Niall – "I know you're not pushing me away. You're protecting yourself."
He knew from the start that you were different. Not in the way you laughed or the way you looked at the world, but in the way you looked at yourself. Like love was a fight you'd already lost before it even began.
You flinched when he touched your hand too long. You apologized for every smile that lingered. And every time he said something kind, you stared at him like you were waiting for the punchline.
You never let him see the whole you – only the edges. The broken outlines.
"I know what you're doing," Niall said one night, his voice soft against the dark, his eyes searching yours as if he could piece you together without even touching you. "You think if you keep me out, you won't get hurt again."
You blinked. "And I'm right."
But he didn't argue. He just nodded slowly, like he understood — like he had to.
"I'm not him," he whispered. "I'm not gonna make you prove your worth. I'm not gonna take your heart just to drop it."
You looked away, not because you didn't believe him, but because you wanted to. Too much.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
"I'm not asking for all of you," he added gently, reaching for your hand again. "Just... a little more than yesterday."
Tears burned behind your eyes, but you held them back. You were too good at goodbyes. Too good at building walls and smiling through the ache.
But when his thumb brushed across your knuckles and he didn't let go — not when you froze, not when your breathing hitched, not even when you looked at him like you'd already lost him — something inside you cracked.
And for the first time in a long time, you whispered something that wasn't a goodbye.
"I don't know how to let someone love me without breaking me."
He squeezed your hand softly. "That's okay," he said. "I'll stay anyway."
Harry – "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
Harry didn't push. He never did.
Even when you pulled away mid-hug. Even when you froze at his gentle compliments or changed the subject every time things got too honest. He didn't get angry. He didn't beg for more than you could give.
Instead, he stayed.
"I get it," he said one night, sitting next to you on the couch, his hand resting inches from yours. "You've been through something that taught you not to trust. And now you think love is just another trick."
You didn't answer. You didn't have to. He could read it in your silence. The way your eyes darted to the floor, how you sat with your shoulders tucked in like you were bracing for something painful.
"I'm not here to fix you," he added. "I'm here to love you while you heal."
That made you blink. Almost flinch. Because you weren't used to that. To someone staying without demanding a version of you that didn't exist yet.
"I know you're just protecting yourself," he continued quietly. "And I would too. After what you went through... I'm surprised you even let me in this much."
Your throat tightened. You looked at him, really looked, and he wasn't frustrated. He wasn't disappointed. He just looked... soft. Like someone who wasn't scared of your mess.
