London weather can be cruel—especially when you've just come back from the sun-soaked dreamscape of L.A. The air here bites, not like a slap but a slow, creeping chill that slips under your skin. Walking from the parking lot to my office felt like a full-body balancing act. My handbag kept sliding down my shoulder, my laptop bag was cutting into my side, my coffee was dangerously close to spilling, and my thin cardigan offered no real defense from the wind. Goosebumps rose across my arms like tiny protests.

"Good morning, Monet!" I called as I stepped inside, grateful for the warmth. My assistant looked like she'd barely slept. She sat slouched at her desk, one hand propping up her head, her eyes fixed on her computer screen like it had personally wronged her.

"Morning... You have a meeting at ten, class at eleven, and again at two," she informed me between yawns, voice coated in exhaustion.

"I know about my classes, Monet." I chuckled, setting down my coffee.

She groaned and let her head drop face-first onto her desk.

"I'm sooo sleepy," she whined dramatically, muffled by her sleeve.

"Go home," I said, softening. "You've worked your ass off while I was gone. You deserve the break."

Her head lifted an inch. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," I smiled. "I've got this."

"But you've only been back, what—five days? Are you sure you'll be okay?" Her eyes were wide, hopeful but hesitant, like she thought I might take it back.

"It's fine. I'm prepped. Meeting notes are on my USB, classes are ready." I gave her a reassuring nod.

"Thank you, Ash. I owe you big time." In record speed, she was packing up, checking in three more times on her way to the door. By the time she left, she was already texting from the hallway, probably letting her bed know she was on her way.

Alone at my desk, I dove into my notes until a new email from Elizabeth pinged. Subject: Enjoy.

Oh no.

I hesitated for a breath before clicking the download. My chest tightened the second the images appeared—photos of Harry and me. At the diving lesson. Laughing during beach volleyball. Caught in candid moments before our not-a-date. Posing, sort of, at the shoot. We looked... happy. Carefree. Unburdened.

I scrolled, one after the other, each image a snapshot of a life I don't live—of a version of me I hardly recognized. Untroubled. Open. Smiling like I hadn't smiled in years. And Harry...

Harry was looking at me like I was the only person in the world.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but there wasn't much to say. I finally typed: I know what you're trying to do.

Then I hit send.

She's been relentless since I left L.A.—calling, texting, guilt-tripping me like it's her full-time job. She even called me a heartless bitch. And maybe, in her eyes, I was. But deep down, she knows I'm not that kind of person. I didn't leave to be cruel. I left because I had to.

What happened between Harry and me? It was what it was: two extraordinary days filled with reckless passion, emotional release, and yes—love-making. Or, let's not dress it up—fucking. Beautifully. Shamelessly. Again and again.

Harry seemed satisfied with his latest conquest: me. And I—well, I was euphoric. It had been so long since I'd felt wanted like that. Since I'd let someone see me, touch me, take me apart and put me back together with just their mouth and hands and whispered words. It was more than just sex. It was release. Freedom. Escape.

And then the call came.

Anzette, my daughter, full of excitement, declared breathlessly that she was in love with Harry Styles. Her voice trembled with joy as she gushed about how kind and gorgeous and perfect he was. She begged for an autograph. A photo. Anything. She called him the love of her life.

Thirteen. She's thirteen.

And I—I had just had sex with him. Four times. In less than two days. And it had felt so damn good.

After the call, I got out of his bed, told him I needed a shower in my own room, and walked out. I didn't say goodbye. Didn't leave a note. I didn't answer a single text or call that followed. By the next morning, I'd changed my flight and was already en route to London.

How was I supposed to face him after that?

When I got home, Anzie was curled up in bed, deep in her dreamworld. I crawled in beside her, needing her closeness. Needing to remember who I was. That's when I saw it—Harry's face. Everywhere. On the walls. The door. Her dresser. Poster after poster. Youthful Harry. Smiling Harry. Innocent Harry. The Harry she adored.

