Chapter Text
“I hate everything.”
Harry’s voice is flat, void of any real emotion, yet heavy with enough entitlement to fill the entire backseat of the car. He stares ahead at the chauffeur, who barely reacts, just a slight raise of his eyebrows in the rearview mirror before looking back at the road like Harry hadn’t spoken at all. Harry huffs, rolls his eyes dramatically and takes a long sip of his iced matcha latte, which to be honest, is the only good thing in his life right now. He'd grabbed it at the airport, hoping the overpriced green sludge would somehow soften the absolute tragedy that is his current situation. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
Outside the window, the landscape stretches out endlessly. Rolling hills in shades of gold and green, rows of vineyards neatly lining the countryside and cypress trees standing tall like on postcards. The sky is an offensively bright blue, the kind that would look great on Instagram if he actually cared to take a picture. But he doesn’t. Because he’s stuck here. In the middle of nowhere. In bloody Italy.
The Tuscan countryside is exactly as stunning as people claim it to be, which is precisely the problem. It's picturesque, quiet and slow… completely useless to someone like Harry, who thrives on the buzz of London, the flashing lights of exclusive clubs and the hum of people who matter. His summer was supposed to be filled with rooftop parties, designer pop-ups, overpriced cocktails and dancing till sunrise with his friends. It was supposed to be the summer.
Instead, his parents, who are too busy being rich and important, have decided they simply don’t have the time to oversee the renovations of their latest impulse buy - a grand, but tragically neglected Italian villa. And who better to send in their place than their only son, whose entire personality revolves around not lifting a finger?
Harry exhales loudly - again. So loudly that even the chauffeur, who has impressively ignored him thus far, rolls his eyes this time. But Harry doesn’t care and slouches further into the plush leather seat, stretching his long legs out and tapping his manicured fingers against the cup in his hand. The ice has already melted. Fantastic.
Suddenly his phone buzzes beside him, but when he picks it up, all he sees is a flurry of messages in the group chat he was supposed to be a part of this summer. They're making plans for tonight for some new club opening with a VIP section sorted and a guest list stacked with models and influencers. It should’ve been him pre-ordering bottles, not sitting in the back of a car, watching fucking grapevines pass by.
This is hell.
No, this is worse than hell.
This is rural Italy and he is absolutely, completely alone.
Sulking, Harry watches the landscape pass by the window while his fingers absentmindedly brush away the condensation from his cup. The group chat on his phone keeps lighting up, his friends’ messages filling the screen with plans he’s no longer a part of, but he doesn’t reply. It’s not like any of them will actually miss him. They’ll notice his absence, sure, probably even make a few jokes at his expense about being exiled to the middle of nowhere but at the end of the day, the party goes on without him. It always does.
He should be used to it as he’s been left behind his entire life.
Harry exhales sharply, staring at his reflection in the car window. He tries to ignore the familiar ache creeping up his chest, the one that’s been there since he was a kid, tucked away in massive houses with people paid to look after him. His parents were always busy with meetings, trips, fundraisers, new business start-ups, whatever. They never meant to leave him alone, not really, but when you grow up in a house where your parents’ presence is more of an event than a daily occurrence, you learn to fend for yourself.
Or, in Harry’s case, you had someone like Stevie.
Stevie had been different from the endless rotation of nannies that came and went. She wasn’t soft-spoken and polite like the others. She was sharp and wild, with a husky laugh and stories about a life far more interesting than the one Harry was living. She smelled like lavender and old books, wore flowing skirts that swished when she walked and called him ‘darling boy” like he was the most important thing in the world. She was the one who taught him how to make a proper nest, showed him how to gather blankets and pillows into a perfect little sanctuary, warm and safe, where nothing bad could reach him. She was the one who explained all the things about being an Omega that no one else had bothered to.
Stevie had loved him. Really loved him. Not because she had to. Not because she was paid to. Just because.
And then she retired.
