while she's away — three (Patreon)

Author’s note: This chapter has been sitting in my drafts for days. 😭 I’ve been meaning to post it, but school has been kicking my ass lately. It’s finally here! I hope you enjoy it, and as always, let me know what you think.

"You are welcome, Dad." Y/N clicked her phone screen off and turned toward the door.

The second the word left her mouth, she regretted it.

Harry went still.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice if they had been standing in the room with them. But Y/N noticed. She noticed the way his expression closed, the way his jaw tightened, the way the easy warmth in his eyes disappeared before he could cover it. The word sat between them, ugly and awkward and far too honest for the soft evening light.

Y/N froze, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. "Oh my God," she said quickly. "I did not mean that."

Harry looked down at his phone, then back at her. "Clearly." The word was calm, but there was a distinct edge to it.

"I panicked."

"That seems to happen a lot."

"Okay, slightly rude."

His mouth twitched, though he didn't smile. "Slightly accurate."

The silence after that was awful. Not loud, not cruel, but heavy in a way that made Y/N wish she could snatch the word out of the air and swallow it whole. She had meant it as a joke, a stupid, defensive joke because he had asked for the address and looked at her like he was trying not to care too much.

But it had landed wrong. Of course it had.

Harry was Scarlett’s father. That was the entire problem. The one thing they were both pretending was enough to keep everything simple.

"I’m sorry," Y/N said, softer this time. "That was weird."

Harry exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting toward the glass doors where the pool lights turned the terrace a cool, distant blue. For a moment, the annoyance faded, leaving him looking less angry than tired. Tired of the boundary being there. Tired of needing it. Tired, maybe, of being reminded.

"It’s fine."

"It doesn’t sound fine."

His eyes snapped back to hers, sharp and direct. "It’s not a word I particularly enjoy hearing from you."

Y/N’s breath caught before she could stop it.

Harry seemed to realize what he had said the exact moment she did. His expression shifted, the raw edge quickly disappearing beneath something more careful, more controlled.

"I mean," he added, quieter, "I’m not your father."

The correction should have helped. It did not.

"No," Y/N said, her voice embarrassingly small. "You’re not."

Another heavy beat passed. Outside, a cab horn sounded softly near the front of the villa.

Y/N looked toward the door with desperate relief. "That’s me."

Harry nodded once, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Have fun." The words were polite, but the strain underneath them remained.

"I’ll try."

"You should."

Y/N hated the word should. It had been following her around since Anthony texted. She should go out. She should have fun. She should want the sweet, uncomplicated boy her own age. She should not be standing in Scarlett’s father’s living room feeling wounded because he did not like being called what he was.

Harry’s gaze held hers for another second. Then he said, softer, "And Y/N?"

She stopped with her hand on the doorframe. "Yes?"

"If anything feels off, text me."

Her throat tightened. Even annoyed, even careful, he was still doing that. Still making sure she had a way back.

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Harry nodded, but his expression did not fully soften. "Good."

Y/N stepped outside before she could say anything else. The evening air wrapped around her bare shoulders, warm and salt-heavy, and for the first time since she had come downstairs, she could breathe properly.

The evening air wrapped around her the second she stepped outside, warm, damp, and heavy with salt. The sky had deepened into violet, with a thin smear of orange still clinging to the horizon beyond the palms. Behind the house, the pool glowed blue and luminous in the gathering dark, while the cab waited at the bottom of the steps with its headlights low.

She climbed into the backseat after giving the driver the name of the beach bar Anthony had sent. The car smelled faintly of mint and plastic, and the driver greeted her with a cheerful ease that made her realize she had been holding her shoulders tense for the past twenty minutes.

As they pulled away, Y/N told herself not to look back.

Naturally, she looked back.

Harry stood in the doorway. Not outside. Not following. Just there, one hand braced against the frame, his figure silhouetted by the warm light of the villa. He was too far away for her to see his expression clearly, but she knew he was watching. She felt it in a way that irritated her, because no one should be able to make themselves felt from that distance.

The cab turned down the private road, and the villa disappeared behind a curve of palms.

Y/N sat back and released a breath. Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

Scarlett: Are you on your way?

Scarlett: Did you leave?

Scarlett: Did Dad interrogate you?

Scarlett: Did he embarrass me?

Y/N stared at the screen, laughing softly despite herself. Scarlett had a talent for being aggressively present even from another continent.

Y/N: Yes, I left

Y/N: No interrogation

Y/N: You are embarrassing yourself from afar

Scarlett: It’s a gift.

Scarlett: Plane Guy excited?

Y/N: His name is Anthony.

Scarlett: Plane Guy is better.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she was smiling.

Y/N: He seems nice.

Scarlett: Good. You deserve nice.

Scarlett: And uncomplicated.

Y/N’s smile faded a little.

Uncomplicated.

She looked out the window at the dark road slipping past, palm shadows moving over the glass in quick, uneven patterns. It was the exact word she had been reaching for without wanting to hold it too firmly. Anthony was nice. He was funny. He had been easy to talk to on the plane. He didn't come with a lifetime of loyalty attached to someone Y/N loved. He didn't make her feel guilty for noticing the shape of his hands or the tone of his voice.

