enticing — three (Patreon)

Hired to care for his son, Y/N never expects to become the one person Harry Styles can’t keep at a distance.

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HALF OF YEAR OF MY PATREON FOR THE PRICE OF 3 MONTHS

Harry's words hung between them for a moment. Y/N looked at Oliver, whose face was scrunched against his father's shoulder, his little fists opening and closing as another unhappy sound escaped him. The plastic bottle was still caught awkwardly between Harry's fingers, the remaining formula sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

She set her bag down beside the console table. “All right,” she said quietly, holding his gaze. “Give him to me.”

Harry didn't move. It was only for a second, but Y/N noticed the way his arms tightened almost imperceptibly around Oliver before he looked down at his son again. The hesitation wasn't suspicion this time. It was something else, something far more instinctive: he was handing over his child.

Y/N didn't reach for Oliver immediately. Instead, she held out her hands, palms open. “I'll wash my hands first.”

Harry's gaze flicked toward the hallway. “The powder room is just there.”

“I saw it,” she assured him, turning on her heel.

She disappeared for less than a minute. When she returned, Harry was standing in almost exactly the same position, with Oliver still tucked against his chest. The baby had gone from crying to making small, frustrated noises, his cheeks damp and flushed.

Y/N stopped a few feet away, assessing the situation. “What have you tried?”

Harry looked at her, his posture defensive. “Feeding him. He finished most of the bottle.”

“Most?” she echoed, tilting her head.

“He stopped halfway through,” Harry explained, shifting his weight. “I burped him, changed him, tried feeding him again. He took a little more.”

Y/N ran through her mental checklist. “Did he burp?”

“Twice,” he answered quickly.

“Wet diaper?”

“Changed twenty minutes ago.” Harry stated, his tone defensive but exhausted.

Y/N nodded slowly, piecing the timeline together. “And when did he last sleep?”

Harry glanced toward the staircase as though the answer might be written there. “About an hour ago.”

“For how long?” she pressed gently.

“Forty minutes.”

She considered that, her eyes darting between father and son. Harry watched her expression closely, tension rolling off his shoulders. “What?” he demanded.

“He might be tired,” Y/N suggested mildly.

“I thought that too.” There was a trace of irritation in his voice, and Y/N looked at him head-on.

“Then why are you still standing here?” she challenged.

Harry's eyebrows drew together in a dark scowl. “Because he's still crying.”

“Yes,” Y/N agreed.

“That usually means something is wrong,” he argued, staring at her as if waiting for a contradiction.

Y/N kept her voice perfectly calm. “Sometimes babies cry because they're hungry or uncomfortable. Sometimes they cry because they're tired and don't know how to settle themselves.”

Harry glanced down at Oliver, looking entirely out of his depth. “He usually goes back to sleep after a feed.”

“Usually?” Y/N repeated softly.

“Yes.”

“Then let's see what he does today.” She held out her arms again, offering a steady presence.

This time, Harry moved. He shifted Oliver carefully, one hand supporting the baby's head while the other steadied his back. Y/N slipped her hands into place, taking Oliver against her chest without rushing the exchange.

Oliver immediately protested. His cry rose again, loud enough to echo through the foyer, and Harry's expression tightened with renewed anxiety. “He doesn't usually do that.”

“He's been crying for a while,” Y/N said, adjusting Oliver against her shoulder with practiced ease. “He's probably overstimulated.”

Harry looked unconvinced, but Y/N didn't argue with him. She simply began walking slowly toward the sitting room, one hand supporting the back of Oliver's head while the other rested between his shoulder blades. The baby continued to fuss.

Harry followed them, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards.

“You don't have to stand there,” Y/N pointed out, not breaking her stride.

“I know,” Harry muttered.

“You're following me.”

“I noticed,” he replied dryly.

She glanced over her shoulder. For the first time that morning, something almost amused flickered across her expression. Harry didn't smile, but there was the faintest shift in his face before he looked away, effectively caught.

Y/N sat down on the edge of the sofa and adjusted Oliver so that he was upright against her chest. She didn't bounce him or make exaggerated sounds. She simply held him firmly and began walking again, slow enough that his movements gradually became less frantic. Harry remained a few feet away, his arms crossed, and his eyes never left Oliver. After another minute, the crying softened into intermittent whimpers.

Y/N glanced at the clock on the mantle. “When did you last get any sleep?”

Harry looked at her, his jaw set. “That's irrelevant.”

“It isn't,” she countered easily.

“I'm fine,” he insisted.

She gave him a skeptical look, raking her eyes over his face. “You've got dark circles under your eyes.”

His expression hardened slightly. “Thank you.”

“I wasn't insulting you,” she sighed.

“You managed to make it sound like one,” he shot back.

Y/N looked back down at Oliver, ignoring the bait. “He's not the only one who's overtired.”

Harry didn't answer. She continued walking, and for a while, the only sounds in the room were Oliver's occasional little complaints and the quiet hum of the heating system. Eventually, his body relaxed. His fists unclenched, and his cheek settled against Y/N's shoulder.

Harry noticed immediately, leaning forward. “He's asleep.”

“Not quite,” Y/N whispered.

He watched her, perplexed. “How can you tell?”

“His breathing is still too shallow,” she murmured, keeping her pace steady.

Harry's brow furrowed as Y/N lowered herself carefully onto the sofa. “Give him another minute,” she advised.

Harry remained standing, hovering like a storm cloud. Y/N looked up at him. “You can sit down, Mr. Styles.”

“I'd rather stand,” he said stubbornly.

“That's fine.” She didn't argue, letting the silence stretch between them.

A minute passed, and then another. Oliver's breathing evened out, and his weight grew heavier against her. Y/N looked down at him and smiled faintly. “There,” she breathed.

Harry finally sat in the armchair opposite her. He leaned forward with his forearms resting against his thighs, his attention fixed entirely on his son. “How did you know?”