Harry had been sixteen and it had felt like the end of the fucking world. He’d made it his mission to make every new nanny’s life a living hell after that, driving them out one after the other, refusing to let anyone else even try to replace her. If he never let anyone get close, they could never leave him. Simple. His parents hadn’t cared. They just stopped hiring replacements once he turned eighteen, figuring he was old enough to look after himself. And he was, technically. He knew how to order food, how to fill his days with distractions, how to wake up hungover and make it through another mindless, glittering night.
Harry clenches his jaw, blinking hard at the landscape outside. The scenery has changed now, fewer vineyards, more open fields and the occasional cluster of trees. The road they’re on is narrower, winding, leading them further into the middle of actual nowhere.
And then, finally, there it is.
The villa.
Harry lets out a long, slow breath as the car pulls up to the grand, weathered estate. It’s enormous, beautiful in that old-money, effortlessly stunning way, but it’s also... empty.
Not physically, obviously. The house itself is solid, sprawling, all faded stone and tall windows with wrought-iron balconies. There are gardens surrounding it, though they look overgrown and wild, nothing like the perfectly manicured lawns of his family’s London home.
But there’s no life here. No noise. No people.
This isn’t just being alone.
This is a whole new level of alone.
Harry stares at the villa through the window and his stomach twisting unpleasantly.
What the fuck is he supposed to do here?
And so Harry doesn’t move. He should as the car has stopped, the journey is over, and reality is now staring him right in the face… but he can’t. Because the second he steps out of this car, the second his feet touch the dusty gravel of this godforsaken place, it becomes real. This isn’t just some bad dream or a temporary inconvenience. This is his life now. For weeks.
He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping his handbag a little tighter, trying to breathe through the rising panic. His Omega is screaming at him that this is wrong, all wrong. London was loud, crowded, full of people and touch and Alphas. Even when he was alone, he wasn't really alone because there was always the option of slipping into a bar or club, finding a strong pair of hands to hold him down, at least for a night. There was always someone to chase him, to want him.
Here? There’s nothing. No buzzing city, no hands to grab his waist, no warmth pressing against his back after too many drinks.
This place is silent.
It’s suffocating.
Harry presses his knuckles against his closed eyes and exhales shakily. Get it together.
Outside, the chauffeur is already unloading his obscene number of suitcases, working efficiently despite the glaring sun. Harry keeps his eyes shut a second longer, willing himself not to lose his mind. It’s fine. He’ll survive this. He always does.
But then he hears voices and Harry’s eyes snap open. He blinks against the brightness, a frown already forming. There are people here?
He shifts, peering through the car window, and… oh.
Well.
That’s unexpected.
Standing next to the chauffeur, arms crossed over a sweat-dampened tank top, is quite possibly the filthiest man Harry has ever seen. His trousers are worn, torn at the knees, his tanned skin smudged with dirt. There’s a cap perched backwards on his head, dark hair curling messily out from beneath it and he’s sweating. Like, actually dripping with it, like some kind of manual labourer or something equally unglamorous.
And yet…
Harry bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head slightly. He’s pretty. Rough around the edges, unpolished, but pretty. Sharp jaw, beautiful mouth and an annoyingly perfect nose. There’s something intense about him, something that makes his Omega squirmish. He looks like he belongs here, like he’s part of the landscape itself.
And Harry hates it.
He searches for his tiny mirror in his bag and runs a hand through his curls, fluffing them back into place. His heart-shaped sunglasses are perched beside him and he slides them on with a practiced motion before finally making a show of exiting the car.
One long, tanned leg in tiny shorts first.
Then the other.
He stretches exaggerated and fluid, arching his back just enough to catch attention, before swinging his handbag onto his shoulder and sauntering forward, hips swaying lazily and slurps seductively the last sip of his melted matcha latte through the straw.
The two men turn to look at him as he approaches, but Harry only acknowledges them with a single, barely-there nod before holding out his empty cup to the dirty man in the cap.
“Bin this, would you?” Harry says breezily. Then, without waiting for a response, he gestures vaguely at his mountain of luggage. “And bring those in, yeah?”
The chauffeur barely reacts, by now used to Harry’s antics, but the other man?
Oh.
