarrassingly, exactly what she had become.

Eventually, she settled on a simple white sundress, light enough for the heat, loose enough not to look intentional, pretty enough to save her from feeling like airplane cargo. She brushed her hair out and let it fall damp over her shoulders, then added lip balm and immediately told herself that did not count as effort.

When she opened the bedroom door, the hallway was quiet.

The house seemed different now that she was clean and barefoot. Less intimidating, maybe, though no less beautiful. The late afternoon light had softened, turning the walls honey-warm. Somewhere downstairs, music played low. Not loud enough to identify at first, only a slow drift of guitar and voice rising through the open space.

Y/N followed it.

Halfway down the stairs, she saw Harry.

He was standing at the large table near the windows, bent over a sheet of drawings, one hand braced against the surface while the other moved a pencil in short, precise strokes. He had changed into loose linen trousers and a faded black T-shirt that fit him a little too well. His hair, no longer damp, looked fuller now—thick, slightly unruly, pushed back from his face with just enough texture to keep it from looking too neat. The light stubble along his jaw softened the sharpness of his features, giving him a more rugged look than she remembered from earlier.

The open glass doors behind him let in the sound of the ocean.

For a moment, Y/N stopped.

Not because he looked beautiful, though he did.

Because he looked absorbed.

There was something quietly intimate about watching someone concentrate when they did not know they were being watched. His face had lost the easy host smile. His jaw was set, brows drawn slightly together, mouth relaxed but unsmiling. He looked younger like that and older too, somehow. Less like Scarlett’s charming father and more like a man alone with whatever lived inside his head.

Y/N should have kept walking.

Instead, one stair creaked beneath her foot.

Harry looked up.

The moment broke.

His eyes found her, and Y/N was certain — absolutely certain — that his gaze changed before he could stop it. Not dramatically. Not in some obvious, scandalous way. Just a flicker. A pause. The faintest catch in the rhythm of his expression as he took in the sundress, her damp hair, her bare feet on the stairs.

Then he smiled, polite and warm.

“Feel better?”

Y/N descended the last steps, gripping the railing as if gravity had become complicated. “Less like a haunted suitcase, yes.”

“That’s progress.”

“I thought so.”

She stopped near the table but kept a careful distance, glancing at the drawings spread across it. “Am I interrupting?”

“No.” Harry looked down at the plans as if remembering them. “I needed an excuse to stop glaring at this anyway.”

“What did it do?”

“Refused to work.”

“Rude.”

“Very.”

Y/N leaned slightly closer, curiosity getting the better of her. The page was filled with clean lines, angles, notes in handwriting that was sharper than she expected, all slant and confidence. She understood almost none of it, but the precision was beautiful.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A mixed-use building in London. Retail on the lower levels, flats above, shared green spaces, rooftop gardens. At least, that’s the dream.”

“Why are you glaring at it then?”

“Because the dream currently has terrible circulation.”

Y/N blinked. “Like blood flow?”

Harry looked up.

She smiled innocently.

He laughed, low and surprised. “Pedestrian circulation. How people move through the space.”

“Right. Obviously. I knew that.”

“Did you?”

“Not even a little.”

He grinned and turned the page slightly toward her. “Here. See this entrance?”

Y/N stepped closer without meaning to.

Harry pointed to a section near the corner of the drawing. His hand was close enough that she could see a small smear of graphite along his thumb.

“If people come in here, they naturally want to move this way,” he explained, tracing an invisible path above the paper. “But the lift core interrupts the flow, and if I move that, the whole residential layout starts sulking.”

“Buildings sulk?”

“Constantly.”

“That must be exhausting for you.”

“You’ve no idea.”

Y/N studied the page with theatrical seriousness. “Have you considered telling the building to stop being dramatic?”

“I did. It ignored me.”

“Typical London behaviour.”

Harry’s eyes lifted to hers, amused. “You’ve been to London?”

“Once. It rained sideways and a pigeon stole part of my sandwich.”

“Sounds right.”

“I respect the culture.”

His smile lingered.

So did hers.

Then the air shifted again, not enough to name, but enough for Y/N to feel it. She was standing too close. Not touching, not even nearly, but close enough to notice the clean scent of him — soap, sun, faint cologne, graphite. Close enough that when a breeze moved through the room, a strand of her damp hair brushed her collarbone and Harry’s gaze followed it for half a second before returning to the plans.

