anchored — part I (Patreon)

Author's note: Hi everyone! ❤️ I really needed to write something soft, so I wrote this for us. There is absolutely no drama, no big conflict, and no stress in this fic. It’s just pure, unfiltered comfort. I wanted to capture that "bubble" feeling—tour bus cuddles, hotel room quiet moments, and a Harry who is just completely, hopelessly in love. Think of this story as a warm hug or a hot cup of tea. I hope it brings you as much comfort to read as it brought me to write. Enjoy the fluff! xx

word count: 10,3K

The first thing Y/N noticed about Paris was that it didn't look like the City of Lights; it looked like gray tarmac and rain streaking sideways against the small oval window of the plane.

The pilot’s voice crackled overhead, announcing their descent into Charles de Gaulle, but Y/N was already awake. She hadn’t really slept across the Atlantic—too wired, too anxious. It had been three weeks. Three weeks of FaceTime calls that froze every time the tour bus went through a tunnel, three weeks of falling asleep to the sound of Harry breathing on the other end of the line, three weeks of wearing the heavy engagement ring on her left hand and feeling the phantom weight of his hand missing from hers.

When the plane taxied to a halt, the familiar routine kicked in. She pulled her hood up, grabbed her carry-on, and checked her phone.

Landed, she texted.

Three bubbles appeared instantly. Steve is at Exit 4. Don’t stop for anyone. I love you. Hurry.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Harry was in "Protective Mode." It was a side effect of the tour, amplified now that there was a ring on her finger. The world felt louder, the cameras brighter, and Harry’s need to shield her more intense.

Y/N moved through the terminal with her head down. She bypassed the baggage claim—she had learned long ago to pack light enough to avoid the wait—and headed for the VIP exit. Even from fifty feet away, she could sense the shift in the atmosphere. The air felt charged, restless.

There was a wall of glass doors ahead, and beyond them, chaos.

"Y/N."

She looked up to see Steve, one of Harry’s longest-serving security guards, stepping out of the shadows near the sliding doors. He was a mountain of a man, built like a linebacker but with the demeanor of a tired uncle. He didn't smile—he was on the clock—but his eyes softened when he saw her.

"Hey, Steve," she breathed out, adjusting her bag.

"Good to see you," he said, his voice a low rumble. He moved to her side immediately, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "It’s a bit of a zoo out there tonight. Word got out you were flying in. Keep your head down, eyes on my back. The car is right at the curb."

"Ready when you are," she said, tightening her grip on her purse strap.

Steve nodded to the airport security, and the doors slid open.

The noise hit her first—a physical wall of sound. It was a cacophony of shouting, the aggressive click-click-click of shutters, and the blinding strobe of flashes exploding in the twilight.

"Y/N! Over here!""Show us the ring! Is the wedding in Paris?""Harry! Is Harry with you?""Y/N, look left! Look left!"

She ducked her head, letting her hair fall like a curtain around her face. Steve became a human shield, his arm rigid around her back, propelling her forward. The world was reduced to the gray pavement of the curb and the back of Steve’s black jacket.

A camera lens shoved too close to her face, invading her personal space. "Back up!" Steve barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip. He didn't shove, but his presence alone forced the paparazzi to stumble backward.

"Almost there," he muttered to her.

A black Mercedes V-Class van was idling at the curb, the side door already sliding open. It looked like a portal to another dimension. Steve guided her in, his hand protecting her head from the doorframe.

She scrambled into the leather seat, sliding all the way to the far window. Steve followed, jumping into the front passenger seat, and the heavy door slammed shut automatically.

The silence was instantaneous.

The screaming, the flashes, the damp Paris air—it was all severed, replaced by the hum of the climate control and the smell of sanitized leather and expensive cologne.

Y/N exhaled a breath she felt like she’d been holding since New York. She leaned back against the headrest, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Through the tinted windows, the paparazzi were just muted ghosts, their flashes reflecting harmlessly off the glass.