“I didn't.” His eyes lifted to hers in surprise as she added, “I guessed.”

“That confidently?” he asked.

“No,” Y/N corrected him softly. “That calmly.”

Something in Harry's expression changed, a subtle loosening of the tight lines around his mouth. Y/N looked down at Oliver again. “You can't always know what's wrong immediately. You have to watch them.” Harry was quiet, absorbing the information, so she continued. “He's been fed. He's been changed. He's not running a fever. He was already tired. So I started there.”

“And if you're wrong?” he questioned, needing the logic laid out.

“Then we try something else,” she said simply.

Harry leaned back slightly. It was such a simple answer that he didn't seem to know what to do with it. Y/N understood then that this was probably what had exhausted him most. He wanted answers. He wanted certainty. He wanted to know exactly what his son needed before Oliver ever had the chance to cry. But babies didn't work that way, and she wasn't sure a billionaire accustomed to controlling entire companies would appreciate being reminded of that fact.

Oliver stirred against her chest, and Y/N immediately lowered her voice. “Let's put him down.”

Harry stood at once. “I'll do it.”

Y/N looked at him for a moment before carefully shifting Oliver into his arms. Harry took him with practiced ease. There was no fumbling this time. He adjusted Oliver against his shoulder, waited until the baby settled, and carried him toward the stairs.

Y/N followed closely behind. At the nursery door, Harry paused, glancing back at her. “You can come in.”

She stepped inside. The room was bright with the late-morning light coming through the tall windows, and everything had its place. Bottles were lined up on the counter, folded blankets were stacked neatly beside the changing table, and a small collection of toys sat untouched in the corner. Harry lowered Oliver into the crib and waited. Oliver made a tiny sound but didn't wake. Harry remained bent over him for several seconds before straightening.

Y/N watched him carefully as he stood there. He looked exhausted. He was not simply tired, but exhausted in a way that seemed to have settled deep into his bones.

Harry turned toward her, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “I'll show you the rest of the house.”

Y/N nodded, following him out and leaving Oliver sleeping peacefully behind them.

Harry led her through the hallway, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who had walked the same route hundreds of times without ever really seeing it. “This is the kitchen,” he said as they entered the open space at the back of the townhouse.

Y/N followed him, taking in the room properly for the first time. It was large without feeling excessive. Dark cabinetry lined one wall, interrupted by stretches of pale stone and brushed metal. The counters were spotless, though there were signs that someone had actually been using the kitchen recently. A drying rack sat beside the sink with two bottles waiting to be sterilized, and a stack of burp cloths had been folded neatly beside them.

Harry noticed where her eyes lingered. “Mrs. Johnson usually handles the cleaning and laundry. She comes in during the morning.”

“Does she prepare meals too?” Y/N asked, trailing her fingers along the edge of the island.

“When she's here, yes. But you aren't expected to cook for me,” Harry replied, his tone strictly professional.

“Good,” Y/N said smoothly.

He glanced at her, a slight frown touching his brow. “I can cook.”

“I didn't say you couldn't,” she pointed out, keeping her expression perfectly innocent.

“You sounded relieved,” he noted.

“I was,” Y/N admitted without hesitation.

There was the faintest pause as Harry digested her bluntness. Then, without another word, he continued walking. Y/N followed him toward a smaller room just off the kitchen.

“This is where Oliver's supplies are kept,” Harry explained, stepping aside to let her look.

She stepped inside, her eyes sweeping the space. Shelves covered one wall, each one organized with almost clinical precision. Diapers were stacked by size. Wipes, creams, formula, bottles, blankets, extra clothes. Everything had a designated place.

Harry opened one of the upper cabinets, gesturing inside. “His medication is here.”

Y/N looked at him, instantly alert. “Medication?”

“Infant acetaminophen, only if his pediatrician has instructed us to use it. His dosage information is written on the inside of the cabinet,” Harry clarified, pointing to a small chart taped to the wood.

She nodded, relaxing slightly. “Good.”

“There are also emergency numbers here,” he continued, pointing toward a laminated sheet on the back of the door. “His pediatrician. The hospital. My office. Andrew's number. Mrs. Johnson's.”

Y/N leaned closer to read through them, scanning the neat print. “And yours?”

Harry looked at her as if the answer were obvious. “My number is already in your phone.”

“Yes, but if you're in a meeting?” she pressed, needing to know exactly where his boundaries lay.

“You call anyway,” he stated firmly.

She nodded, filing the instruction away. “What if you don't answer?”

“Call again,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“And if it's an emergency?” Y/N challenged.

“Call emergency services first,” Harry answered without missing a beat.

“Good,” Y/N murmured, satisfied with his lack of hesitation.

Harry gave her a brief look, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he were making a mental note of something. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Y/N replied easily.

“You're doing that thing again,” he observed, his head tilting a fraction.

“What thing?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Looking at me like you're deciding whether I said the right thing,” Harry muttered.

Y/N smiled slightly, unable to deny it. “I'm learning how you work.”

“And?” he prompted, shifting his weight.

“Still collecting data,” she answered breezily.

For a moment, Harry looked as though he might respond, his mouth parting slightly. Instead, he simply closed the cabinet with a soft click. “Come on.”

She followed him back into the hallway, where he pointed toward a heavy door farther down. “My office,” he announced.

Y/N looked through the open doorway. The room was exactly what she expected. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A large desk facing the windows. Several folders had been left open across the surface, and his laptop was still connected to a glowing monitor.

Harry stepped into the doorway but didn't enter, his shoulders squaring slightly. “You won't need to come in here.”

“I wasn't planning on it,” Y/N replied evenly.

His eyebrows lifted slightly at her tone. “I wasn't implying that you would.”

“I know,” she said, meeting his gaze.

He looked at her for another second, assessing her calm demeanor. “I work from home occasionally. If I'm in here with the door closed, assume I'm on a call unless I tell you otherwise.”

“And if Oliver needs you?” she asked, testing the waters.