Half a second.

Nothing.

Still, Y/N stepped back.

Harry noticed.

Of course he did.

He straightened slowly and reached for his glass of water, expression unreadable now. “Dinner should be here soon. I hope you’re alright with eating outside.”

“I’m in the Bahamas. I think eating inside would be illegal.”

“Good point.”

“And I’m alright with anything that doesn’t involve pretzels.”

“I’ll make a note.”

He looked down at the plans again, but his pencil did not move.

Y/N shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Can I help with anything?”

“With dinner?”

“Yes.”

“It’s being delivered.”

“With… plates?”

“There are plates.”

“Glasses?”

“Those too.”

“Very advanced household.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “You don’t have to perform politeness.”

Y/N’s face warmed. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being a good guest.”

“You can be a good guest by relaxing.”

“That sounds fake.”

“It’s not.”

“It feels like a trap.”

He leaned one hip against the table, folding his arms. “Do you struggle with relaxing?”

“No.”

Harry waited.

Y/N sighed. “Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“Don’t look pleased about it.”

“I’m not pleased. I’m concerned.”

“That’s worse. Anthony was concerned too.”

The name left her mouth before she thought better of it.

Harry’s expression did not change much, but something sharpened. Not jealousy. That would have been ridiculous. Impossible. But attention, certainly.

“Anthony?” he asked.

Y/N reached for the safest tone possible. “Plane guy.”

“Plane guy,” Harry repeated.

“He sat beside me. He was nice. Talked me through my crisis.”

“Did he?”

“Not literally. Mostly he laughed at me.”

“Sounds helpful.”

“It was, actually.”

Harry looked back at the plans, picking up his pencil again. “Good. I’m glad you had company.”

It was the correct thing to say.

The appropriate thing.

The adult thing.

Y/N hated that she noticed how carefully he said it.

“He gave me his number,” she added, because apparently self-sabotage was her spiritual gift. “In case I need to escape the mysterious dad villa.”

Harry’s pencil paused.

Then he looked up at her.

“Mysterious dad villa?”

Y/N pressed her lips together.

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was humour there. “Is that what you’re calling my home?”

“It was a private branding exercise.”

“I see.”

“It tested well with anxious travellers.”

“I’ll have to improve the hospitality, then.”

“You fed me. That helped.”

“Only helped?”

“I’m still evaluating.”

Harry shook his head, smiling down at the page. “Tough crowd.”

Y/N smiled too, but her phone buzzed in her hand before she could answer.

Scarlett.

Her name lit the screen like a warning.

For a second, Y/N did not move.

Then she answered.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Scarlett said, sounding exhausted and far away. “I have been emotionally assaulted by bureaucracy.”

Y/N’s face softened at once. “Oh, babe.”

Harry looked up from the table.

Y/N turned slightly away, not because she needed privacy exactly, but because the sound of Scarlett’s voice made the room rearrange itself again. Made it innocent. Made it wrong that anything had felt strange at all.

“What happened?” Y/N asked.

“They can rush it, but not as fast as Dad hoped. I might not get out until the end of the week.”

Y/N closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I feel awful.”

“Don’t. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s not,” Y/N admitted, because Scarlett would know if she lied. “But I’m okay.”

“You promise?”

Y/N glanced, without meaning to, toward Harry.

He was watching her now, concern clear in his face.

She looked away.

“I promise,” she said.

“Is Dad being normal?”

Y/N coughed. “What kind of question is that?”

“A valid one.”

“He’s being very normal.”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted.

Y/N pointed at him in warning even though Scarlett could not see.

“Good,” Scarlett said. “Tell him to stop working.”

“He is literally drawing a building right now.”

Scarlett groaned. “Dad!”

Harry smiled faintly and held out his hand.

Y/N hesitated, then handed him the phone.

“Hello, love,” he said, voice changing so gently that Y/N had to look away.

There was warmth in it. Familiarity. The private softness of a father speaking to his daughter.

Y/N busied herself by studying the ocean through the windows, throat tight for no reason she wanted to examine.

“I know,” Harry said into the phone. “We’ll sort it. Don’t cry at anyone unless it helps… No, threatening to cry is different… Yes, she’s here… She’s fine… She’s been fed.”