He was uncomplicated. That was good. That was what she should want.

Y/N: I know.

She stared at the message after sending it, feeling as if she had admitted something without meaning to. Scarlett sent back a string of heart emojis, followed by a final text.

Scarlett: Have fun. And send me a picture if he’s cute.

Y/N laughed again, grateful for the escape into something lighter.

Y/N: Absolutely not.

Scarlett: So he is cute.

Y/N: Goodbye.

She locked her phone and set it in her lap.

For the rest of the drive, she tried to focus on the island passing outside. Night had softened everything. The bright, postcard colors from earlier had melted into shadow, broken only by streetlights, shop signs, and the occasional burst of music spilling from open doorways. Couples wandered barefoot near the road with sandals dangling from their hands. Laughter rose from a cluster of restaurants and faded behind the cab as it drove on.

The Bahamas at night felt looser than during the day. Less polished. More alive.

Y/N told herself that was good, too. A place with noise. People. Music. A guy waiting for her who was not forbidden by every moral law she respected.

By the time the cab pulled up to the beach bar, she had almost convinced herself.

The bar sat right on the sand, built as if walls were optional and the ocean was part of the furniture. Weathered wood, low roofs, and string lights looping between palm trees led down to mismatched tables scattered across the deck. Music rolled into the night, bright and rhythmic, carrying the scent of rum, citrus, and warm sunscreen. It was designed to make tourists feel spontaneous.

Y/N paid the driver and stepped out, smoothing the hem of her black dress. The air here was warmer, crowded with bodies and sound. Girls in tiny dresses leaned against the bar with sweating glasses. Men in printed shirts laughed near high tables. A group danced barefoot where the wooden deck met the sand.

For one second, Y/N missed the quiet villa so sharply it startled her.

Then she heard her name.

"Y/N."

Anthony was walking toward her from the bar, a grin already spreading across his face. He had kept his promise about the buttons. His shirt was pale blue, rolled at the sleeves and open at the throat in a way that looked relaxed rather than calculated. His curls were slightly messy from the humidity, and his smile was bright enough to pull her straight out of her head.

"Plane Girl made it," he said.

Y/N sighed. "Please don’t tell me that nickname has gone public."

He winced. "Define public."

"Anthony."

"My friends know it, but only because they’re invested in your survival story."

"I was on a commercial flight, not lost at sea."

"You were abandoned by your best friend and sent to a mysterious villa with a man you’d never met. That has range."

"That has legal implications."

He laughed, and the sound was easy, with no hidden edge and no careful distance. Anthony’s amusement asked nothing from her except permission to join in.

"You look really nice," he said, softer now.

Y/N glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. "Thank you."

"Very 'not a haunted villa hostage.'"

"That was the goal."

"You nailed it."

The compliment landed exactly as it should: sweet, light, flattering. It didn't make the floor tilt. It didn't make guilt flare in her throat. It didn't echo.

Y/N smiled. "Buttons were a bold choice," she said, nodding at his shirt.

Anthony looked down at himself. "I wanted you to see I’m serious about the evening."

"How many did you manage before giving up?"

"Enough to suggest effort. Not enough to suggest emotional availability."

Y/N laughed. "Healthy balance."

"I try." He offered a loose gesture toward the deck, not quite taking her hand, not presuming. "Come on. I’ll introduce you before they invent something worse than Plane Girl."

"That implies they already have."

"A few options are circulating."

"I should leave."

"You should stay and defend your reputation."

"My reputation died the second you said 'Plane Girl.'"

"Then you’ve got nothing to lose."

She followed him through the crowd, surprised by how quickly the night began to feel possible.

Anthony’s friends were gathered around a high wooden table near the edge of the sand. They greeted her with an enthusiasm that might have been overwhelming if it were not so clearly harmless.

Dylan spoke first, lifting his drink like she had just arrived at a royal ceremony. "Plane Girl."

Y/N turned to Anthony. "I knew it."

Anthony pressed a hand to his chest. "I tried to stop them."

“You absolutely did not,” said a girl in a green dress, leaning forward across the table with a bright grin. “I’m Maya, by the way. He has been talking about you since breakfast.”

Anthony groaned, burying his face in his hands. “That is wildly exaggerated.”

“It is mildly exaggerated,” said another girl, Priya, who had calm eyes and a relaxed posture that suggested she had been managing this group’s collective chaos for years.

Leo, a lanky guy with kind eyes and a drink far too brightly colored to be natural, pushed a wooden seat out for Y/N before nearly kicking his own chair over in the process. “Sorry about that. I’m usually remarkably graceful.”

“No, he isn’t,” Dylan interjected, adjusting his posture with a grin.

“Thank you, community,” Leo replied, bowing his head in mock gratitude.

Y/N laughed, slipping into the open space beside Anthony as the tension in her shoulders began to dissipate. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“We know,” Dylan said, winking over his glass. “We’re incredible.”

Maya immediately crumpled her cloth napkin and tossed it directly at his head. “Ignore him. He was raised by attention.”

“That explains so much,” Y/N said, catching Dylan’s sudden look of surprised amusement.

Dylan pointed at her with absolute approval. “She’s quick. I like her.”

Anthony leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice just enough to cut through the surrounding noise. “See? You’re doing great.”