“You knock,” Harry answered instantly.

“Even if you're on a call?” Y/N clarified.

“Yes,” he insisted, his tone deadpan.

She nodded, respecting the absolute priority he gave his son. “And if it's not urgent?”

“Wait until I'm finished,” he instructed.

“Fair enough,” Y/N agreed.

Harry started walking again, and Y/N followed closely behind. The next door opened onto a smaller sitting room, much less formal than the one where she'd interviewed. There was a television mounted on the wall, a plush sofa, two armchairs, and a low table scattered with a few children's books.

“This is mostly Oliver's space now,” Harry said, gesturing to the room.

Y/N glanced at the thick cardboard books. “He has a lot of them.”

“He likes being read to,” Harry defended mildly.

“He's three months old,” Y/N pointed out with a wry smile.

Harry looked at her, entirely serious. “He doesn't know that.”

Y/N laughed softly, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. It was the first genuine laugh he'd heard from her, and Harry's expression changed for the briefest moment—a flicker of surprise, maybe even pleasure—before he quickly looked away. “He likes the sound of voices,” he added defensively.

“I know,” she said, her amusement lingering as they continued upstairs.

Y/N had expected another hallway of polished marble and expensive artwork, but the second floor felt different. Softer. More lived-in. There were framed photographs along the walls, though most were turned away from the staircase. She didn't stare, but Harry noticed her wandering eyes anyway.

“Family,” Harry noted curtly.

Y/N nodded, understanding the unspoken boundary, and didn't ask. They passed another closed bedroom.

“Guest room,” he announced briefly. Then, he stopped outside the next door. “That's yours.”

Y/N looked at him in surprise. “My room?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, pushing the door open.

She stepped inside and stopped dead in her tracks. The room was larger than the entire apartment she shared with Patrick. A massive bed occupied the center of the room, covered in thick, neutral linens. There was a desk beneath the window, a comfortable chair in one corner, and a built-in wardrobe that was already partly empty. Her suitcase suddenly looked very small sitting beside the bed.

She turned toward Harry, her eyes wide. “This is mine?”

“For the duration of your employment,” Harry replied smoothly, leaning against the doorframe.

She walked toward the wardrobe and opened it, finding empty wooden hangers waiting inside. A small part of her had expected the live-in arrangement to mean sleeping in some converted staff room at the far end of the house. Instead, this was a proper bedroom. Private. Comfortable. Almost too comfortable.

Harry remained by the doorway, watching her take it in. “The bathroom is through there,” he pointed out.

She opened the door, finding a pristine, private bathroom attached. She turned back, struggling to find the right words. “This is...” She stopped, catching herself. She didn't want to sound overly impressed or naive.

Harry seemed to understand her hesitation. “Everything you need should already be here. If something isn't, tell Mrs. Johnson.”

Y/N nodded, absorbing the luxury of the space. Then she looked at him, shifting to practicalities. “What happens when I'm off duty?”

Harry's expression didn't change. “Whatever you want.”

“So I can leave?” she asked, needing the parameters clearly defined.

“Yes,” he answered plainly.

“Without telling you?” she pushed.

“If you're off duty, you don't have to ask permission to leave the house,” Harry stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She studied him for a moment, looking for the catch. “And if Oliver needs me while I'm out?”

“You're off duty,” Harry repeated, the answer coming without a fraction of hesitation.

Y/N nodded slowly, processing his strict adherence to her boundaries. “Good.”

Harry looked toward the hallway, his posture relaxing slightly. “I don't expect you to spend every waking hour in this house simply because you're living here.”

“I appreciate that,” Y/N said genuinely.

He turned to leave, his hand catching the door handle.

“Mr. Styles?” she called out.

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder.

She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk, before asking, “Is there anything I shouldn't do?”

Harry looked back at her, his dark eyes steady. “My office.”

She nodded, having expected that. “Anything else?”

“No,” he said.

“That's it?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Y/N glanced toward the sprawling hallway behind him, a small smile playing on her lips. “You have a pretty expensive house for someone who only has one forbidden room.”

His mouth twitched, fighting a smile of his own. “Don't let the door hit you on your way out.”

Harry looked at her for another second before stepping back into the hallway. “I'll give you some time to settle in.”

“I'm fine,” Y/N replied easily, crossing her arms.

“You haven't unpacked,” he pointed out, gesturing toward the suitcase she had left by the bed.

“I'll do it later,” she assured him, already shifting her focus to the day ahead.

He nodded, seeming satisfied, but then his phone began vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, and the change in his expression was immediate. The relaxed, uncertain father disappeared entirely, and the ruthless businessman returned. “Andrew,” he answered as he turned on his heel and walked toward the stairs.

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes,” Harry barked into the receiver. He paused, his jaw clenching as he listened. “No. Keep them there until I arrive.” Another tense pause followed. “I said don't let anyone sign anything.”

Y/N remained upstairs, leaning against the doorframe to give him the privacy he clearly needed. Harry ended the call abruptly and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He looked back up at her from the landing. “I have to go.”

Y/N nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “I know.”

He seemed to hesitate, his gaze moving anxiously toward the closed door of the nursery. “He's asleep.”

“I know,” Y/N repeated softly.

“I should be back by six,” Harry offered, adjusting his cuffs.

“If you're later than that, I'll adjust,” she told him smoothly, unfazed by the fluid schedule.

Harry looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers. “You don't need to wait for me.”

“I know,” she said again, her voice steady.

He frowned slightly. Y/N understood exactly what he was doing; he was trying to make sure she knew she wasn't expected to remain awake and at attention for his return. She appreciated the clarification, but she also wanted him to leave without guilt. “I'll manage the evening routine,” she added, stepping out into the hallway. “If there's anything you need me to know before you leave, tell me now.”

Harry stared at her for a long moment. There was something distinctly different in his expression, less uncertainty, and a lot more recognition. “You really do know what you're doing.”

