limerence (harry styles)

It's a relief to finally sit at your desk, even though the seat feels strange beneath you, as if it's someone else's life you're slipping into. The ever present murmurs of sessions being conducted in nearby venues all seem louder than you remember. This world, with its deadlines and demands, should have waited quietly for your return, but instead, it clamours for your attention, clamours for explanations you're not prepared to give. You're aware of your tan, the golden hue that will soon fade, just like the memories of late mornings and unhurried afternoons with Matteo. The same can't be said for the engagement ring. It glows under the fragmented lights, inexorable, an eternal commitment set against the fragility of holiday promises.

You open your laptop, the screen blinking to life with a jarring urgency, a reminder that your absence is already felt. Unread emails stack up, each subject line a plea for your involvement. You should feel grateful for Matteo's dedication, his unfaltering belief in a future that extends beyond plane tickets and sunshine. Instead, there's an emptiness you can't shake, a guilt that seems to grow with every glance at your own left hand. You knew what he would ask. You knew from the way he looked at you across the dinner table, his eyes hopeful, the last night of your holiday framed by candlelight and too much expectation. Still, you couldn't find the words to say no, to shatter the perfect picture he painted so lovingly. So you said yes, and here you are, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe.

You don't have much time to adjust to your surroundings before Harry appears at your office door. You look up to find him staring, his presence unexpectedly abrupt, like a bandage ripped from a wound. He's holding a stack of papers, though he doesn't seem particularly interested in them. His shirt is uncharacteristically wrinkled, and you wonder if he had one of those nights, the kind that always make you feel more entangled with him than you have any right to be. A suggestive glimpse passes between you, and your heart races in a way that betrays the stoic demeanour you're struggling to maintain.

"You're back," he says, more of an observation than a greeting. You nod, attempting to act as if nothing has changed, even though everything has.

"Need you to look over the Collins treatment plan," Harry continues, but his voice is almost a whisper beneath the weight of his gaze. His eyes fall to your hand. They linger there, a wordless interrogation. Time stretches, thins out, pulls taut like a string about to snap. You swear you can hear his heartbeat over your own.

"I suppose a congratulations is in order?" His voice is a whip. You hear it crack and feel it dig into your chest.

His eyes meet yours again, demanding a response. You're startled by the bluntness of his words, by the acrimony etched into every syllable. You had expected more finesse from him, a softer approach. But then, nothing has ever been simple between the two of you.

"Uh, yeah," you finally manage, the words nearly inaudible even to your own ears. "I suppose." Your confession feels like a betrayal, and your cheeks burn with the shame of it.

Harry doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. The tightness of his jaw and the way he shuffles the papers in his hand are enough.

He makes a move towards your desk, and for a moment, you think he's going to speak, to offer more than the hollow congratulations still reverberating in the room. Instead, he tosses the papers down in front of you with a thud that resonates like a gavel strike. "I need this back today," he says, his voice flat and indistinct.

The papers are covered in his revisions, a red ink slashed across every page. Just like that, he's gone, leaving you in the silence of your own unraveling. His footsteps are brisk and uneven, and you think you see him run a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation and defeat.

You sit there, unable to move, unable to process the quicksand of emotions pulling you under. The room feels smaller, suffocating, every object and piece of furniture mocking you with its familiarity, its permanence. You can't stop replaying the moment in your mind, the instant his eyes landed on your ring. It was as if he had seen right through you, as if he already knew you didn't want to say yes.

This should be a happy time, a moment you share with pride and joy. Instead, it feels like a confession of criminality, like a lie too big to contain within the small confines of your office. You stare at the case note in front of you, the words blurring and shifting, refusing to hold their shape. Just like you, they're struggling to make sense, struggling to be honest.

You glance at the clock, anxiety already gnawing at the edges of your resolve. You have to see him again tonight. A session you had been both dreading and longing for. Supervision with Harry was once the highlight of your day, but now it looms ahead of you like a storm, unpredictable and destructive. He has every right to be angry, you think. You have every reason to feel scared.