And there, in her newest posters taped to her door, I saw my Harry. The man who had whispered filthy things in my ear just hours ago. The man whose mouth had slid over every inch of my body like it was his to worship. The one who kissed me like he needed to breathe me in. Who held me like he was trying to memorize me.

How had I not seen this before? The magnitude of it? The absolute wrongness of it?

I was terrified. Of her reaction. Of my own judgment. Of what it would mean if she ever found out. She idolized him. She wore his name on her bracelets and sang his songs into her hairbrush in front of the mirror. And I—her mother—had been beneath him, begging for more.

Lying there, I couldn't help but drift back to the heat of his skin. The way his tongue had teased mine before sliding lower. The delicious friction of his body pressing into mine. The way my body responded—how I trembled, whimpered, came apart again and again under his touch.

It had been an incredible adventure.

One I hadn't planned for. One I may never repeat. But one I would never forget.

+++

"So you mean to tell us that Freud thought all of our dreams are basically related to sex?" one of my older students blurts, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and amusement. We're knee-deep in a discussion on Freud, and as always, the topic has taken a turn.

"Pretty much... yeah," I answer with a knowing smile. "In his book The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud argues that dreams are wish fulfilments. They disguise the desires of our unconscious minds. He even goes further, suggesting there are strong sexual connotations behind many of the symbols we dream about."

Predictably, some of them stare at me, puzzled, caught between disbelief and curiosity. Time to clarify.

"Okay... let me give you an example. Say you dream of a bank robbery, and you're being held hostage at gunpoint. According to Mr. Sigmund Freud, that's not just a crime fantasy. That's actually a yearning for... sexual surrender." I pause, letting it sink in. "And the gun?" I try not to smirk. "It's a metaphor for... well... the penis."

The room erupts.

"This Freud dude is awesome!" someone shouts from the back, and now the entire class is roaring. Laughter, applause, even a few whistles. It's a beautiful academic mess.

While they're still chuckling, I turn toward the whiteboard and write: umbrella, box, chest. Symbols, according to Freud, that relate to genitalia. I'm halfway into my next sentence when I feel it—eyes on me. Intense, familiar. And not the casual kind of attention I get when I mention sex in a lecture.

I turn back and there he is.

Front row. Arms casually crossed. Green eyes burning straight through me like he never left. Harry.

My breath catches, but I recover—barely. My heart is hammering now.

"Um... right. As I was saying," I continue, voice a bit shakier than I'd like, "Freud believed we all harbor secret sexual desires—needs we're not always conscious of. Because of societal constraints, we tend to experience them only in our dreams."

"Freud's a perv!" a girl from the second row calls out, sparking another round of laughter. I laugh too, nervously this time. Even Harry chuckles. Of course he does.

"He's been called worse," I say, forcing a smile. "But regardless of whether you agree with him or not, Freud is still considered the father of psychoanalysis. These objects," I gesture to the board, "are just a few symbols he analysed. Your assignment is to find out what each one represents in dream theory and report back to me tomorrow."

I start gathering my things, desperate to flee the room before he says anything else—but fate isn't that kind.

"One more question," a low, familiar voice rumbles, and suddenly every pair of eyes in the lecture hall is on him.

Of course.

Harry.

My stomach twists. He's dressed casually—black jeans, a loose white tee, hair tied in a bun. If he weren't, you know, Harry Styles, he'd pass as just another charming student in the crowd. But now the realization is dawning. The class is starting to buzz. Heads are turning. Mouths dropping open.

I swallow. "I'm listening," I say evenly, while trying not to scream internally.

He leans forward, a slow, devilish grin on his face. "What did Freud think about those who refuse to surrender to their desires... because they're too stubborn, or hiding behind their own inhibitions?"

Boom.

The room stills for a moment. And then—

"Mr. Styles!" I blurt out, trying to summon every ounce of fake enthusiasm I have left. The students explode.

Screams. Applause. Phones snapping photos like it's a red carpet event.

"So happy you could join us!" I add, cheeks flaming. I'm blushing furiously—not just because of what he said, but how. The deliberate phrasing. The challenge in his voice. The implication that only I could hear beneath it all.