The driver, a French man she didn’t recognize, caught her eye in the rearview mirror. "Mademoiselle. Welcome to Paris."

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice sounding raspy.

Steve turned around from the front seat. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said, looking down at her hands. She twisted the oval diamond on her finger, centering it. "They were aggressive tonight."

"First night in Europe," Steve corrected himself, glancing at the GPS. "It's always a madhouse. The crew is still trying to figure out the load-in for these older arenas, and Harry… well, you know how he gets on opening nights."

Y/N nodded. She did know. He wouldn't be tired; he would be electric. Vibrating with nervous energy, obsessing over the setlist, worried the crowd wouldn't like the new arrangement of a song, terrified his voice wouldn't hold up after the break.

"Is he at the venue?"

"Yeah. Soundcheck ran late. We’re taking you straight there. Should take about forty minutes with traffic."

Y/N looked out the window as the car pulled away, merging into the stream of red taillights bleeding onto the wet highway.

Her phone buzzed against her palm.

Incoming FaceTime: H.

She tapped answer immediately. The connection was grainy for a second before Harry’s face filled the screen.

He was moving—pacing. The background was the sterile white brick of a dressing room. He was wearing a bathrobe, his hair half-styled, clips holding the front pieces back. His eyes were wide, dilated with adrenaline.

"You’re in the car?" he asked, not even saying hello. His voice was breathless.

"I’m in the car," she soothed, leaning the phone against her purse so he could see her properly. "I’m safe. Steve is right here. We’re maybe twenty minutes out."

Harry let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair, messing up the stylist’s work. "Okay. Good. Okay. The traffic is bad, I heard it’s bad. Did you eat? Do you want me to have them order food? I can get that pasta you like from the place on Rue de—"

"Harry," she cut in softly, smiling. "Breathe."

He stopped pacing and brought the phone closer to his face. She could see the faint dark circles under his eyes, covered by a thin layer of concealer, but his grin was genuine. "I just want you here. It feels… it feels weird starting this without you in the building. The acoustics in this place are tricky during soundcheck and I’m worried about the in-ears cutting out during Satellite."

"It’s going to be fine," she said firmly. "You’ve done this a thousand times. And I’ll be there before you go on. I promise."

"Okay," he whispered. Someone shouted his name in the background. 'Harry! Wardrobe!' He glanced over his shoulder. "I gotta go get dressed. Come straight to the green room? Don't stop for anyone."

"Straight to you," she promised.

The screen went black.

Twenty minutes later, the van slowed. They weren't going to the main entrance; they were navigating the labyrinth of the arena’s underbelly. They passed massive semi-trucks being unloaded by guys in high-vis vests, road cases stamped with HARRY STYLES - EUROPE 2025 stacked high against concrete walls.

The van halted at a security checkpoint. A guard shone a flashlight inside, nodded at Steve, and waved them through.

They pulled up to the loading dock. It smelled like diesel fumes and stale cigarette smoke—the universal scent of touring.

"Here we go," Steve said, sliding the door open.

Y/N stepped out, her boots hitting the concrete. Immediately, a young PA with a headset and a clipboard materialized.

"Y/N? Hi, I’m Sarah. I’m taking you to the family room? Or straight to Harry?"

"Straight to Harry," Steve answered for her.

They walked briskly through the cement corridors. The energy was frantic. Dancers were stretching in the hallway, a guitar tech ran past them holding a cable like a lifeline, and the muffled thump of the opening act’s bass drum vibrated through the floor.

They reached a heavy black door marked with a simple piece of taped paper: H.

Steve stood back. "All yours."

Y/N didn't knock. She turned the handle and slipped inside.

The room was brighter than the hallway, smelling of hairspray, essential oils, and coffee. It was crowded—Harry’s stylist, his manager, and a photographer were all hovering.

But Harry was in the center of the room. He was dressed in his stage outfit—high-waisted trousers and a sequined vest that caught the light. He was listening to his manager speak, his leg bouncing nervously.