Y/N's mouth curved slightly into a confident smile. “I told you that yesterday.”

“I remember,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly.

“Then you should probably start believing me,” she suggested, tilting her head.

He almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he simply nodded in concession. “All right.”

He started down the stairs, and Y/N followed him as far as the foyer. Harry picked up his heavy coat and expensive briefcase from the bench. His phone vibrated again, but this time, he ignored it. For a fraction of a second, his eyes darted back up the staircase toward his son's room.

Y/N caught the look instantly. “You're going to be late.”

He looked back at her, his grip tightening on his briefcase. “I know.”

“Then go,” she urged gently.

His eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “You're very comfortable giving me orders in my own house.”

“I'm not giving you orders,” Y/N corrected with a light laugh. “I'm reminding you that you have a meeting.”

A beat passed, heavy and quiet. Then, Harry opened the front door, letting the cold morning air sweep through the warm foyer. He stepped outside onto the stoop, turning back one last time. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” she promised, shivering slightly in the draft.

“And if Oliver—” he started, the anxiety creeping back in.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, stopping him mid-sentence. Harry caught himself, pressing his lips together. He knew what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth. “I've got him, Mr. Styles,” she said firmly.

His expression softened by the smallest fraction, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. “I know.”

Then, he turned and walked down the steps. Y/N stood in the open doorway, watching his black car pull away from the curb before finally turning back toward the quiet house. The heavy door closed with a soft click behind her.

For the first time that morning, Harry Styles was gone, and Y/N was completely in charge of the baby he'd spent the last several months refusing to leave with anyone else. She glanced up the stairs, taking a deep breath, and then looked toward the kitchen. There was no hesitation. She had a job to do.

The house felt different without Harry in it. Not quieter, exactly. It had been quiet when she'd arrived that morning, but there was a certain tension that seemed to have left with him. The atmosphere no longer carried the weight of someone constantly listening for the next sound from upstairs.

Y/N checked the time on her phone before slipping it into the back pocket of her trousers. Oliver had been asleep for just under an hour, so she didn't need to wake him yet. Instead, she used the time to familiarize herself with the kitchen and the supplies she'd be using throughout the day. She checked the bottles, made sure everything was where Harry had said it would be, and opened the refrigerator to look through what was available.

Mrs. Johnson had clearly done her job well. Everything was organized, labeled, and easy to find, and Y/N deeply appreciated the efficiency. She made herself a cup of coffee and carried it into the smaller sitting room, settling into one of the armchairs with her notebook.

Opening to a clean page, she wrote Oliver Styles at the top. Underneath, she began making notes. Not a rigid schedule, but careful observations. She wrote down when he'd last eaten, how much he'd taken, when he'd slept, how long he'd been unsettled, and what had eventually calmed him. She had learned a long time ago that babies rarely cared about the schedule adults wanted them to follow.

She was halfway through writing when she heard the faint sound of movement upstairs. Y/N closed the notebook, but she didn't rush. By the time she reached the nursery, Oliver was awake. He wasn't crying yet; he was simply lying in his crib, looking around the bright room with wide, curious eyes.

Y/N smiled as she approached him. “Good morning.”

Oliver stared at her, blinking slowly.

She leaned over the railing of the crib, keeping her voice soft. “Feeling better?”

His tiny legs kicked beneath the light blanket in response. “That sounds promising,” she murmured.

After washing her hands in the adjoining bathroom, she picked him up, settling him securely against her shoulder. Oliver made a small, content sound and turned his face toward her neck. Y/N checked his diaper first, finding it dry, before glancing at the clock on the wall. It was almost exactly when she'd expected him to wake up.

She smiled to herself. “Not bad.”

Oliver responded with another little cooing noise.

“I know,” she agreed lightly. “I was impressed too.”

She carried him downstairs. There was no reason to contact Harry. She wasn't going to send him a message every time Oliver opened his eyes simply because he was anxious. If something required him, she would call. Otherwise, she would let him work. That was exactly what he had hired her to do.

In the kitchen, she prepared his bottle while Oliver rested comfortably against her arm. Once the formula was warm, she settled into the chair near the large windows and fed him. He ate well, though halfway through, he paused. Y/N waited patiently. She didn't immediately remove the bottle or try to force him to continue. After a few seconds, Oliver turned his head back toward the teat, and she resumed feeding.

When he finally finished, she lifted him against her shoulder and gently rubbed his back in slow circles. A small burp escaped him.

“There we go,” she smiled.

Oliver's eyes were already beginning to grow heavy again. Y/N checked the time on the microwave clock, making another mental note for her ledger, and carried him back upstairs.

The nursery was bright with morning sunlight now, so she lowered the blinds slightly to dim the room before settling into the rocking chair. Oliver fought sleep for several minutes, fussing mildly, but Y/N didn't force it. She simply rocked him in a slow, steady rhythm. Eventually, his body went entirely limp, and his breathing evened out.

She waited another few minutes before standing and placing him carefully down in the crib. He stirred instantly. Y/N froze, her hands hovering just above him. Oliver's eyes remained closed, his chest rising and falling softly. She waited. Nothing happened. Holding her breath, she stepped backward. One step. Then another. By the time she reached the doorway, he was still sound asleep. Y/N quietly pulled the door almost closed and headed back downstairs.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen, finding a new message from Harry.

Mr. Styles: Everything all right?

Y/N stared at the text for a second before a faint smile touched her lips. She typed back quickly.

Y/N: Yes. Oliver woke about ten minutes ago, finished his bottle, and is asleep again.

The response came almost immediately.

Mr. Styles: Any issues?

Y/N rolled her eyes to the empty kitchen. Of course he was still worrying. She typed a simple reply.

YN: No issues.

The typing bubble with three gray dots appeared on her screen. Then it disappeared. Then it appeared again as he undoubtedly overthought his next question. Finally, a single message came through:

Mr.Styles: Thank you.