Y/N turned back and mouthed, Fed?

Harry ignored her, though his eyes warmed with amusement.

“No, I’m not embarrassing you,” he continued. “You do that well on your own.”

Y/N heard Scarlett’s muffled outrage through the phone and smiled.

Harry laughed softly. “Alright. Call me after the appointment. Love you.”

He handed the phone back.

Y/N took it carefully, fingertips brushing his for the smallest second.

Nothing.

Less than nothing.

Still, both of them seemed to notice.

Y/N lifted the phone quickly to her ear. “Scar?”

“If he starts talking about buildings, pretend to listen.”

“I heard that,” Harry said.

“You were meant to,” Scarlett replied.

Y/N laughed, but guilt threaded through it again, quiet and insistent.

After they hung up, the sun had dipped lower, laying gold across the floor between them. Dinner arrived not long after, carried in by a woman named Marisol who greeted Harry like an old friend and Y/N like someone she had already decided to feed properly.

They ate outside beneath the pergola.

The evening unfolded slowly, the way things seemed to on the island. The sky changed colour by degrees, blue deepening into lavender, then orange, then a bruised pink that caught along the edges of the clouds. The pool lights clicked on as the sun sank lower, turning the water luminous. Somewhere beyond the garden, waves broke against rocks in a steady hush.

Harry poured them both water. Y/N made a joke about rich people owning too many forks. Harry explained the dishes. Y/N tried conch for the first time and declared she needed a moment of silence. Harry watched her with the kind of amusement that made her both pleased and deeply uncomfortable.

They spoke about Scarlett mostly.

That was safer.

Harry told her stories from Scarlett’s childhood — how she once tried to run away at seven because he would not let her keep a stray cat, how she had insisted on wearing rain boots to a wedding, how she used to fall asleep under his drafting table while he worked late.

Y/N listened, smiling.

“She makes more sense now,” she said after one story involving Scarlett staging a protest at school because the cafeteria changed the chips.

“She’s always had strong feelings.”

“She still does.”

“I know.”

“She acts like she came out of the womb with a legal argument prepared.”

Harry laughed, but his expression softened. “She was tiny. Furious, but tiny.”

Y/N tried to picture it and found she could. A little Scarlett with wild determination and bright eyes, already unwilling to accept nonsense from the world.

“She talks about you like that too, you know,” Harry said.

Y/N looked up from her plate. “Like what?”

“Like you make sense of things.”

The comment was too direct. Too gentle. It slipped beneath her defences before she could make it funny.

“I don’t think I do,” she said.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “No?”

“No. I think I mostly panic until something accidentally works out.”

“That’s one method.”

“Not a prestigious one.”

“Still a method.”

She smiled faintly, looking out toward the water. “Scarlett makes me braver than I am.”

Harry was quiet long enough that Y/N felt him considering the sentence.

Then he said, “Maybe she just reminds you.”

Y/N turned back to him.

The patio lights had come on overhead, soft and warm, catching the green in his eyes. In the dimming light, he looked less like the shocking first impression in the entryway and more like something harder to ignore. Not just handsome. Present. Thoughtful. Dangerous in the most ordinary way.

He did not flirt.

That was the problem.

If he flirted, Y/N could dismiss him. She could roll her eyes internally and build a wall out of loyalty and common sense. But Harry simply looked at her sometimes as if what she said mattered, and Y/N did not know what to do with that.

So she reached for her glass and said, “That sounded wise. I hate it.”

His mouth curved. “Sorry.”

“You should be. Now I have to reflect.”

“Terrible dinner activity.”

“Exactly.”

They finished eating as the sky darkened. The conversation thinned after that, not because it died, but because the night seemed to ask for quiet. Y/N tucked one leg beneath herself on the chair and listened to the ocean. Harry sat across from her, one arm resting along the back of his chair, his gaze occasionally drifting to the water, then back to her, then away again.

There were spaces between them where words could have gone.

Neither of them filled them.

Eventually, Y/N’s phone buzzed.

Anthony.

Anthony Plane Guy: Did the mysterious dad villa turn out to be haunted or just expensive?

Y/N smiled before she could stop herself.

Across the table, Harry noticed.

Of course he did.