Then he looked up.

The noise in the room seemed to drop away. The nervous tension in his shoulders collapsed the second his eyes locked onto hers. He didn't say anything; he just moved. He crossed the room in three long strides, ignoring the stylist trying to fix his collar.

"Hi," she managed to say, but the word was smothered as he pulled her into him.

His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He smelled like expensive santal perfume and hair product. He squeezed her tight, shaking slightly—not from cold, but from the sheer release of tension.

"You made it," he mumbled against her skin.

Harry pulled back just an inch, keeping his hands firmly on her waist. He didn't look at his manager or the stylist hovering with a lint roller. He didn't look at the clock ticking down the minutes until showtime.

"Can you guys give us a second?" Harry said. It wasn't a question. His voice was low, polite, but final. "Just five minutes. Please."

The room cleared instantly. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing out the frantic energy of the corridor.

The silence that followed was heavy and sweet. Harry let out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders dropping another two inches. He backed up until his legs hit the edge of the vintage velvet sofa pushed against the wall, sinking onto it. He didn't let go of her hand.

"Come here," he murmured, tugging her gently. "Need you close."

Y/N stepped between his spread knees, and he immediately pulled her down. She settled into his lap, her legs draped over his, her arms instinctively going around his neck. It was a tangle of limbs, a desperate attempt to erase the distance of the last three weeks in a single motion.

Harry buried his face in the crook of her neck again, inhaling deeply. "God, you’re real. You’re actually here."

He pulled back to look at her, his large hands coming up to cup her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his green eyes scanning every inch of her features with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

He was cataloging her.

The last time he had seen her, standing in the doorway of their New York apartment, the morning light had been harsh. She had been crying, just a little—eyes puffy, wearing his oversized sweatshirt, looking small and fragile as he loaded his bags into the elevator. That image had haunted him on the flight over, the guilt of leaving her behind gnawing at his gut.

But tonight... tonight was different.

He traced the faint purple shadow under her eye. "You look tired," he whispered, his thumb grazing her skin.

"Red-eye flight," she smiled, leaning into his touch. "And your security team drives like they’re in Fast and Furious."

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest that she felt against her own. He continued his inspection. Her hair was a little messy from the humidity, frizzing slightly at the temples—he loved that. It felt domestic. Her lipstick had worn off, leaving her lips a pale, natural pink.

She looked worn out, yes, but she also looked solid. She looked like his.

"I kept trying to remember exactly how you looked when you laugh," Harry confessed quietly, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "Pictures don't do it. Facetime freezes. It’s... two-dimensional. I forgot how the light hits your eyes."

"I haven't changed in twenty days, H," she teased softly, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Feels like a lifetime," he countered seriously. He shifted his grip, one hand sliding down to rest possessively on her thigh, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of her jeans. The sequins of his vest scratched lightly against her arm—a stark reminder of where they were. He was Harry the Pop Star right now, dressed to be seen by twenty thousand people. But in this chair, with her weight pressing him down, he was just a guy who missed his fiancée.

He picked up her left hand, lifting it to his lips to kiss the ring, then the knuckles.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, searching his face. "Really?"

"Now?" He looked up, his eyes clear for the first time all day. The manic adrenaline had settled into a steady, warm burn. "Better. Grounded. I felt like I was floating away earlier. Just... too much noise in my head. But you’re here." He squeezed her waist. "You're the anchor."

"I'm here," she promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't," he murmured, leaning his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "Stay right here. Just let me hold you."

They sat there in the quiet dressing room, the muffled roar of the crowd beginning to filter through the walls, signaling that the arena was filling up. But for five minutes, the world was just the size of that velvet sofa.

It was the silence that finally gave them permission. Harry’s gaze dropped to her lips, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the green of his irises.

"I missed you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

Then he closed the gap.