Y/N slipped her phone back into her pocket without responding, knowing there was nothing else to say. She returned to the sitting room, opened her notebook again, and added the new information. Oliver's first morning with her was going exactly as it should.

By the time the clock moved past noon, Y/N had settled into a steady rhythm. It wasn't exactly Oliver's routine yet, she wouldn't call it that after a single morning. But she was beginning to recognize the small, predictable patterns that would eventually become familiar. The way he rubbed one cheek against her shoulder when he was tired, the little crease that appeared between his eyebrows when he was hungry, and the way his tiny legs kicked beneath his blanket whenever he heard a new sound.

She was sitting in the nursery with him after his second feed, one hand resting lightly against his stomach while he stared up at the rotating mobile above his crib. “You're very serious for someone who can't even hold his own head up yet,” she murmured, stroking his side.

Oliver blinked up at her.

Y/N smiled softly. “I suppose you've inherited that from your father.”

A soft knock sounded against the open door, making her look up. Mrs. Johnson stood in the hallway with a basket of freshly folded laundry balanced against her hip. “Ms. Y/L/N,” the older woman greeted warmly.

“Hi,” Y/N replied, turning her attention away from the crib.

“I've finished with the laundry. Is there anything else you need?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

“No, thank you. Everything's been perfect,” Y/N assured her.

Mrs. Johnson nodded approvingly. “Mr. Styles asked me to make sure you had everything you needed.”

“I do,” Y/N confirmed with a polite smile.

Mrs. Johnson's eyes moved briefly toward the crib to check on Oliver. “He's been good?”

“He's been a baby,” Y/N answered honestly.

Mrs. Johnson's mouth softened into a small, knowing smile. “That he is.” She set the basket down on the chair near the wardrobe. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I will,” Y/N promised.

Mrs. Johnson left, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Y/N returned her attention to Oliver, entirely losing track of the time until her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen, finding another message from Harry waiting for her.

Mr. Styles: How is he?

Y/N looked at the message for a long moment. She could almost picture him sitting rigidly behind his massive desk, pretending he wasn't checking his phone every ten minutes during his meetings. Amused, she typed back.

Y/N: He's fine. He's awake and content.

Only a few seconds passed before his reply came through.

Mr. Styles: Did he eat?

Yes, she sent back simply.

Another brief pause followed before her screen lit up again.

Mr. Styles: How much?

Y/N stared at the screen, smiling despite herself at his relentless need for details. She decided to push back just a little.

Y/N: Enough.

The response was almost immediate.

Mr. Styles: That's not a measurement.

She shook her head with a quiet laugh. Of course it wasn't. Giving in, she opened her notebook on the side table, checked the exact amount she'd written down earlier, and sent it.

Y/N: He took 120 ml.

The three typing dots appeared on the screen, disappeared, and then appeared again. Finally, he conceded.

Mr. Styles: All right.

Y/N put the phone away just as Oliver made a small noise. She looked down to find his wide eyes fixed entirely on her.

“What?” she asked him affectionately.

He kicked one foot in response.

“Was that your opinion?” she teased.

He offered another little kick.

“I'll take it under advisement,” she promised.

She lifted him from the crib and settled him against her shoulder, feeling him immediately relax into her hold. Y/N carried him toward the window, looking out as the city moved endlessly around them. Cars passed along the street below, and people walked rapidly along the pavement with coffee cups in their hands. They were all completely unaware that inside this quiet townhouse, a tiny baby had just become the center of his dad’s entire existence.

Her phone vibrated again. She sighed, already knowing exactly who it was, but she checked the screen anyway.

Mr. Styles: Sorry.

Y/N frowned in surprise. Then another message popped up.

Mr. Styles: I know I don't need to keep asking.

She looked at the screen for a long moment, taken aback. That was far more honesty and self-awareness than she'd expected from him. Resting her chin near Oliver's soft hair, she typed slowly with one hand.

Y/N: You don't need to apologize.

The response came almost instantly.

Mr. Styles: I do.

She looked down at Oliver's sleepy face, then back at the phone, deciding to set the boundary firmly.

Y/N: Then stop apologizing and trust that I'll tell you if something is wrong.

This time, there was no immediate response. Y/N put her phone away in her pocket, not thinking much more about it. She continued swaying with Oliver until, several minutes later, her phone vibrated one final time.

Mr. Styles: I'm trying.

Y/N read the vulnerable message twice. Then she slipped the phone back into her pocket and looked down at Oliver with a soft expression. “Apparently,” she whispered to the baby, “we're both learning today.”

Oliver stared back at her with complete, droopy-eyed indifference.

Y/N smiled. “That's what I thought.”

The afternoon passed without any major problems. By the time the clock approached four, Y/N had stopped checking it, and that, more than anything, told her she was settling in. Oliver had woken twice since the morning. He had eaten well both times, fussed through one diaper change, and spent nearly half an hour lying on the play mat while Y/N talked to him about absolutely nothing. He seemed particularly interested in the sound of her voice. She had discovered that if she read aloud, even when he clearly had no understanding of the words, he became calmer.

So, she had spent the last twenty minutes sitting beside him on the rug with one of the thick children's books Harry had left downstairs.

“And then the bear decided he was tired,” she read, turning the sturdy page. “Which seems reasonable, because apparently no one in this book has considered taking a nap before starting an adventure.”

Oliver kicked both legs, letting out a small, agreeable noise.

Y/N looked down at him with a grin. “Exactly.”

A quiet sound came from the hallway, prompting her to look up. Harry was standing near the entrance to the sitting room. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He had returned much earlier than she had expected. His dark suit jacket was still on, but his tie had been loosened slightly, and the top button of his crisp shirt was undone. He had his phone in one hand and his leather briefcase in the other.

Y/N checked the time on her watch. “You are early.”

“Apparently,” Harry replied, setting his heavy briefcase down by the doorframe. “How was he?”

Y/N closed the book, resting it in her lap. “Good.”

