Chapter 3: Morning Hunger
The silence of the house was different in the morning. It wasn’t the heavy, guarded quiet of the night before, but something lighter, porous, letting in the sounds of birds outside and the faint, distant hum of a lawnmower. Sunlight cut sharp angles across the bedroom floor.
Harry woke alone. The space beside him was warm but empty. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, the events of the previous evening settling over him like a fine dust. The rage was gone, banked to a dull ember, but a residual protectiveness hummed in his veins. He listened. From downstairs came the faint, comfortable clatter of kitchen things. The sound grounded him.
He pulled on a pair of soft, grey sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, and padded barefoot down the cool staircase. The scent hit him halfway down—warm, yeasty, rich—the smell of baking bread. It was layered with something else, the bright, bitter note of coffee.
The kitchen was awash in soft, golden light from the pendant lamps. Ollie stood at the large island, his back to Harry. He was wearing one of Harry’s old tour t-shirts, the black fabric washed to a soft grey, the 'Love On Tour' print faded. It was so oversized it draped off one shoulder and stopped high on his thighs. As Harry watched, Ollie bent over to peer into the oven, and the shirt rode up, revealing the full, perfect curve of his bare ass.
A jolt of pure, undiluted want shot through Harry, immediate and possessive. The worries of the outside world, the phantom scent of whiskey breath, the digital ghosts of potential videos—all of it evaporated.
He moved silently across the polished concrete floor. Ollie was humming, a soft, tuneless thing, as he straightened up and used a cloth to pull a steaming, crusty loaf of sourdough from the oven. He set it on the rack to cool, his movements efficient, domestic.
Harry came up behind him, not touching him yet. He could see the delicate knobs of Ollie’s spine through the thin fabric, the dip of his waist. He inhaled the scent of him—sleep, vanilla from the oven, his own clean skin.
“Smells like a proper bakery in here,” Harry said, his voice rough with sleep.
Ollie started, just a little, then relaxed back against the sound of him. “You were dead asleep. Thought I’d make us something real. Not that hotel room shite.”
Harry’s hands came to rest on Ollie’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the sharp points of his pelvic bones. He could feel the heat from Ollie’s skin, from the oven, bleeding through the cotton. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the side of Ollie’s neck, just below his ear.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he murmured into his skin.
“It was on the floor. It smells like you.”
Harry’s hands slid around from Ollie’s hips to his flat stomach, pulling him back flush against his own body. He was already hard, his erection straining against the soft sweatpants, and he ground it deliberately against the cleft of Ollie’s ass, still covered by the shirt.
Ollie gasped, a short, sharp intake of breath. His hands came up to grip the edge of the marble countertop. “Harry… the bread…”
“Fuck the bread,” Harry growled, the words vibrating against Ollie’s throat. His grip tightened. All the careful control from last night, the gentle washing, the tender holding, was coalescing into something sharper, more urgent. He needed to claim this space, this morning, this man. To stamp out every other imprint. He rocked his hips again, a slow, filthy grind. “Turn around.”
Ollie turned, his eyes dark, lips parted. Harry didn’t give him a chance to speak. He crashed his mouth onto Ollie’s, the kiss all teeth and desperate tongue. It was nothing like the kisses from the night before. This was hunger, pure and simple. Ollie met him with equal force, his hands flying up to tangle in Harry’s wild curls, pulling him closer.
Harry broke the kiss, breathing hard. He grabbed the hem of the oversized shirt and tugged it up and over Ollie’s head in one swift movement, tossing it to the floor. Ollie stood bare before him in the kitchen light, gloriously, unashamedly naked. Harry drank him in—the lean lines of his torso, the dusting of hair leading down from his navel, his cock already half-hard and curving against his thigh.
“Up,” Harry commanded, his voice low and thick. He grabbed Ollie by the waist and lifted him onto the cold marble countertop. The shock of the cool surface made Ollie hiss, his back arching. “Right here. Right now.”
“Yes,” Ollie breathed, spreading his legs to let Harry step between them. His heels hooked against the lower cupboard drawers for leverage.
Harry shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out, full and flushed. He spat into his own hand, a crude, practical sound, and slicked himself roughly. He didn’t wait, didn’t tease. He lined up and pushed the broad head of his cock against Ollie’s hole, which was still loose and relaxed from the night before.
“Fuck, Harry,” Ollie whimpered, his head falling back. He was open, but it was a swift, burning stretch.
“That’s it,” Harry panted, gripping Ollie’s thighs, digging his fingers into the firm muscle. He pushed in deeper, a relentless, steady invasion until he was fully sheathed, balls-deep inside him. They both groaned, a ragged, shared sound that echoed off the kitchen tiles.