It wasn't a tentative peck; it was a collision. His mouth captured hers with a desperate, starving intensity. He tasted like peppermint tea and nervous energy. His hands, which had been resting on her waist, slid up to tangle into her hair, gripping the back of her head to hold her steady, to keep her close.

Y/N melted against him, her hands clutching the lapels of his sequined vest. For a few seconds, the tour didn't exist. The sold-out arena, the screaming fans, the pressure—it all evaporated. There was just the friction of his lips, the scruff of his jaw grazing her chin, and the solid, frantic beat of his heart against her chest.

He groaned low in his throat, tilting his head to deepen the angle, stealing the breath from her lungs. It was a kiss that tried to make up for twenty days of absence in twenty seconds.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound was sharp, shattering the bubble.

"H! Movement in two minutes! We need to load you in!" The tour manager’s voice came through the wood, muffled but demanding.

Harry broke the kiss, but he didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against hers for one second, eyes closed, chest heaving. "Okay," he breathed out. "Okay."

He stood up, but instead of letting go, he took her hand. "Walk with me," he said. "To the box. Please."

"Of course."

He pulled her up from the sofa, his grip firm. He didn't check the mirror again; he didn't need to. He just interlaced his fingers with hers, locking them together.

They opened the door and the noise of the corridor rushed in—radios squawking, people running. But Harry moved with purpose now, towing her alongside him through the concrete labyrinth of the arena's underbelly.

Security flanked them instantly, clearing a path, but Harry seemed oblivious to them. His focus was entirely on the sensation of her hand in his. As they walked briskly toward the loading dock area where the transport box waited to sneak him under the stage, his thumb moved rhythmically over her ring finger.

He felt the cool metal of the band, the specific, sharp edges of the setting he had spent months designing with the jeweler in London. He knew the weight of it, the curve of the stone. Feeling it now, pressed against his own skin as they marched toward the roar of the crowd, gave him a surge of power. It was a physical reminder that no matter how loud it got out there, this—the quiet, solid reality of her—was what he was coming back to.

They reached the black road case—the "box." It was unglamorous, basically a modified equipment crate designed to hide him as they rolled him through the crowd to the B-stage or the main lift.

Harry stopped and turned to her, ignoring the crew member holding the lid open.

"I’ll see you after?" he asked, his voice raised over the hum of the arena.

"I’ll be right there," she promised, squeezing his hand. "Right by the stairs."

He grinned, the dimple popping in his cheek, the adrenaline finally taking over in a good way. He squeezed her hand one last time—hard, feeling the ring bite into his palm—before letting go.

He climbed into the box, crouching down into the small space. As the crew member moved to lower the lid, Harry looked up at her through the narrowing gap, blowing her a kiss.

"Love you," he mouthed.

The lid slammed shut. The crew immediately began pushing the case forward, rolling him out toward the screams of twenty thousand people, leaving Y/N standing in the hallway, her hand still tingling from his grip.

The transition from the concrete catacombs to the VIP box was like stepping onto another planet.

Sarah, guided Y/N up a private staircase and through a heavy curtain. The smell of diesel and damp concrete was instantly replaced by expensive perfume, champagne, and the ozone scent of a heated arena.

"Here we go," Sarah said, shouting slightly to be heard over the pre-show playlist—a thumping 80s synth track that had the crowd already vibrating. "I put you in the box with the Label team, but I think there are a few guests tonight."

Y/N stepped into the private viewing area. It was situated perfectly—house right, slightly elevated, offering a sweeping view of the massive stage setup and the sea of feathers and boas rippling through the audience below.

The box was already half-full. There were executives in suits loosening their ties, but near the front railing, sipping from flutes of Veuve Clicquot, was a small cluster of people who radiated a very specific kind of polish.

Y/N recognized them instantly. It was Lily-Rose Depp, looking effortlessly cool in a vintage leather jacket, talking to Troye Sivan, who was wearing a mesh tank top that sparkled under the house lights. They were the kind of "Paris Cool" that usually made Y/N feel like she was underdressed, even when she wasn’t.