Harry's eyes immediately bypassed her, going straight to Oliver. The baby was lying on his back on the mat, one tiny hand curled around the edge of his blanket, looking completely content. Harry's rigid shoulders instantly relaxed, dropping an inch as the tension left him. “He ate?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

He nodded again, his eyes slightly distant. Y/N watched him for a second, easily reading the micro expressions on his face.

“You can stop calculating,” she teased gently.

His eyes lifted to hers, mildly defensive. “I wasn't calculating.”

“You were,” she countered.

“I was keeping track,” Harry corrected her, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“There is a difference?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he insisted stubbornly.

She smiled faintly, deciding to let him have it. “Of course.”

Harry walked over to the play mat and crouched beside it. Oliver's eyes immediately found him, and the baby's face changed. It wasn't dramatic, but Y/N noticed the unmistakable spark of recognition. Harry smiled. It was a real, unguarded smile this time.

“Hello, mate,” Harry murmured softly.

Oliver made a small, happy sound. Harry reached down, brushing one long finger over his son's tiny hand. Y/N watched them quietly from her spot on the floor. There was something unexpectedly gentle about Harry when he wasn't thinking about how he looked or who was watching him.

“You are home early,” she noted again, breaking the quiet.

Harry glanced up, keeping his hand resting near Oliver's. “I finished what I needed to.”

“Everything all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, standing back up to his full height. He looked toward the book resting in her lap. “You read to him?”

“He likes it,” she explained.

“He does,” Harry agreed. He held out his hand, took the book from her, and studied the colorful cover. “He likes that one.”

“I noticed,” Y/N smiled.

He handed it back to her, his gaze shifting to the side table. “You have been keeping notes?”

Y/N looked toward the open notebook sitting nearby. “Yes.”

“About him?” Harry asked, stepping closer to the table.

“About his routine,” she clarified.

Harry picked it up before she could stop him. He opened it, and Y/N watched his eyes move rapidly down the page. She knew exactly what he was seeing. He saw times, feeding amounts, naps, and brief observations about what seemed to settle Oliver and what didn't. There was nothing excessive, nothing invasive. Just information.

Harry turned another page, his brow furrowing slightly. “You started this today?”

“Yes,” she said, watching him carefully.

“Why?” he asked, looking up at her.

Y/N shrugged lightly. “Because I am learning him.” He stared at her, waiting for more, so she elaborated. “Every baby is different. Knowing what worked yesterday doesn't guarantee it will work tomorrow, but patterns help.”

Harry looked back down at the notebook, his thumb tracing the edge of the paper. “You have already noticed patterns?”

“A few,” she confirmed.

“Such as?” he pressed, genuinely curious.

Y/N thought for a moment, recalling her afternoon. “He gets fussy when he is tired, but he doesn't always cry immediately. He gets quieter first.”

Harry looked at her, entirely focused, so Y/N continued. “He also seems to settle faster when he is held upright after feeding rather than being put down immediately.”

Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “I had not noticed that.”

“I wouldn't expect you to,” she said gently.

His eyes lifted, searching her face for judgment, but Y/N wasn't criticizing him. “You are his father,” she reassured him, her voice warm. “You know him in ways I don't. I am just learning the things you haven't had time to notice.”

Harry looked at her for a long, quiet moment, the defensive edge completely gone from his posture. Then, he carefully closed the notebook and set it back on the table. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Y/N smiled.

Oliver suddenly made a disgruntled sound from the floor, waving his arms. Harry immediately looked down.

Y/N laughed softly. “Apparently, we are interrupting his meeting.”

Harry bent down and picked him up, and Oliver settled against his father's broad chest almost instantly. Y/N watched the two of them, struck by how naturally they fit together.

Harry looked down at his son, rubbing his back. “Were you good for her?” Oliver's tiny fingers curled securely into the fabric of Harry's shirt. “I will take that as a yes.”

Y/N gathered the book and pushed herself up from the floor. “I will start dinner soon.”

“I will order something for us,” he offered instead.

Y/N nodded, but before she could respond, Harry's phone began to ring from his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen, and his expression changed again. Work.

He answered, his voice dropping an octave into his boardroom tone. “Yes.” He listened for a few seconds. “No. Send it to me.” A tense pause followed. “Tonight.” Another pause. Harry glanced down at Oliver, who was watching him with wide eyes. “I am not going back to the office.”

Y/N looked away, moving toward the bookshelf to give him some privacy. Harry continued the call, pacing slowly toward the large windows. She returned the book to its proper place on the shelf, straightening the row.

When she turned around, Harry was still on the phone, his brow furrowed as he listened, and Oliver was still watching him with utter fascination. Y/N smiled to herself. The first day had not gone badly. In fact, it had gone much better than she had expected.

Harry was still in his office when the front door opened. He heard the lock turn downstairs, followed by the quiet sound of the heavy door closing. He frowned, his attention breaking away from the glowing screen. A moment later, the sharp click of heels crossed the marble floor of the foyer. He leaned back in his chair and listened for another second before recognizing the voice drifting up from downstairs.

“Harry?” the woman called out.

He closed his laptop with a quiet sigh. “Sloane.”

She appeared in the doorway of his office a moment later, still wearing the tailored coat she had arrived in, her designer handbag hanging from the crook of one arm. “You weren't answering,” she noted smoothly.

“I was working,” Harry replied, keeping his voice level.

“I gathered,” Sloane said. She stepped inside without waiting to be invited, her eyes scanning the room.

Harry looked at her, entirely unamused by the intrusion. “You could have called.”

“I did,” she countered easily.

He tapped the screen of his phone again, pulling up his notifications. There were two missed calls from five minutes ago. “You called twice,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Sloane agreed, tilting her head.

“That isn't exactly an emergency,” Harry said dryly.

Sloane smiled, unbothered by his tone. “I didn't say it was.”

Harry leaned back further in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought we were having dinner,” she answered, taking another step into the room.

