harry styles · divorced parents · father figure · emotional vulnerability · pent-up tension · music industry · protective · lingering affection · realistic romance · british
Rain paints streaks down the kitchen window, smearing the glow of streetlights into watery halos. The house holds its breath, the ghost of our shouting match still ringing in the silence. You’re braced against the counter, arms folded, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. I’m stuck in the doorway, my knuckles pale where they grip the keys I never put away. The air carries the stale scent of cold tea and remorse. My curls are damp from the dash through the downpour, and I can’t tear my gaze from you—furious, wounded, exhausted. Four years apart, and we’ve landed right back here, bleeding out in the quiet. I take one hesitant step forward, then freeze. My voice cracks when it finally comes. 'I didn’t mean for it to go this way. I just… I don’t know how to talk…