Harry held there for a second, forehead pressed to Ollie’s, both of them breathing in sharp, pained gasps. The world narrowed to this point of searing connection, the cold marble under Ollie’s ass, the warm weight of Harry filling him up.
Then he moved. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, a hard, driving stroke that shook the bottles of olive oil and vinegar on the counter. Ollie cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound.
“You’re mine,” Harry gritted out, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust jarred Ollie backwards, his shoulder blades scraping against the upper cabinets. “Every fucking part of you. That bastard’s hands don’t get to be here. His breath doesn’t get to be here.” He punctuated each word with a deep, harsh thrust. “This. Me.”
“Yes!” Ollie sobbed, his own cock leaking and bouncing against his stomach with every jolt. He was clinging to Harry’s shoulders, nails biting into skin, his legs locked around Harry’s waist. “God, yes, it’s you. Only you.”
The violence of it was cathartic. It wasn’t anger, not anymore. It was a primal reassertion, a physical rewriting of history on Ollie’s body. The kitchen was filled with the sounds of their sex: skin slapping against skin, ragged breaths, the shudder of the counter with each impact, Ollie’s choked-off moans.
Harry felt the coil in his gut tighten unbearably. He reached between them, his hand slick with sweat, and fisted Ollie’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. It was rough, almost too much.
“Come for me,” Harry demanded, his rhythm becoming frantic, disjointed. “Come all over yourself. I want to see it.”
The command, the visceral ownership in his voice, was what sent Ollie over the edge. He came with a broken shout, stripes of white hot release painting his chest and stomach, his body clamping down tight around Harry in rhythmic pulses.
The feeling of him milking his cock was Harry’s undoing. He buried himself to the hilt one last time, his own orgasm tearing through him with a guttural groan. He held there, pulsing inside Ollie, as the waves of pleasure slowly receded, leaving him shaking and spent.
For a long minute, the only sound was their heaving breaths, slowly returning to normal. The smell of sex and baked bread created a bizarre, intimate perfume.
Harry carefully pulled out, wincing at the sensitivity. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of Ollie, and rested his forehead against his collarbone. Ollie’s arms came up, encircling him, holding him close despite the mess between them.
“Okay?” Harry mumbled, echoing his question from the night before, but now with a completely different, sated weight.
Ollie laughed, a weak, breathy sound. He pressed a kiss into Harry’s hair. “Better than okay. I think you cracked my back in about three new places.”
Harry chuckled, the vibration rumbling through both of them. He straightened up slowly, looking at Ollie—flushed, sweaty, covered in his own release, sitting on their kitchen counter. He looked utterly debauched and completely beautiful.
“Sorry about the bread,” Harry said, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.
“It’s probably cold now,” Ollie shrugged, then grinned. “Worth it.”
Harry helped him down, his legs wobbling slightly. They cleaned up at the sink with damp paper towels, a quiet, tender counterpoint to the frenetic energy of minutes before. Ollie pulled his shirt back on, and Harry tugged his sweats back up.
The sourdough, when Harry sliced into it, was still warm inside, the crust crackling perfectly. They ate it standing at the counter, tearing off chunks and dipping them in olive oil, their shoulders touching. The quiet of the house felt earned now, peaceful.
Harry’s phone, face-down on the counter, buzzed. Once. Then again. Then it began to ring.
They both looked at it. The domestic bubble held, fragile, for a second longer.
Ollie took another bite of bread, chewed slowly, and swallowed. “That’ll be Gemma. Or your manager.”
“Probably,” Harry said, not moving to pick it up.
“The video.”
“Maybe.”
The phone stopped ringing, then immediately started again.
Harry sighed, a deep, world-weary sound. He looked at Ollie, at the calm in his eyes, at the crumb at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and brushed it away with his thumb.
“Signal and noise, remember?” Ollie said softly.
Harry nodded. He picked up the phone, swiped to answer, and put it to his ear. “Yeah?”
He listened, his expression turning neutral, professional. The man from the arena was gone, replaced by the pop star. Ollie watched the transformation, his own heart a steady, quiet beat in his chest. He finished his bread, listening to the one-sided conversation.
“Right… Okay… No, I understand… Call the publicist. Draft a statement. Something about… respecting personal space. No, don’t mention Ollie by name. Frame it as a general principle.”
He listened some more, his eyes finding Ollie’s across the kitchen. He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug.
“Tell them we’ll handle it,” Harry said into the phone, his voice firm. “Today is ours.” He ended the call and placed the phone back on the counter, screen down.
He picked up another piece of bread, offering Ollie the other half. “So,” he said, his casual tone belied by the intensity in his eyes. “What do you want to do with our day?”
Outside, the world waited, phones buzzing, headlines writing themselves. But in the kitchen, with the taste of bread and each other on their tongues, they had all the time they needed. For now.