“We didn't make plans,” Harry reminded her.

“We did last week,” Sloane insisted softly.

“That was last week,” he corrected.

Sloane's smile thinned into a tight line. “You have been impossible lately.”

“I have been busy,” Harry said defensively.

“You are always busy,” she sighed, shifting her weight.

Harry didn't respond, letting the silence stretch between them. Sloane looked around the dark wood of the office, then glanced toward the hallway. Something caught her attention instantly. A small bottle warmer sat on the console just outside his door. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she processed the change.

“You really hired someone,” she remarked, looking back at him.

Harry followed her gaze to the hallway before returning his attention to her. “Yes.”

“I thought you were joking,” Sloane admitted, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I wasn't,” he stated firmly.

Sloane looked at him closely. “So where is she?”

“With Oliver,” Harry answered without offering any further details.

She gave him a small, amused look. “You finally trusted someone with him?”

“I said I hired someone,” Harry corrected her coldly.

“That is not the same thing,” Sloane observed with a knowing smirk.

Harry's expression remained perfectly flat. Sloane knew better than to push him when he looked like that, so she simply slipped off her coat. “I am staying for dinner.”

Harry stared at her, resigning himself to the sudden shift in his evening. “I ordered enough.”

“See?” she smiled, acting as though she had just proven her point.

Before Harry could answer, a faint sound came from upstairs. Both of them looked toward the ceiling at exactly the same time. Oliver. Sloane's expression softened for the first time since she had walked in.

“Is he awake?” she asked softly.

“No,” Harry murmured, listening closely to the monitor on his desk.

Another small sound followed, and then complete silence settled over the house again. “He is fine,” Harry said, relaxing his posture.

Sloane looked back at him, raising an elegant eyebrow. “I didn't say he wasn't.”

Harry picked up his phone from the desk, signaling the end of the conversation. “I need to finish something.”

“I will wait downstairs,” Sloane decided. She walked out of the office without another word, her heels clicking softly as she left.

Harry watched her leave, staring at the empty doorway. He already knew the evening was going to be much longer than he had planned.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Y/N had just finished drying Oliver after his warm bath. She slipped the clean diaper into place, pulled his soft pajamas over his legs, and buttoned them carefully.

Oliver made a small, sleepy sound against the changing table.

“You are almost done,” Y/N whispered, smoothing her hand over his stomach.

She picked him up and settled him against her shoulder, noting that his fine hair was still slightly damp. Y/N carried him toward the nursery, completely unaware that there was someone downstairs who had apparently decided she belonged in the house too.

She lowered Oliver into his crib and waited until his breathing settled into a deep rhythm. Then she straightened up, checked the digital monitor in her hand, and walked downstairs. She had barely reached the bottom step when she saw the strange woman standing in the sitting room. The newcomer looked immaculate, expensive, and completely at home.

The woman turned at the faint sound of Y/N's footsteps. Her sharp gaze moved immediately to the baby monitor in Y/N's hand and then up to Y/N herself. Neither spoke for a long second. Then the woman smiled, though it was polite rather than warm.

“You are the nanny,” the woman stated, her tone making it clear she had already made up her mind.

Y/N stopped beside the staircase, keeping her posture perfectly straight. “Yes.”

The woman's eyes moved over her one more time. “I see,” she murmured, leaving the implication hanging in the heavy air.

Harry suddenly appeared in the doorway behind her. “Sloane,” he warned quietly.

Sloane turned toward him with an innocent look. “What?” she asked.

His eyes flicked briefly toward Y/N before darting back to his guest. “Be nice,” he instructed, his voice low.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “I am being nice,” Sloane insisted, placing a delicate hand on her hip.

Y/N almost smiled at the tense exchange. Almost. “I will let you two get settled,” she offered, taking a step back toward the kitchen.

Sloane looked at her again, her tight smile returning. “Oh, we are having dinner,” she announced, clearly marking her territory.

Y/N looked directly at Harry, silently asking for confirmation.

Harry nodded, meeting her gaze steadily. “You are welcome to join us,” he offered without a single moment of hesitation.

Sloane's expression changed very slightly at the words. It was not because the nanny had been invited. It was because Harry had invited her so easily. And that, more than anything else, was the very first thing Sloane noticed.

Dinner arrived a little after seven.

Y/N joined them in the dining room after washing her hands, finding Sloane already seated at the table. She had made herself comfortable quickly. Her coat was gone, her handbag rested beside her chair, and a glass of wine sat between her fingers.

Harry was at the head of the table, his phone beside his plate.

Y/N took the remaining seat.

For the first few minutes, conversation stayed between Harry and Sloane.

Sloane talked easily throughout dinner, filling the dining room with stories about exclusive dinners, important people, and lavish events Y/N did not recognize. She seemed entirely accustomed to being there. She was accustomed to Harry listening to her, and accustomed to assuming that if something concerned him, it concerned her too.

At one point, she looked across the table toward Harry. “I will have my assistant send you the details.”

Harry looked up from his plate. “Why?”

Sloane paused with her wine glass halfway to her mouth. “For the gala.”

“I am not going,” Harry stated flatly.

She blinked in surprise. “You are.”

“I am not,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Harry,” Sloane warned, setting her glass down on the table.

“Sloane,” Harry replied, matching her warning tone perfectly.

Y/N kept eating her meal in silence. The brief exchange told her more than any lengthy explanation could have. Sloane clearly expected Harry to attend with her, and Harry clearly did not share that expectation at all.

“Well, I will just tell them we are not attending,” Sloane compromised, picking up her fork again.

Harry's eyes lifted slowly. “We are?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Yes.”

Harry did not correct her immediately. It was not because he was agreeing with her. He simply looked incredibly tired. Sloane continued eating as though the conversation had settled itself perfectly in her favor.

A few minutes later, her attention shifted toward Y/N. “So, how long are you planning on keeping her?”