Harry was expecting something. A stammered ‘yes, of course, sir,’ maybe, or a flustered look, an Alpha’s natural instinct kicking in to do whatever the pretty Omega in front of him asks. He’s used to that kind of reaction and has perfected this exact display to draw it out of people.
But this Alpha?
Nothing.
Just raised eyebrows, an unimpressed look and was that the ghost of an eye roll?
Harry is momentarily stunned but recovers quickly, reaching into his bag and pulling out a few crisp bills, thrusting them into the chauffeur’s hand. His parents had given him more than enough money to keep things running smoothly here, and honestly, at this point, throwing cash at his problems is all he has left.
The chauffeur thanks him, but Harry isn’t paying attention anymore. He’s too busy narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses at the man who still hasn’t spoken, still hasn’t acknowledged him beyond that stupid eyebrow raise.
The audacity!
Harry shifts his weight onto one hip, running his tongue along his lips. Maybe the man doesn’t realise who he’s dealing with. Maybe he’s new to this. Maybe he’s slow.
Well, he’ll learn.
With an exaggerated sigh, Harry flips his hair over his shoulder and turns towards the villa. This place might be the worst thing to ever happen to him, but at least there’s something pretty to look at. If there wouldn't be the sun beating down mercilessly and the heat wouldn’t cling to Harry’s skin like an unwelcome touch. He shifts on his feet, already feeling the sweat gathering at the back of his neck and resists the urge to groan out loud. How is it this hot? He hadn’t signed up for this.
To be precise, he hadn’t signed up for any of this.
His gaze drifts back to the chauffeur who slams the boot shut with a finality that makes Harry’s stomach drop. His many, expensive, essential suitcases, are piled haphazardly beside the car, still waiting to be carried in. By someone else, obviously.
But instead of moving to bring them inside, the dirty, sweaty, uncooperative man just stands there, exchanging some last words with the chauffeur.
And oh, now he’s smiling.
Not at Harry, of course. But at the chauffeur, nodding as the man claps him on the shoulder like they’re old mates. The sight of it is almost shocking because Harry hadn’t thought that this face was capable of smiling, not after the way he’d looked at him with sharp eyes and disinterest.
And yet, here he is, all easy grins and relaxed shoulders, murmuring something that makes the chauffeur chuckle before stepping back into the car.
Harry watches, increasingly agitated, as the car rolls down the long driveway, dust kicking up in its wake.
And then, just like that, he’s alone.
Alone with the rude, sweaty, silent Alpha who still hasn’t made a move towards Harry’s bags.
Harry waits and finally the man moves.
Away from the luggage. Away from Harry. Just… walking off.
Harry blinks.
What?
“Hey!” he calls out, incredulous, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the heat burns against his exposed legs. "Where the hell do you think you’re going? And what about my bags?"
The man actually pauses and turns slightly, glancing back over his shoulder, and ugh, he’s smirking.
“Not hey,” he drawls, voice thick with something rough and not the posh, polished accents Harry is used to. “Lou.”
Harry stares.
Lou?
What kind of name is Lou?
“Right,” Harry huffs, crossing his arms. “Well, Lou, my bags aren’t going to carry themselves, are they?”
Lou scoffs, outright scoffs, and Harry’s mouth falls open.
“For fuck’s sake,” Lou mutters, shaking his head. “You think I’m here to be your personal bellboy?” He gestures vaguely at the empty cup still in his hand. “Already got me throwing away your over-priced shite and now you think I’m hauling your designer luggage across the fucking courtyard?”
Harry gapes, scandalised. “Well, yes.”
Lou just lets out a short laugh, looking Harry up and down like he’s something unfortunate he’s stepped in. “Sort yourself out, princess.”
With that he just leaves and walks away like Harry is nothing, like this isn’t the most outrageous thing to ever happen in the history of Omegas and Alphas interacting.
Harry is so stunned he doesn’t even call after him. Just watches, mouth opening and closing like a fish, until Lou disappears behind a side entrance to the villa.
Then, finally, he finds his voice.