She tried to slip quietly toward a corner seat, but anonymity was a luxury she had traded in when she said "yes."

Troye spotted her first. His eyes went wide, and he immediately broke away from the conversation, grabbing Lily-Rose’s arm.

"No way," he beamed, stepping toward Y/N. "The bride has arrived!"

Y/N couldn't help but smile. "Hi, Troye. Hi, Lily."

"Y/N!" Lily-Rose leaned in for the double-cheek kiss—the French greeting automatic. She pulled back, her eyes immediately dropping to Y/N’s left hand. "Okay, we saw the Instagram post, but you have to show us. Legally, you have to show us."

"It’s blinding from across the room, darling," Troye added, reaching out to take her hand gently. "Harry really went for it, didn't he?"

Y/N held her hand out, letting them inspect the ring. It felt surreal. A year ago, she would have been terrified to talk to them. Now, she was the center of their gravity.

"It’s stunning," Lily-Rose said, her voice husky and sincere. "He’s been obsessing over it for months. I saw him at a dinner in LA a while back and he was sketching shapes on a napkin. It turned out perfect."

"Thank you," Y/N said, feeling a flush of warmth. "It feels... heavy. In a good way."

"It suits you," Troye said, letting go of her hand. "Have you seen him yet? Is he losing his mind? First night in Paris is always chaotic."

"He's good," Y/N said, glancing toward the stage where the crew was doing final checks. "He's... ready. I think he just needed to get the first one started."

"He’s going to crush it," Lily-Rose said, turning to the railing. "The energy in here is insane."

Just then, Sarah reappeared at Y/N’s elbow. "Sorry to interrupt—here."

She pressed a cold glass into Y/N’s hand. A vodka soda with extra lime—her drink.

"Thank you, Sarah. You’re a lifesaver."

"I also grabbed you a water," Sarah said, shouting a little louder as the house music suddenly cut out. "And a setlist is taped to the railing for you."

The arena plunged into darkness.

The sudden blackout elicited a scream so loud it felt like a physical blow to the chest. It was a primal, high-pitched roar from twenty thousand throats. The floorboards of the VIP box vibrated under Y/N’s boots.

"Here we go!" Troye yelled, raising his glass toward the stage.

Y/N stepped up to the railing, clutching her drink. Her heart hammered against her ribs—not from fear this time, but from pride.

A single spotlight hit the center of the stage. The opening synth chords of the first song began to swell, deep and resonant, shaking the glass in the front of the box.

Then, the lift engaged.

Slowly, effortlessly, Harry rose from the floor. He was standing with his back to the crowd, arms outstretched, soaking in the noise. He was wearing the vest, the trousers, the rings. He looked larger than life, a silhouette framed in gold light.

He spun around, the microphone stand whipping with him, and the giant screens on either side of the stage lit up with his face.

He looked right into the camera, a feral grin on his face, and screamed, "PARIS! ARE YOU READY?"

Y/N watched from the dark of the box, sipping her drink, the taste of lime sharp on her tongue. Down there, he was theirs. He belonged to the screaming girls, the cameras, the industry.

But she could still feel the phantom pressure of his lips on hers from ten minutes ago. She knew exactly who he would be looking for when the lights came up.

The show was a blur of neon lights, screaming, and the kind of energy that made the air feel thin. Harry was in top form—running laps around the stage, dousing the front row with water, dancing with a flag someone threw from the pit.

But about an hour in, the energy shifted.

The stage went dark, save for a single, warm spotlight on the center mic stand. Harry walked over, wiping sweat from his forehead with a towel, his chest heaving under the sequins. He grabbed his acoustic guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder.

The crowd quieted down, sensing the shift. A ripple of anticipation moved through the arena like a wave.

Harry stepped up to the mic, running a hand through his damp curls. He looked out at the sea of faces, panting slightly into the microphone.

"Paris," he said, his voice raspy and deep. "You good?"