“I haven’t actually done anything,” she murmured back, glancing up at him.

“That’s the secret,” he whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

The night settled around her slowly after that, the ocean breeze keeping the deck cool despite the crowd.

Anthony returned from the bar a few minutes later carrying a glass filled with a cold, fruity drink, topped with a lime wedge and a tiny paper umbrella. Y/N lifted the glass by its slim stem and examined the decoration suspiciously.

“This drink has accessories,” she noted, tilting her head.

“Protection,” Anthony corrected, settling back into his chair.

“From what, exactly?”

“Consequences.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very thoughtful.”

“It’s always important to plan ahead,” he said smoothly.

She took a cautious sip, her eyes widening as the sweet, strong flavor hit her tongue. “Oh, this is dangerous.”

“Good dangerous?” he asked, watching her reaction.

“Freshman year dangerous.”

Maya overhead the comment from across the table and immediately pointed a finger at the glass. “That exact drink will make you text someone you definitely should not text.”

Y/N nearly choked on her sip, the liquid catching in her throat.

Anthony laughed softly, completely oblivious to the way the casual sentence had struck straight into something raw and sharp.

Y/N recovered quickly, focusing very hard on adjusting the tiny umbrella on the rim of her glass. “Good to know. I’ll proceed with extreme caution.”

For a while, keeping that caution was easy.

The group pulled her into their back-and-forth rhythm as if she had been part of the plan all along. They argued about the best local beaches, debated whether karaoke was a display of courage or a public cry for help, and ranked which of the guys had brought the worst vacation shirts. Dylan spent five minutes trying to convince everyone that swimming at night was a deeply spiritual experience, until Priya reminded the table that the last time he tried it, he stepped on a jagged shell and cried for his mother.

Y/N laughed until her cheeks hurt.

She did not laugh politely or performatively to prove she was having fun without Scarlett. She really laughed, the kind that loosened the tight knot in her chest and made the heavy atmosphere of the villa feel a little less permanent.

Anthony stayed right beside her, though he never crowded her space.

He was genuinely good at that, remaining attentive without taking up too much room. He explained inside jokes without making her feel like an outsider, glanced at her drink once to see if she needed a refill, and when she dramatically declared that she was emotionally committed to eating chips, he immediately went to order them.

When the hot food arrived at the table, Y/N decided that was a major point in his favor.

Eventually, the music shifted into a heavier, faster tempo, and Maya reached across the wooden table to grab Y/N’s wrist.

“Come dance,” Maya insisted, tugging lightly on her arm.

Y/N shook her head right away, pulling back slightly. “No, absolutely not.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Maya countered with a grin.

“I don’t know any of you well enough for you to witness my dancing,” Y/N insisted, holding her ground.

“Perfect,” Maya shot back. “Low stakes.”

“I’m strict corner-judger material.”

“Then you can judge from the middle of the dance floor.”

Y/N turned toward Anthony, who was watching the exchange with obvious amusement, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. “Help me out here,” she pleaded.

He lifted both hands in immediate surrender. “I am far too terrified of Maya to intervene.”

“As you should be,” Maya declared, already pulling Y/N off her seat and down the wooden steps toward the sand.

The warm sand pressed through the soles of Y/N’s sandals, the heavy bass vibrating faintly through the ground. The dance area was simply an open patch of beach strung with glowing bulbs where people had gathered to move. It was messy, cheerful, and completely forgiving. Maya danced with the same unbothered confidence she brought to conversation, and Priya joined them a moment later, swaying to the rhythm with a quiet smile as Maya spun around her.

Y/N tried to remain self-conscious, but it proved nearly impossible with Maya shouting absurd compliments every time she moved.

Eventually, Y/N stopped trying to fight it.

She danced.

She did not move like a professional, nor did she care. She simply moved, laughed, and let the beach air wrap around her. The warm wind hit her bare skin as the music thrummed in her chest, the drink loosening her posture while everyone around her shouted lyrics they barely knew.

Anthony watched her from a few feet away, leaning against a wooden support pillar and smiling whenever their eyes met. His gaze wasn't possessive or intense, just genuinely pleased to see her enjoying herself.

It was nice.

That was the word that kept returning to her mind.

Nice.

After a few songs ended, Anthony walked out onto the sand and held out one hand with exaggerated, theatrical courtesy. “May I have this dance?”

Y/N looked down at his outstretched hand, then back up at his face. “That sounds dangerously formal for a beach bar.”

“I’m wearing a collared shirt,” he pointed out, gesturing to his chest. “I have to honor the buttons.”

“Fair point,” she admitted, stepping closer.

She placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm.

Anthony pulled her gently into the movement of the music, keeping a respectful distance at first. He moved with an easy, unpretentious rhythm, guiding her away whenever the crowd drifted too close. When she accidentally stepped on his foot, she gasped, but he only laughed and claimed the bruised toe gave him extra character.

From the table nearby, Dylan let out an obnoxious cheer as if they were performing a routine.

Y/N laughed out loud again, resting her hands naturally as Anthony’s hand settled lightly against her waist.

His touch was warm, respectful, and entirely normal.

It should have made her pulse race.