"Guys," I call out, trying to regain control, "you know I worked with One Direction on the anti-bullying campaign... well, give it up for Mr. Styles, who was kind enough to drop by, just like he promised."

He plays along effortlessly, standing up and waving like the crowd is his personal fan club. Which, judging by the star-struck expressions around me, they very much are.

He strides down toward me, eyes still locked on mine, slow and confident. His grin is cheeky, wicked, impossible to ignore.

He leans in and hugs me—yes, hugs me—and kisses my cheek like we're old friends. My entire body tenses, and I can feel the room collectively gasp.

"And the Oscar goes to..." he whispers against my ear, amusement dripping from every word.

Then, turning back to the class, he continues smoothly. "Dr. Cameron has been amazing with Action1D. Brilliant work. And judging from today's lecture, clearly just as brilliant here. I'm lucky to be here—thank you all for letting me crash."

Cue chaos.

A stampede of female students (and some male ones) swarms him. Autograph requests, photos, questions, flirting—every direction at once. He's in his element, gracious and magnetic, but still glancing at me through the chaos.

And I... take my chance. Like the coward I am, I make a quiet exit through the side door, heels clicking a bit too fast against the floor. My heart is racing. My face is on fire.

God help me, he did it. He found me. Again.

And I have no idea what I'm going to say when we're alone.

+++

Half an hour later, there's a knock on my office door.

It doesn't take a genius to guess who it is.

The irony isn't lost on me—of all days to give Monet the morning off, it had to be the one where I'm left completely defenseless.

I exhale, straighten my blouse, and smooth my hair like it might somehow prepare me for what's about to walk through that door.

"Hello, Harry," I say softly, opening it before he even gets a chance to knock again.

"Ashley," he replies, his voice low and steady, stepping inside as he shuts the door behind him. The click sounds final. Like a verdict.

"I didn't expect you on campus today," I say, trying to sound casual as I motion toward the chair opposite mine. I sit behind my desk—my safe zone.

"And I didn't expect you to leave without so much as a goodbye," he says, standing tall across from me. No smile. No warmth. Just sharp-edged honesty.

"I'm sorry, Harry... something came up," I offer, weakly. It's pathetic, and we both know it.

He doesn't sit. Instead, he plants his hands on the edge of my desk and leans forward, every inch of him vibrating with the effort to keep it together.

"You didn't answer my texts. You didn't return my calls. You fucking left, Ashley. Without looking back." His words are a mixture of fury and pain. And I deserve both.

"Harry, I'm sorry," I say again, this time meaning it more than I can possibly express.

He straightens, jaw tight. "We had a great night together—more than one, actually. But let's be honest—your world and mine? Completely different planets. What did you expect from this?"

"I'm trying to be realistic," I say, quietly. "I thought maybe you'd feel the same."

He scoffs, wounded now. "So that's all it was to you? A great night? Just... sex?"

"Harry—"

"No, don't. Don't try to sugarcoat it now," he says, his voice rising just slightly, but it still cuts. "I thought you weren't like that. I thought you were different, Ashley."

"I am different," I say, but it sounds like a plea, not a defense.

He shakes his head. "So I was just someone to fuck?" The word lands like a slap. "Just a warm body to distract you from your grief?"

"No! Harry, no. It wasn't like that." I push back my chair and move around the desk toward him. I need him to see me—really see me.

"I was just a distraction then?" he asks again, voice cracking now. "A placeholder? Something to make you forget?"

"No..." I whisper, hating the truth that I can't fully deny, but also the way he's making it sound.

"What the fuck was this, Ashley?" he asks again, softer now. Vulnerable. "Because for me, it was something. You were something."

"It was something for me too," I confess, my voice breaking. "But I can't—"

"Can't what?" he interrupts. "Can't try? Can't let yourself be happy? Is this about the age thing again? Because I swear, if you start with that—"

"It's not that," I cut him off, finally, desperately. And then... the truth tumbles out before I can stop it.

"My daughter is in love with you."

Silence.

Harry's mouth opens slightly, but no sound escapes. His entire body stills, as if the air's been knocked out of him.