"Oh, fuck off," he snaps at nothing, throwing his hands up. "Seriously, fuck right off, you… ugly, sweaty, peasanty Alpha!”
Harry's breath catches and his hands tremble slightly, and god, he is so close to losing it.
But there’s no one here to witness his tantrum. No one to flinch, no one to apologise, no one to care.
Just him.
And his fucking bags.
Harry groans loudly, throwing his head back in frustration before grabbing the handle of his smallest suitcase. He tugs it sharply and nearly topples over when the gravel beneath his feet shifts. His sunglasses slip slightly down his nose and he shoves them back up with far more force than necessary, jaw clenched.
It’s fine. He’s fine.
Except he’s not, because the path to the villa is uneven as hell and his suitcase refuses to roll properly, the tiny wheels catching on every bump and dip.
"Fucking hell," Harry growls, gripping the handle tighter as he struggles his way towards the entrance. His handbag slips down his shoulder, his shorts ride up uncomfortably, sweat trickles down the back of his neck, and then Harry stumbles, foot twisting slightly, and he barely manages to catch himself before fully face-planting onto the stone steps. His knee scrapes against the rough edge and pain shoots up his leg, sharp and immediate. For a moment he just freezes and his lips part in shock.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
The words echo shrill and furious through the empty courtyard. With red cheeks, Harry grips the railing and his eyes sting as he carefully straightens up. He looks down at his knee which is red, slightly raw, probably bruised and glares at it like it personally offended him.
This is a nightmare. An actual nightmare.
His breathing is unsteady as he drags his suitcase inside, dumping it onto the cool, tiled floor before stepping back out. His heart is hammering, too fast, too fragile, and his Omega is scratching at the inside of his ribs. It's unhappy, unsettled, unwell.
He can’t do this.
But he has to.
Jaw tight, he stomps back towards the remaining bags. And if his eyes burn a little as he grabs another suitcase… Well, there’s no one here to see it.
As he steps finally into the entrance hall, it's cool, the air inside a blessed relief from the relentless heat outside. Harry steps in properly, dropping his handbag onto one of the marble-topped side tables with a thunk and shoves his sunglasses up into his curls.
The place is… grand, at least. He’ll give it that.
High ceilings, intricate crown moulding, a chandelier that looks like it could concuss someone if it ever came loose. A wide staircase sweeps up to the second floor and archways lead off into rooms he hasn’t yet explored. The floors are polished stone and his shoes click against them as he slowly walks further inside, leaving his suitcases abandoned by the door.
It’s beautiful.
Harry lets out a long sigh, pressing his lips together. Right.
He knows his parents hired workers to fix the place up while they were too busy doing whatever it is they do. They’d assured him his room would be ready first, at the very least. Which means, somewhere in this massive, empty house, there’s a perfectly made bed waiting for him. Harry just has to find it.
Dragging a hand through his curls, he starts wandering through the villa. He passes through a sitting room with tall windows and antique furniture covered in dust sheets, then into what must be a dining room, a long, polished table stretching across it. He barely glances at the décor - too tired, too hot, too irritated to appreciate it properly - before stepping through another doorway where he finds the kitchen.
It’s one of the only spaces that seems to have people in it, a handful of workers lounging around the large wooden table in the centre, their conversation a low murmur of rapid Italian. Harry perks up slightly as he steps forward.
“Hello,” he says, adding a small, charming smile for good measure. He’s been told before that his smile is devastating. He may as well use it.
There’s a pause. Then one of the men who is older, balding and with a smirk that Harry instantly dislikes, leans back in his chair and says something in Italian.
Harry blinks. “Um… English? Does anyone here speak English?”
More murmuring, a few smirks exchanged but they’re only looking at him.
Not in the usual way people do, not like in London, where he can control it, where he can direct it and make them work for it. This is different.
It’s appraising. Casual. Like he’s just some… thing to be assessed. Harry shifts his weight and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Uhm… my luggage is by the door. Could one of you…” He gestures vaguely, lifting his brows expectantly. “Bring it to my room?”
Silence.