It did stir a small spark of awareness, enough to remind her that she liked his company. Anthony was attractive, thoughtful, and his hand felt pleasant against the fabric of her dress. The entire setting felt like a scene from a trip she should have been having all along.

That was the frustrating part.

It looked right.

It felt almost right.

Yet it did not make the surrounding world sharpen into hyper-focus.

It did not make her catch her breath unexpectedly. It did not make the quiet moments between songs feel louder than the music itself, and it did not make the simple space between two bodies feel like something dangerous she had to survive.

Y/N hated herself the moment the thought of Harry crossed her mind.

She hated the instinct to compare them before the thought even fully took shape. It was unfair to Anthony, who had been nothing short of wonderful all evening. It was unfair to Scarlett, whose absence was supposed to make the line between them simpler, not more complicated. It was even unfair to Harry, who was back at the villa trying so hard to maintain the boundary that she could still feel the weight of his restraint hours later.

Anthony leaned down closer to her ear so his voice wouldn't get lost in the bass. “You disappeared on me for a second there.”

Y/N blinked, bringing her focus back to his face. “Did I?”

“Just a little,” he said gently, searching her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling a twinge of guilt.

“No need to apologize,” he replied, his thumb brushing once, lightly, against her hip before his hand stilled. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, forcing a bright smile so he would believe it. “I was just distracted watching Dylan dance like he’s actively fighting off a swarm of bees.”

Anthony glanced over his shoulder to where Dylan was flailing his arms with total conviction. “He insists that’s pure rhythm.”

“Someone needs to put a stop to it,” she joked, letting out a soft breath.

“Trust me,” Anthony said with a laugh, turning back to her, “we’ve been trying for years.”

The joke worked. Anthony laughed, and Y/N laughed right along with him, letting the moment drift seamlessly into the background.

But the thought stayed with her.

Harry stayed.

He remained hovering in the quiet corner of her mind where she had been trying not to look, persistent despite the noise surrounding her.

Later, when the crowd on the dance floor grew too warm and the alcohol made her cheeks flush, Y/N stepped away from the main deck. She walked toward the edge of the bar where the string lights thinned into darkness and the sound of the ocean began to drown out the heavy bass.

The water looked almost black now, moonlight breaking across the waves in scattered silver pieces. A few couples stood closer to the shore with their sandals in hand, their soft laughter swept away by the wind. Y/N took a deep breath, letting the salt-heavy air fill her lungs as she enjoyed the sudden space around her.

Her phone buzzed inside her small shoulder bag.

She pulled it out to find a cluster of messages from Scarlett.

Scarlett: Alive?

Scarlett: Having fun?

Scarlett: Is Plane Guy still cute?

Y/N smiled at the screen, her thumbs moving over the keyboard.

Y/N: Alive.

Y/N: Having fun.

Y/N: And yes, Anthony is cute.

Scarlett’s reply lit up the display almost instantly.

Scarlett: ANTHONY.

Scarlett: Look at you using his government name.

Scarlett: That’s serious.

Y/N: It is deeply unserious.

Scarlett: Is he nice?

Y/N paused, looking back toward the brightly lit deck.

Anthony was standing with Leo and Priya, laughing out loud at something Maya was acting out with wild arm gestures. As if he instinctively felt her gaze, he turned his head and looked directly at her. His grin softened into something quieter, warmer, when their eyes met across the sand.

Y/N looked down at her screen again, her heart doing a strange, quiet flip.

Y/N: He is really nice.

Scarlett sent back a heart emoji.

Then a second notification popped up right below it.

Scarlett: Good.

Y/N read the text once, the screen illuminating her face in the dark.

She read it a second time.

Around her, the beach bar continued to hum with energy and music and bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses against wooden tables, and the rhythm of the tide beyond it all. Nothing had physically changed, yet the single word on her screen made something deep inside her stomach sink.

You need someone uncomplicated.

Scarlett was right.

That was precisely why the truth of it hurt.

Anthony was uncomplicated in every single way that mattered. He was not entangled in the most important friendship of her life. He was not older, not off-limits, and not walking on eggshells around her because acknowledging any real feeling would feel like a betrayal. He did not force her to weigh every single glance or touch against her loyalty to someone else.

Anthony was a wide-open door she could step through without breaking anything in the process.

Harry was a locked room with the lights still burning inside.

Y/N closed her eyes for a long moment, letting the cool ocean breeze hit her face.

When she opened them, Anthony was standing right beside her on the sand.

“Strategic pause?” he asked softly, tilting his head with a gentle smile.

She turned to face him, forcing her mouth into an expression that felt almost real. “Exactly.”

Instead of stepping directly into her path, he settled beside her, both of them looking out over the dark water. It was a thoughtful move, giving her plenty of room to breathe, and Y/N appreciated the quiet courtesy more than she expected.

“Everything alright?” he asked, watching the waves crash against the shore.

“Yes,” she said, her voice small against the breeze.

“You say that like someone who has practiced saying yes,” he observed, glancing sideways at her.

Y/N laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That feels suspiciously like an accusation.”

“Just an observation,” he countered lightly.

“Very journalist of you.”

“Hey, that’s your specialty,” he reminded her with a grin.

“I’m off duty tonight,” she said, shaking her head.

