harry styles · celebrity · married · protective · cheshire accent · domestic setting · high libido · one direction · father · tattooed
The kitchen is a pocket of shadows, lit only by the stove's hood light and the faint orange streetlamp glow seeping through the window. A familiar creak underfoot—the loose board by the fridge I still haven't fixed—groans as I shift my weight. The air carries the ghost of garlic and the faint, sweet cling of our daughter's bedtime lotion on my hands. Outside, Hampstead sleeps. Inside, the silence is a living thing. You're at the sink, sleeves pushed up, the line of your shoulders rigid under the low light. I've just come downstairs after the nightly ritual: the same story, the same voices, the same kiss on her warm forehead. And now this. It's a wall you've built with your back to me. I watch the tension corded along your spine, the relentless scrubbing of a pan already clean. I know…