Then another string of Italian, some quiet chuckling.
Harry huffs. “Okay, fine. Can someone at least tell me where my room is?”
Another smirk and Harry rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts.
"Brilliant.”
Spinning on his heel, he stalks back out of the kitchen, deciding immediately that he hates every single one of those men and will be avoiding them at all costs for the remainder of the summer.
Now, where the fuck is his room?
It could be anywhere as the villa is a maze of rooms, corridors stretching out in all directions. Harry peeks into what seems to be a study, then a sitting room, then another sitting room, then a bathroom so unnecessarily large it has a freestanding tub in the centre of it. Sighing, he heads for the grand staircase and climbs up. The second floor is just as sprawling, door after door lining the hallway.
Harry frowns, pausing as something shifts in his chest.
For a brief, ridiculous second, he has a memory of being small, standing in the hallways of his childhood home, staring at the rows of closed doors and knowing there was no one behind any of them. No mum. No dad. Just emptiness. Just him.
The feeling settles uneasily inside himself. Shaking it off, he presses forward, pushing open door after door.
But as he steps into the next room, Harry stills.
This one is different.
This one is his and it's stunning.
A massive bed sits in the centre, draped in crisp, cream-coloured linens. There’s a sitting area near the far wall, a sleek vanity against another and the air smells new, like fresh paint and expensive furniture polish. A massive set of glass doors leads out onto a balcony, sunlight spilling in and making the space glow. It’s luxurious. Carefully curated. Exactly the kind of place an Omega of his status should be staying in.
And yet… Harry just stares at it.
Too perfect. Too pristine. Too… empty.
His throat tightens and before he can think too hard about it, he strides forward and flops dramatically onto the bed, arms spread wide, inhaling the fresh scent of the linens.
It’s fine.
He’s fine.
His bags are still downstairs, but he’ll deal with that later. Right now, all he wants to do is lie here, pretend this isn’t his life for the foreseeable future and ignore the horrible feeling curling in his chest.
For a moment, he lets himself go still and lets the quiet settle around him. Then, with a deep sigh, he drags himself up. Because if he doesn’t, no one else is going to bring his things and he’s not about to spend the entire summer wearing yesterday’s clothes.
After he has dragged all the suitcases up the stairs, swearing under his breath, he comes to one conclusion only a short time later: Unpacking is a nightmare.
Harry knew it would be, but somehow, in his head, it had all seemed slightly more… glamorous.
Like, oh, look at me, setting up my summer wardrobe in my luxurious Tuscan villa, how quaint, how posh, how utterly chic.
Instead, it’s him sweating through his t-shirt as he wrestles with zippers, struggling to shove his silk shirts onto wooden hangers and scowling at the single, meagre chest of drawers provided for his many pairs of designer swim shorts.
But, eventually, he finishes. His suitcases are empty, his shoes are lined up neatly and all of his expensive skincare is displayed in the ensuite like an art installation. He surveys his work with a final look and places his hands on his hips.
Okay. That was exhausting.
And after all that effort, he deserves - no, he requires - a break.
Preferably one that involves a pool, a cocktail and absolutely no further physical exertion.
His parents had been very clear about the pool situation, using it as one of their key arguments back when they were forcing him into this situation. "Just think, darling! You can spend all day sunbathing by the pool! It’ll be like a retreat!”
So.
A retreat it is.
He digs through his drawer, pulling out his favourite pair of swim shorts, the ones that fit just right, snug around his waist and very flattering on his ass. They’re bright pink, of course, because if he’s going to suffer, he may as well look incredible while doing it.
Once changed, he twists his curls into a quick bun, grabs his sunglasses and a bottle of tanning oil, then heads downstairs.
The sun is still blistering, golden light bouncing off the stone pathways as he steps outside. The house is surrounded by sprawling gardens, most of them in desperate need of upkeep, from what little he’s bothered to notice, but the pool, when he finally finds it, is perfect. Long, rectangular, gorgeous. The water is impossibly clear, the tiles around it cool and smooth beneath his feet.
Finally.
