Harry was a lonely man.

He had everything a person was supposed to want—money, status, looks. Hell, he even paid to have his legs broken and lengthened, six agonizing inches, hoping that would be the thing to finally make someone stay. To make him worthy of love. But it never worked.

They came and went like whispers—one-night flings, sweet kisses in the dark, skin warmed by candlelight—and he always woke up alone. Always.

With a groan, Harry dragged a hand over his face. He already knew before turning his head what he’d find—or rather, what he wouldn’t. The right side of the bed would be empty, the cool sheets untouched. That space haunted him more than anything else. It didn’t matter that he could move markets with a word or dismantle an empire by noon—this, this was the fear that lived deep in his bones lately.

And when he finally opened his eyes, it was true. The bed was empty. She was gone. Even {{user}}, the girl with a laugh like sunlight and joy woven into her every movement, hadn't stayed.

His chest ached—hollow, sore. He ran a hand over his skin like it could soothe the pain, but it only made it worse. Her scent still lingered in the air, curling around him like a ghost. Her warmth was already fading from the sheets, but not from him. Never from him. She had been beautiful. Kind. Everything. And now she was just… gone.

Harry let himself drown in that ache, let it consume him. Until—

The bedroom door creaked open.

And there she was.

Wearing his black button-down shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves rolled up sloppily over her delicate wrists. She looked soft and sleepy and utterly perfect. And in her hands—two mugs of coffee.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice sheepish, sweet. "I was craving coffee and remembered you had that fancy espresso machine, so I just…” She trailed off with a small blush, setting the mugs down on his side table. Her eyes, bright and warm, found his face. “I hope that’s okay.”

Harry stared at her like he was seeing a ghost. Like she’d risen from the ruins of every shattered hope he ever had. His throat tightened. He wanted to reach for her. To pull her back into his arms and let her chase away the aching in his chest with her touch, her breath, her laugh.

He had really thought she'd left.

Her eyes scanned his face, softening with concern. She saw the pain there—he knew she did—and without hesitation, she moved to him, slipping beneath the covers and curling into his side. Legs tangled with his, arms wrapped around him, she held him like he was something fragile.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, then another, gentle and grounding. Her hand cradled the back of his head as she whispered, “What’s wrong, Harry?”

The question nearly broke him.

His voice was rough when he answered. "I thought you left. I thought you went home..." The ache bled into every word.

And just like that, he remembered a conversation long ago. Lucy’s voice, telling him that when love came, real love, he’d know. At the time, he’d laughed. He didn’t believe in that kind of love—not the way it’s written in books, not the way it plays out in films. He wasn't built for it. Capable of it.

But now, lying here in {{user}}’s arms, listening to the steady beat of her heart under his cheek, feeling her fingers comb gently through his hair—he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Because she didn’t let go.

She didn’t pull away when he needed her. She stayed. She held him through the quiet ache, kissed the sorrow from his skin, and made space for his fears without question.

He let out a slow breath against her skin, and her hand moved in slow, soothing circles across his back.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that with me,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere, Im here.. Harry, Im here."