“Then I’ll be observant for both of us,” he replied, turning slightly to face her.

She looked at him proper then. The string lights from the bar caught the line of his jaw, softening his smile. He was easy to look at, remarkably easy to stand beside, and simple in a way she desperately wished she could just accept without analyzing.

“I really am okay,” she said, her tone growing quieter. “I think I just miss Scarlett.”

His entire expression softened with genuine understanding. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“It does?” she asked, looking up at him.

“Of course it does,” he said gently. “You were supposed to be exploring this place with your best friend. Instead, you’re stuck here with strangers and a guy from row twelve.”

“Row twelve was actually very supportive,” she pointed out, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Row twelve really tries his best,” he teased back.

Y/N smiled, though a sudden ache pinched behind her ribs. “It’s stupid because this place is beautiful, everyone has been so nice, and I really am having fun. I just keep thinking she should be here to see it. She would have loved this. She would have made fun of everyone’s outfits and then immediately become best friends with the bartender.”

Anthony nodded, his gaze steady on her. “You don’t have to force yourself to be completely fine just because you’re in a beautiful place.”

The words settled gently over her, cutting through the noise in her head.

There was no pressure in his voice, no expectation for her to perform, just plain understanding.

Y/N turned toward him more fully, the sand shifting beneath her sandals. “That’s a very sweet thing to say.”

“I have my moments,” he said smoothly.

“You definitely do.”

“I usually manage to ruin them shortly after, but I do try,” he added with a self-deprecating grin.

She let out a genuine laugh, and his face lit up at the sound.

For a few moments, they simply stood together in the quiet space, listening to the ocean. When another group shuffled past behind them, Anthony’s shoulder brushed against hers, and he immediately shifted his weight to give her extra space.

That gesture, too, was incredibly thoughtful.

Everything about Anthony was nice.

A good, safe kind of nice.

The exact kind of nice she ought to cling to.

Dylan’s loud voice suddenly shattered the quiet moment from back near the wooden deck. “Anthony! We’re moving!”

Anthony looked over his shoulder toward the table. “Moving where?”

“Some club further down the main road,” Maya announced, appearing at the top of the steps with her sandals dangling from one hand and excitement written across her face. “Word is it’s either incredible or completely awful. Either way, it’s useful.”

“Useful for what, exactly?” Priya asked, following close behind her.

“For the plot, obviously.”

“We are not currently in a plot,” Leo called out from the table, taking another sip of his bright drink.

Maya shot him a look. “You’re wearing that exact shirt. You are undeniably the comic relief.”

Y/N laughed at the back-and-forth, but a sudden wave of exhaustion hit her all at once, as though her body had simply been waiting for permission to give up. The thought of walking into another packed room, surrounded by thumping music and crowded bodies, felt completely overwhelming.

Anthony turned back to face her, his eyes searching hers. “Do you want to go with them?”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

Going would be the normal, easy choice. It might even be fun. She could stay by Anthony’s side, let the night carry her along, and fully immerse herself in the vacation storyline that made sense. Perhaps if she kept making the right choice, it would eventually feel natural.

Yet she was simply too tired to keep forcing herself to feel what she was supposed to feel.

“I think I might head back to the villa,” she said softly.

Anthony’s brows drew together in concern. “Already?”

“Not because I didn’t have a good time,” she added quickly, reaching out to touch his arm. “I really did. I promise. I think the travel day and everything else just finally caught up with me.”

“I can easily take you back first,” he offered, already reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“No, stay and go with them,” she insisted, shaking her head.

“I really don’t mind,” he said, looking down at her.

“I know you don’t,” she smiled, stepping back slightly. “But I mind being the girl who kills the night early.”

“You wouldn’t be,” he insisted gently, looking down at her.

“I would,” she countered, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “Quietly. With a tremendous amount of guilt.”

He smiled, though his expression remained reluctant. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes,” she said, offering him a firm nod.

“You have a ride back?” he asked, searching her face.

“Yes,” Y/N said smoothly.

The lie came easily enough because it did not feel like a total lie just yet. She could easily get a ride. There were cars, drivers, apps, and bartenders with numbers. She was an adult woman with access to technology and a functional sense of panic.

Anthony studied her for a second, his eyes softening. “Text me when you get back?”

“I will,” she promised.

“I mean it.”

She looked up at him, tilting her head. “Why is everyone saying that to me today?”

“Maybe you look like someone who argues with people who care about her,” he suggested with a faint grin.

“I do,” she admitted softly.

“Then don’t,” he murmured.

His smile was gentle, and before Y/N could respond, he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

It was quick, warm, and sweet. His lips brushed the side of her face while his hand hovered briefly near her arm without holding her in place. There was no pressure in the gesture, only quiet interest and possibility.

Y/N smiled up at him, genuinely touched by the softness of the moment.

“Goodnight, Plane Girl,” he said, stepping back onto the sand.

“Goodnight, Button Shirt,” she called after him.

He laughed as he backed away toward his group. “That one actually hurts.”

“It was meant to,” she teased.

He walked off with the others, a noisy group of sun-drunk people spilling onto the road with laughter trailing behind them. Anthony looked back once over his shoulder and lifted his hand.

Y/N lifted hers in return.