The scream was deafening. He smiled—that slow, lopsided grin that usually melted cameras.

"I’m good," he continued, plucking a few idle notes on the guitar. "I’m really good. It’s... it’s always scary starting a new leg of the tour. You get in your head. You worry about the sound, the lights, if your trousers are too tight..."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"But," Harry’s voice dropped an octave, becoming more intimate. He stopped playing. He looked down at his boots, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his head.

He didn't look at the pit. He didn't look at the cameras.

He turned his head and looked up—straight up—to the VIP box on the right.

On the giant screens flanking the stage, the camera zoomed in on his face. Everyone could see the way his expression softened. The performer mask slipped, just for a second, revealing something raw and tender underneath.

"I’m feeling very lucky tonight," Harry said, his eyes locked on the dark glass of the box. "Usually, when I leave home, I feel a bit... untethered. A bit lonely. But tonight, my heart is very full."

The crowd murmured, a collective gasp of realization rippling through the front rows. They knew. The fans always knew.

"Because I realized," Harry continued, leaning closer to the mic, "that home isn't a place. It's not a house in London or a hotel room. Home is a person. And I’m very, very happy that my home is here with me tonight."

He didn't say her name. He didn't point. But he didn't break eye contact with the box.

"This one," he murmured, "is for you."

He strummed the opening chord of Love of My Life.

In the VIP box, the air felt suddenly very hot.

Troye gasped, grabbing Y/N’s shoulder and shaking her violently. "Oh my god," he hissed. "Oh my god, Y/N."

Lily-Rose was grinning behind her hand.

Y/N felt her face catch fire. She gripped the railing, her knuckles turning white. She knew he couldn't see her clearly through the glare of the spotlight—she was just a silhouette to him—but she felt his gaze like a physical touch.

Down on the stage, Harry closed his eyes and began to sing.

Baby, you were the love of my life...

His voice was clear, hauntingly beautiful, stripping away the pop production to leave just the melody and the meaning. He wasn't performing it for the cameras anymore. Every lyric felt weighted, directed upwards.

The crowd swayed, thousands of phone flashlights turning on to create a galaxy of artificial stars, but Y/N only saw him. She saw the way his hand relaxed on the guitar neck, the way his shoulders slumped comfortably.

He was singing to the room, but the conversation was entirely private.

"He really loves you," Troye whispered, leaning in close so only she could hear, his tone suddenly serious. "Look at his face, Y/N. He looks safe."

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking back tears she hadn't realized were forming. She brought her hand up to her mouth, the diamond on her finger catching the reflection of the thousands of lights below.

"I know," she whispered back.

The door to the suite clicked shut, and for the second time that night, the silence was absolute.

It was 2:45 AM.

The room at the Mandarin Oriental was a sprawling expanse of cream carpets, gold fixtures, and heavy velvet curtains that had been drawn tight against the Paris night. It smelled of lavender turnover service and the faint, lingering scent of the room service cart that had been delivered ten minutes prior.

Harry didn't sit down. He couldn't.

He was still wearing his stage trousers and a loose vintage t-shirt he’d thrown on at the venue. His hair was damp from a post-show rinse, curling wildly around his ears, and he was pacing the length of the living area in his socks.

The adrenaline dump was in full swing. His body was exhausted—his knees probably ached, his voice was raspy—but his brain was still firing at a thousand miles an hour.

"The crowd was loud," he said, turning on his heel by the television. "Like, loud loud. Did you hear them during Kiwi? I thought the floor was going to cave in."

Y/N kicked off her heels near the door, sighing as her feet hit the plush carpet. She walked over to the small dining table where a spread of late-night fuel waited: club sandwiches, fries, and a bottle of red wine breathing in a decanter.

"I heard them, H," she said, pouring two glasses of wine. "I felt it in my chest. You were incredible."

Harry stopped pacing. He looked at her, his eyes still wide and bright. He walked over, grabbed a french fry from the silver tray, and ate it in one bite before leaning his hip against the table.