Harry looked at her sharply. “Keeping her?”

“The nanny,” Sloane clarified, gesturing vaguely across the table.

“She isn't a temporary fixture,” Harry answered, his voice cold.

Sloane gave a small, dismissive shrug. “I assumed you would eventually find someone more permanent.”

Y/N continued eating her dinner without missing a beat.

Harry completely stopped eating. “She is permanent.”

Sloane looked at him in disbelief. “How long have you known her?”

“A day,” Harry replied evenly.

Sloane actually laughed out loud. “A day?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his gaze steady.

“And you are already calling her permanent?” Sloane asked, her amusement clear.

Harry set his glass down on the table with a soft thud. “She is good at her job.”

Sloane smiled. “I am sure she is.”

The tone was incredibly subtle. It sounded polite and almost pleasant, but there was a sharp edge underneath it that Y/N caught immediately. She looked up from her plate. Sloane's eyes were already waiting for her. Y/N was not offended by the scrutiny. She simply understood exactly what was happening.

“If you are concerned about my work,” Y/N said calmly, meeting the older woman's gaze, “you can ask me directly.”

Sloane blinked in genuine surprise. “I wasn't questioning your qualifications.”

“Good,” Y/N replied smoothly. She took a slow sip of her water.

“I was making conversation,” Sloane defended, quickly recovering her composure.

“Then we are having a conversation,” Y/N pointed out, setting her glass down.

Harry's eyes moved between the two women, watching the exchange closely.

Sloane smiled faintly. “You are very direct.”

“I find it saves time,” Y/N answered without hesitation.

“And does that approach usually work with your employers?” Sloane challenged, tilting her head.

Y/N met her gaze, “It does work with my employers. But you aren't my employer, so I'm not sure why that's relevant.”

Sloane's expression tightened slightly. “I was only asking.”

“And I answered.”

Heavy silence fell over the table. Y/N picked up her fork again and returned to her meal.

“If you have a question about my work, I am happy to answer it,” Y/N added casually. “Otherwise, I don't really see the point.”

Sloane held her gaze for several seconds. Harry said absolutely nothing. He didn't need to step in. Y/N wasn't looking for him to intervene, because she was perfectly capable of handling the conversation herself.

Eventually, Sloane leaned back slightly in her chair. “Fair enough.”

Y/N returned her full attention to her dinner. The subject changed, at least temporarily. Sloane resumed talking to Harry about an upcoming dinner they had attended together, mentioning some of his friends in passing.

Then she laughed softly, swirling the remaining wine in her glass. “Your friends kept asking me when you are finally going to make it official.”

Harry's expression changed instantly. Y/N did not look up from her plate.

Sloane continued, completely oblivious. “I told them you are impossible.”

Harry's voice was much quieter when he finally answered. “You shouldn't have told them anything.”

Her confident smile faded. “Why?”

“Because there is nothing to make official,” Harry told her brutally.

Total silence enveloped the room. Y/N kept her attention firmly fixed on her plate. She didn't need to look at Sloane to know that the heavy words had landed their mark. For just a moment, Sloane's perfect composure slipped completely. Then she pulled herself back together. She took another long sip of her wine.

“Right,” Sloane murmured.

And just like that, she forced a change of subject. The conversation moved elsewhere into safe territory. Y/N said nothing else for the rest of the meal. She had no desire to get involved in whatever messy history existed between them.

By the time dinner was finished, Sloane had fully returned to her usual composure. She rose gracefully from her chair and picked up her handbag. “I should go.”

Harry stood up at once. “I will walk you out.”

“You don't have to,” Sloane told him smoothly.

“I know,” Harry replied, stepping away from the table.

Sloane smiled faintly and followed him out toward the foyer. Y/N stood up and began clearing the table. She stacked the plates carefully, carrying them toward the kitchen. As she reached the marble counter, she heard Sloane's voice drifting from the foyer.

“You are really serious about her.”

Y/N's hand paused over the sink for half a second. It wasn't because she believed Sloane was right. It was because she simply didn't want to be a part of their private conversation.

Harry answered immediately, his voice carrying clearly. “She is the nanny.”

“That is not what I meant,” Sloane pressed.

Y/N picked up another plate to drown out the sound. She heard the heavy front door open.

A moment later, Harry's voice carried through the quiet foyer. “Goodnight, Sloane.”

The door closed with a firm click. Y/N continued cleaning the kitchen counters. Harry returned to the dining room and watched her work. He looked at the dirty dishes in her hands.

“You don't have to do that,” he told her softly.

“It is fine,” Y/N replied, turning on the tap.

“I can have someone do it,” Harry offered, stepping closer.

“I know,” she said, continuing to rinse the plates.

Harry stood there for a long moment. Then his expression shifted into something more guarded. “You heard that.”

It wasn't a question. Y/N looked over her shoulder at him. “I wasn't trying to.”

“I know,” he sighed.

She placed another clean plate onto the drying rack. “For what it is worth, I don't care what your relationship with her is.”

Harry studied her profile carefully. “I know.”

“And it isn't my business,” Y/N added, drying her hands on a towel.

“No,” he agreed quietly.

Y/N nodded, turning fully to face him. “Then we are fine.”

She walked out of the kitchen and turned toward the stairs.

“Y/N,” Harry called out.

She stopped with her hand on the banister. Harry remained exactly where he was in the dining room. For a moment, he seemed entirely uncertain of what to say next.

“Sloane won't interfere with your job,” he promised her finally.

Y/N looked back at him, her expression completely calm. “I didn't think she would.”

Harry hesitated, his jaw working. Then he spoke again. “I didn't either.”

Y/N held his dark gaze for a second before turning back around and walking upstairs. Harry remained completely alone in the dining room. And for reasons he couldn't quite explain to himself, the fact that Y/N had defended herself without once needing him to step in stayed with him long after she was gone.

5 MONTHS OF MY PATREON FOR THE PRICE OF 2 MONTHS