Then they disappeared into the night.

The situation did not become concerning right away. At first, the beach felt simply quieter without their energy.

Y/N returned to the bar counters and opened her rideshare app. No cars were available nearby. She refreshed the screen, and one appeared twenty-seven minutes away, only to vanish before she could press confirm. She tried a second app with the determination of someone refusing to admit defeat. Nothing.

“That is so incredibly rude,” she muttered directly to her phone.

The bartender called a cab for her when she asked, remaining kind and unconcerned, though she warned that it might take forty minutes because the main roads were backed up near the clubs. Forty minutes was annoying, but certainly not tragic. Y/N thanked her, ordered a cold bottle of water, and found a spot near a wooden post wrapped in string lights.

She could wait forty minutes. She was completely fine.

For the first ten minutes, she remained calm.

The bar was still busy, but she stayed close to the bright lights and the staff. She sent a quick text to Anthony letting him know she was waiting on a cab, telling him not to worry before he could offer to return. He sent back a frowning emoji, followed by a message telling her to stay by the bar and text him the second she left.

Nice. Normal. Responsible.

Over the next ten minutes, the atmosphere around her shifted.

The crowd grew visibly drunker, less aware of their surroundings, and louder in the careless way people became when they forgot anyone else existed. Someone spilled a sticky drink near Y/N’s sandals. A guy stumbled into the post beside her, apologizing three separate times before laughing at himself and drifting away. Two girls began arguing near the bathroom line, one crying while the other insisted she was being dramatic, which Y/N noted was likely not helping the situation.

She checked her screen again.

It was 11:17 p.m., with still no sign of a cab.

A man in boat shoes approached her at 11:22.

The boat shoes were her first warning.

The second warning was the way he leaned against the wooden post far too close to her, asking, “You here all by yourself?”

Y/N smiled politely, which was always her initial mistake in these moments. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“A boyfriend?” he asked, looking around.

“Yes,” she lied smoothly.

He looked around the deck theatrically. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“He isn’t invisible,” she replied, keeping her voice even. “He’s just parking.”

The man laughed as though she had flirted with him. “Funny.”

“I’m really not trying to be,” she said, turning her head away.

That should have ended the exchange, but it did not.

He immediately launched into a story about where he was staying, then his boat, and eventually pivoted to cryptocurrency, which felt like direct cosmic punishment for every poor decision Y/N had ever made. She nodded less and less, turning her body toward the bar, but he kept talking. When he leaned a bit closer, she took a clear step to the side.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

It was Scarlett.

Scarlett: Alive?

Y/N stared down at the screen, then glanced at the man still explaining decentralized finance with absolute confidence.

She typed her reply.

Y/N: Yes.

Y/N: Just waiting for a cab back.

Scarlett answered within seconds.

Scarlett: Alone?

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a breath.

Y/N: At the bar. It’s totally fine.

Scarlett: Is Anthony with you?

Y/N: He went with his friends to another place. I told him to go.

Scarlett: Y/N.

Y/N: Do not.

Scarlett: Text Dad.

Y/N’s stomach did a sudden flip at the words on the screen.

Text Dad.

After her slip of the tongue earlier in the evening, the universe clearly possessed a cruel sense of humor.

Y/N: No.

Scarlett: Yes.

Y/N: The cab is coming.

Scarlett: When?

Y/N glanced toward the bartender, who gave her a sympathetic shrug from across the counter.

Y/N: Eventually.

Scarlett: That is not a real time.

Y/N: You are being so dramatic.

Scarlett: Text him right now or I will call him myself.

Y/N stared down at her phone, knowing full well that Scarlett meant every word.

The man in boat shoes remained beside her, his monologue moving toward investment opportunities. Y/N took a quiet breath, stepped closer to the safety of the bar counter, and opened Harry’s contact before she could overthink it.

For a long moment, she simply stared at the blank text box.

Messaging him felt like stepping across a line, even though it was entirely practical. He had explicitly told her to text if anything felt off. This was not romantic, it was logical. It was about safety, a ride, and preventing Scarlett from causing a scene from another continent.

Y/N typed out her message.

Y/N: Hi. Sorry. Are you awake?

She expected to wait for an answer, but she did not have to.

His reply appeared almost instantly.

Harry: Yes. Is everything alright?

The sheer speed of his response made her chest tighten.

Y/N: Yes. Mostly.

Y/N: My cab is taking a long time and Scarlett is being dramatic.

Three typing dots appeared on her screen, vanished, and then appeared again.

Harry: Send me your exact location.

Y/N swallowed hard, tapping her screen to send the location pin.

His answer arrived seconds later.

Harry: Stay inside or somewhere well lit. I’m on my way.

Then, before she could even draft a response to argue, another message popped up.

Harry: Don’t argue with me.

Y/N stared at the words, caught in a flurry of relief, embarrassment, and a sudden heat she refused to name.

She typed back a quick reply.

Y/N: I wasn’t going to.

His response was immediate.

Harry: You were definitely thinking about it.

Y/N let out a small, helpless laugh into the quiet night, looking out toward the road.

He was right. Of course he was right.

Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the entrance of the gravel parking lot, holding her cold water bottle with both hands. The man in the boat shoes had not moved. He was leaning back against the wooden post now, his body angled toward her as he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling lights, deep into an explanation about property values in Nassau.