Harry goes to one of the plush loungers, sprawling out dramatically and lets his limbs go heavy. Then he's pulling out his phone and his mother answers on the third ring.
“Harry, darling,” she says, clipped and not at all like she’s missed him. “How’s the house?”
Harry scoffs, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “Oh, just fabulous,” he deadpans. “There are strange men in the kitchen who don’t speak English, no one’s helped me with anything and I nearly died carrying my own luggage upstairs.”
His mother hums, distracted. “You didn’t die, though.”
Harry scowls. “That’s not the point.”
“Mmm.” There’s some shuffling on the other end, voices in the background and his mother sighs. “Darling, I’ve got a meeting in a minute…”
“Oh, shocking,” Harry cuts in, voice dripping with sarcasm.
His mother barely acknowledges it. “... make yourself comfortable, all right?”
“Comfortable?” Harry echoes, sitting up slightly. “Mother, I don’t think you understand. I-”
“Love you, darling, must go.”
And then the line goes dead. Harry just stares at his phone, lips parted and fury builds in his chest.
With a sharp breath, he throws his phone away.
Not far, not into the pool, but onto the stone tiles with a satisfying clatter. He really doesn’t care if it cracks. Doesn’t care if it smashes into a thousand tiny pieces. Because of course she doesn’t have time. Of course she doesn’t care. Of course he’s here, alone, and no one - not even his own mother - gives a single shit about it.
Harry flops back down, pressing his lips together as he glares up at the sky and he's sure this summer is going to kill him.
Still glaring at the sky, suddenly movement catches his eye. He shifts slightly, adjusting his sunglasses and sees him.
The man from earlier, the one with the attitude and the stupid backwards cap. What was his name again? Lewis?
Harry watches as the man steps around the corner, his brows pulling together as he looks down at something on the ground and Harry follows his gaze.
Oh. His phone.
The man crouches down, picking it up, turning it over in his dirty fingers. His expression is unimpressed and borders on judgmental.
"Do you always treat expensive things like this?” he asks dryly. “Or are you just too posh to pick it up yourself?”
Harry slowly lowers his sunglasses, just enough to shoot the man an unimpressed look.
“And what exactly does it have to do with you, Lewis?”
The man exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s Lou,” he corrects, stepping closer and holds the phone out. “And I’m just wondering if you’re always this spoiled or if I’m lucky enough to be witnessing a special performance.”
Harry narrows his eyes as he snatches the phone from Lou’s hand. His fingers brush against Lou’s - just briefly, just a second of contact - but that’s enough.
Harry stills. Because… because Lou smells like sun-warmed earth, like green things and salt and something faintly spiced, a scent that’s grounding and warm and unexpectedly… good.
It’s…
No.
Harry shakes himself, tilting his chin up, forcing his expression back into its usual I’m-too-good-for-this demeanour and stretches out along the lounger, one arm draping over his stomach, the other pushing his sunglasses back into place. His pink shorts ride up just enough to show off the length of his thighs and he knows he looks good like this.
If Lou is affected, he doesn’t show it and Harry purses his lips.
“And what exactly is your purpose here, then?” Harry asks, lazily dragging his gaze over Lou. “Besides being nosy and rude, obviously.”
Lou snorts.
"I do the gardens,” he says, gesturing vaguely around them. “I’m here to fix this place up and keep it that way.” He pauses, then adds, “And, apparently, to tolerate bratty, entitled Omegas.”
Harry sits up abruptly, affronted. “Excuse me?”
Lou lifts a brow. “What? Don’t like hearing the truth?”
Harry glares.
Oh, he hates this man.
Arrogant, smug and completely immune to Harry’s usual charm. It’s actually insulting.
Harry is gorgeous.
Harry is wanted.
Harry is…
Still being ignored, apparently, because Lou is already turning away, making his way toward a row of overgrown bushes near the pool, pulling on his work gloves.
"You're so rude,” Harry crosses his arms and calls after him.
Lou just lifts a hand in a mock wave, not even sparing him a glance and Harry huffs, flopping back onto the lounger.
He really hates this place.