“Plane guy?” he asked, tone light.

Y/N looked up. “Are you mocking me?”

“A little.”

“He’s checking I survived.”

“Thoughtful.”

“Very.”

Harry reached for his water. “You should tell him you did.”

“I was planning to.”

“Good.”

Again, the right thing.

Again, carefully said.

Y/N looked down at her phone and typed:

Y/N: Just expensive. Deeply offensive amount of windows.

Y/N: I survived dinner.

Y/N: No ghosts so far.

Anthony replied with a laughing emoji and an invitation to join him and his friends at the beach the next afternoon if she got bored.

Y/N did not answer that part yet.

When she set the phone down, Harry was looking toward the ocean.

Not at her.

Not at the phone.

The angle of his jaw had changed, though. Just slightly. Tighter than before.

Y/N told herself she was imagining it.

She had to be.

Harry stood a few minutes later and began clearing plates despite her protests. Y/N helped anyway, carrying glasses into the kitchen while he stacked dishes. The domesticity of it felt strange, almost too normal. Bare feet on cool tile. Sleeves brushing near the sink. A quiet song still playing somewhere in the living room.

“Thank you for dinner,” Y/N said when there was nothing left to carry.

“Thank Marisol. I only opened containers.”

“Still. Thank you for… today. I know you didn’t sign up to babysit me.”

Harry leaned back against the counter. “I’m not babysitting you.”

“No?”

“You’re an adult.”

The word settled between them with uncomfortable precision.

Y/N felt her face warm, though she did not know why. “Right.”

Harry seemed to realise how it sounded at the same time she did. He looked away, jaw shifting once as if he were biting back a correction.

Then he said, softer, “I just meant you’re welcome here. That’s all.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met.

The kitchen seemed too quiet suddenly.

Y/N became aware of the distance between them, of the island night pressing against the windows, of the fact that Scarlett was thousands of miles away, and there was no one else in the room to make the moment ordinary.

Harry’s gaze dropped.

Not far.

Only to her mouth.

Then it was gone, so fast she might have missed it if she had not been watching him with the same terrible attention.

He straightened at once.

“I should let you get some rest,” he said.

“Yes,” Y/N said too quickly. “Good idea. Rest. Huge fan.”

His smile was small, almost strained. “Long day.”

“So long.”

She backed toward the doorway, then stopped because backing away from someone like a startled cartoon character was not exactly subtle. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

She went upstairs without looking back.

Or rather, she made it halfway upstairs without looking back.

Then she did.

Harry was still in the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter, head bowed slightly as if he needed a second before moving.

Y/N’s chest tightened.

She turned away before he could look up and hurried the rest of the way to her room.

Once inside, she closed the door quietly and leaned back against it.

The room was dim, lit only by the glow of the balcony and the soft gold lamp beside the bed. Outside, the ocean moved in the dark. Everything smelled faintly of salt and clean sheets.

Y/N pressed both hands over her face.

“No,” she whispered.

The word sounded less convincing than it had earlier.

Her phone buzzed again.

Scarlett.

Scarlett: Going back tomorrow morning. Might have better news then.

Scarlett: How was dinner?

Scarlett: Dad didn’t bore you too much, did he?

Y/N stared at the message until guilt crept cold and certain through her stomach.

Then she typed carefully.

Y/N: Dinner was good.

Y/N: He was nice.

Y/N: Miss you.

Scarlett sent back:

Scarlett: Miss you more.

Scarlett: Thank you for being there with him. I hate thinking of him alone in that house.

Scarlett: He pretends he likes it but he doesn’t.

Y/N lowered herself onto the edge of the bed.

Downstairs, faintly, she heard a cabinet close.

Then footsteps.

Then silence.

She read Scarlett’s message again.

Thank you for being there with him.

Y/N locked her phone and placed it face down on the bedside table.

Outside, the sea kept moving in the dark, steady and indifferent.

And in the quiet of the guest room, with the island night pressed warm against the glass, Y/N finally admitted the truth to herself.

The problem was not that Harry Styles had been rude, or cold, or impossible to live with until Scarlett arrived.

The problem was that he had been kind.

Funny.

Careful.

The problem was that he had looked at her once, only once, like he had forgotten he was not supposed to.

And the worst part was that Y/N had looked back.