She nodded every few seconds, keeping her shoulders squared toward the bar, using every ounce of self-control not to check her phone again.

She had expected Harry to take at least twenty minutes. The villa was on the other side of the island, down a quiet private road that felt miles away from the thumping bass of the beach strip.

Ten minutes had barely passed when a dark SUV pulled smoothly off the main road and stopped near the illuminated edge of the parking area.

Y/N’s chest gave a sudden, involuntary hit against her ribs.

The driver’s side door opened, and Harry stepped out. He was dressed simply in a dark linen shirt and jeans, his hair still slightly damp from the sea air, but there was nothing casual about the way he moved. He didn't rush. He didn't look around wildly or slam the car door. He simply shut it with a firm click, locked the vehicle with a quiet beep, and turned his gaze directly toward the bar.

He spotted her immediately.

And then, almost in the same breath, his eyes shifted to the man standing less than two feet away from her.

Harry did not march over like an angry teenager looking for a fight. He didn't roll up his sleeves or puff out his chest. That would have been loud, predictable, and entirely wrong for him. Instead, a distinct, heavy stillness settled over his features. The gentle, tired softness he had shown her back at the villa vanished completely, replaced by a quiet, absolute control that was infinitely more intimidating.

He walked across the sand with steady, deliberate steps. The warm string lights caught the sharp line of his jaw and the complete absence of expression on his face.

The air around Y/N suddenly felt very thin.

Harry stopped just at her side, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his shoulder. He did not look at the other man first. He kept his eyes entirely on her.

"Y/N."

Just her name. Quiet, low, and perfectly grounded.

A wave of relief swept over Y/N so fast her knees nearly wobbled. The tight, defensive coil in her spine instantly unraveled. She looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat at the proximity, at the sheer weight of his presence occupying the space where she had felt so isolated just moments before.

"Hi," she breathed out, her voice barely carrying over the music.

The man in the boat shoes shifted his weight, clearing his throat as his eyes traveled up Harry’s frame, taking in the height, the calm posture, and the complete lack of panic in his stance. He attempted a casual smile, raising one hand in a defensive gesture.

"Hey, man," the guy said, trying for a jovial, easygoing tone that fell completely flat. "We were just talking."

Harry turned his head. He looked at the man directly, his gaze cool, unhurried, and entirely unbothered. He didn't scowl. He didn't clench his fists. He simply let the silence stretch for one agonizing second before speaking.

"Were you?"

The words were spoken with a terrifying, icy calm. It wasn't a question meant to be answered; it was an adult drawing a hard, unbreakable line in the dirt.

The man’s easy smile faltered instantly. He swallowed, his eyes darting between Harry’s unreadable expression and the quiet authority with which he stood beside Y/N. The bravado that had fueled twenty minutes of uninterrupted monologue evaporated into thin air.

"Yeah," the guy muttered, taking a step backward onto the open sand. "Just... making conversation. I was just leaving anyway."

Harry didn't answer him. He didn't need to. He simply held the man’s gaze until the guy turned on his heel, shoved his hands into his pockets, and disappeared into the crowd toward the other side of the deck.

The space around them suddenly felt twice as large.

Harry didn't watch him go. The second the guy turned away, Harry’s attention returned completely to Y/N. The sharp edge in his eyes softened just a fraction, though the intense, controlled focus remained. He looked down at her, taking in her bare shoulders, the small glass bottle in her hands, and the residual tension in her posture.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, meant only for her.

"Yes," Y/N said, resting her palm against the cool surface of her water bottle to steady herself. "I am now."

Harry gave a single, firm nod. He placed one hand lightly against the small of her back. A brief, grounding touch that didn't linger a second longer than necessary, and gestured toward the waiting car.

"Let's go home," he said softly.

Y/N walked beside him toward the SUV, the gravel crunching softly beneath her sandals. Now that the adrenaline was fading, a hot wave of embarrassment surged straight to her cheeks. She hated feeling helpless, and she hated even more that Harry had been the one to witness it.

"I had it handled, you know," she said quickly, her voice rising to cut through the quiet hum of the night.

Harry kept his eyes on the car ahead but she could see the tension held tight in his shoulders.

"The cab was coming," she pressed on, the words tumbling out of her in a defensive rush. "The bartender called one for me. It was just taking a while because of the traffic near the clubs. I wasn't just sitting there doing nothing."

Harry unlocked the SUV with a soft double beep, but he didn't say anything yet. His silence only made her feel more exposed, pushing her to keep talking, to reframe the entire situation into something minor.

"And that guy was just annoying," she added, waving a hand dismissively toward the beach bar. "He was harmless. He was literally rambling about cryptocurrency and property values. It wasn't dangerous. I was just bored."

Harry stopped next to the passenger side door. He turned to face her fully, his silhouette blocking out the bright glow of the streetlights behind him. The cool night air blew between them, smelling of salt and damp earth.

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, though the tight set of his mouth made it clear he wasn't buying the performance. He wasn't angry with her, but the residual stress of the drive over still hung heavy in his posture.

"You don’t have to make it smaller just because you’re okay now," he said quietly.

The sentence hit her like a physical weight, cutting straight through her rambling and knocking the air from her lungs. It was spoken with such grounded, protective calm that Y/N’s mouth snapped shut instantly. She stared up at him, her throat tightening as the defensive wall she had been building completely dissolved. He saw right through it. He knew she had been uncomfortable, knew she was trying to downplay it to save face, and he wasn't going to let her pretend otherwise.

For a long second, neither of them moved. The heavy rhythm of the ocean rolled in the background, a stark contrast to the quiet, intense space between them.

Harry held her gaze for a moment longer before stepping forward. He reached out and pulled the heavy car door open for her, his arm creating a safe enclosure against the rest of the dark parking lot.

"Get in," he added softly, his tone loosening just enough to invite her inside.

Y/N climbed into the passenger seat without another word, her heart beating a fast, unsteady rhythm against her ribs as he closed the door with a solid, reassuring thud.

The car smelled faintly of leather, clean cedar, and the salt air clinging to Harry’s clothes. The quiet interior felt vast compared to the noisy beach bar, sealing out the music, the laughter, and the hum of the island.

Harry pulled out of the gravel parking lot and turned the car smoothly onto the dark main road. His hands rested firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the pavement stretching out ahead through the palms.

For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The low hum of the engine filled the silence, heavy with everything left unsaid since she had stepped out the villa doors hours ago.

"Did you have fun?" Harry asked finally. His voice was quiet, cutting through the hum of the air conditioning with an easy, neutral tone that sounded almost practiced.

Y/N shifted in her seat, resting her cheek against the cool glass of the window as the streetlights swept patterns across her lap. "Yes," she said softly. "I did."

Harry didn't look away from the road, but she saw his jaw tighten slightly before he nodded. "That's good."

"Anthony was nice," she continued, pushing the words out to fill the space, to prove to both of them that the night hadn't been a total waste. "His friends were really nice, too. They pulled me right into the group. Maya made me go out to the sand, and Anthony danced with me."

A beat of silence passed. Harry’s fingers tapped once against the leather of the wheel.

"Is dancing another thing I’m meant to be jealous of?"

The words left his mouth before he could catch them. They hit the air with a sudden, sharp clarity, far too honest, far too raw for the careful distance he had spent all evening maintaining.

The interior of the car went instantly still.

Y/N turned her head sharply away from the window, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes fixed on his profile in the dark.

Harry caught himself immediately. She saw the exact moment regret set in, the subtle shift in his posture, the way his knuckles turned white against the steering wheel as he tried to pull the words back into the dark.

He cleared his throat, his tone dropping back into something far more controlled, far more adult. "You should have fun with people your own age."

The sentence landed like a quiet slap. It was a correction, a reminder, a deliberate attempt to build the fence back up between them right after he had accidentally knocked a post over.

Y/N felt a cold, dull ache open up behind her ribs. The warmth of the night, the easy lightness she had built up at the beach bar, completely vanished.

"Right," she said, her voice dropping into a flat, quiet rhythm. "Anthony is nice. He is funny. He is uncomplicated."

She laid out the words like facts on a table, testing each one to see if saying them out loud would make them feel true.

Harry kept his gaze straight ahead, his profile rigid against the passing shadows of the palms. "That’s a good thing."

"I know."

The words sat heavy between them in the dark cabin. Neither of them sounded happy. Neither of them sounded convinced.

Eventually, the car pulled into the gated driveway of the villa and came to a stop beneath the shadow of the tall palms. The engine cut out, leaving only the quiet tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of the ocean crashing against the shore.

Y/N didn't wait. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, desperate to reach the stairs before the silence could swallow her whole.

"Y/N, wait."

His voice stopped her just as her sandals hit the stone driveway.

Harry climbed out of the driver's side and walked around the front of the hood, stopping a few feet away from her. The warm exterior lights of the house illuminated his face, shedding the harsh, protective calm from earlier and leaving him looking tired, strained, and stripped of his usual control.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Y/N paused, her hand gripping the strap of her bag. "For picking me up?"

"No," Harry said, stepping a little closer, his voice dropping into something softer, far more vulnerable than she was prepared for. "For making you feel wrong. For making tonight harder than it needed to be."

Y/N looked up at him, her chest aching with a sudden, overwhelming urge to tear down the boundary completely. She searched his eyes, looking for the truth behind the careful distance he kept trying to maintain.

"Are you glad?" she asked softly.

The question hung between them in the warm night air, clear and undeniable.

Are you glad I went out with Anthony? Are you glad I tried to find someone else?

Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He couldn't answer quickly enough. He couldn't force the lie past his lips before the truth made itself known.

That brief, agonizing silence said everything.

He finally exhaled a long breath through his nose, his expression closing back up as he offered her the only answer he could afford to give.

"I’m glad you’re safe."

It was not an answer.

Y/N knew it. Harry knew she knew it.

She held his gaze for one last, heavy second before turning toward the wide glass doors of the villa. She walked inside, her sandals quiet against the cool marble floors, and headed up the open staircase without looking back.

Anthony was simple.

Anthony was kind.

Anthony made sense.

But the quiet drive home with Harry had felt more dangerous than the entire night out.

Let me know what you want to read tomorrow!