"Yeah?" he asked, needing the reassurance. "The sound was okay? I felt like the in-ears were lagging a bit in the second half."

"You were perfect," she promised, handing him a glass of wine. "Nobody noticed a lag. They just noticed you."

He took the glass, his fingers brushing against hers. He took a long sip, the red wine staining his lips, and finally, his shoulders dropped an inch. He eyed the plate of fries again.

"Stop it," Y/N warned, sliding the plate two inches to the left.

"Stop what?" Harry asked, widening his eyes in feigned innocence. "I’m just admiring the plating."

"You are eyeing my fries like a seagull at a beach picnic. You have a club sandwich right there."

"I need carbs, Y/N. I just did cardio for two hours in leather pants. I’m wasting away." He poked his own stomach theatrically. "Look at this. Skin and bone."

Y/N laughed, picking up a fry and waving it in front of his face before popping it into her own mouth. "Tragic. Absolutely heartbreaking."

Harry groaned, finally grabbing his sandwich. "You’re cruel. I dedicate a song to you in front of twenty thousand people, and you deny me a single potato product."

"Oh, right," she smirked, leaning back in her chair. "The speech. 'Home is a person.' Very poetic, Styles. Did you write that on a napkin or did it just come to you in a vision?"

Harry chewed, trying to hide a smile. "I’ll have you know I improvised that. pure stream of consciousness. A stroke of genius."

"It was very... The Notebook," she teased. "I think I saw Troye wiping a tear. You really laid it on thick."

"And you loved it," he countered, pointing a crust at her. "Admit it. You swooned. I saw the camera pan to the box. You were gripping that railing like you were on the Titanic."

"I was not swooning," she lied, hiding her face behind her wine glass. "I was embarrassed. I was worried you were going to start reciting Shakespeare next."

"Note to self for Amsterdam: Shakespeare," Harry mumbled, finishing his sandwich in record time. He wiped his hands on a napkin and looked at her, his expression softening, the banter fading into something warmer. "But really... it was okay? Not too much?"

"It was perfect," she said softy, dropping the act. "Cheese and all."

Harry grinned—that slow, satisfied grin. "Good." He looked at her fries again.

"Fine," she sighed, pushing the plate toward him. "Take them. You monster."

"I knew you loved me," he said triumphantly, snatching three at once.

He finished eating and set the plate on the coffee table. He slid down further until his head was resting on the back of the sofa, eyes fluttering shut.

"You smell like that fancy shampoo," Y/N noted.

"Stole it from the venue," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "Better than the hotel stuff."

He cracked one eye open, looking at her sideways. "Come here?"

Y/N shifted, sliding down so she was leaning against him. Harry immediately adjusted, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

"We have a travel day tomorrow," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep now. "Bus to Amsterdam. Overnight drive."

"I know," she whispered, tracing a pattern on his chest over the vintage t-shirt.

"It’s not as nice as this," he warned, gesturing vaguely at the luxury suite. "Bunks are small. Road is bumpy. No room service fries to steal."

"Harry," she stopped him, tilting her head up to kiss his jaw. "I don't care about the suite. I’d sleep in the luggage hold if you were there."

"I'd let you have the bottom bunk," he offered magnanimously, eyes closing again. "Because I'm a gentleman."

"You're a prince," she whispered.

"Mmhmm," he agreed, his breathing evening out as the adrenaline finally, finally gave way to sleep. "Night, love."

The blackout curtains were fighting a losing battle against the Paris sun, but the real source of heat in the room was the body radiating like a furnace next to Y/N.

It was 10:30 AM. They were dancing on the edge of disaster regarding the schedule.

Y/N woke up first. She turned her head to find Harry sprawled on his stomach, face planted in the pillow, one arm dangling off the bed like a crime scene victim. The sheet was pooled low at his waist, leaving the gallery of ink on his back exposed.

He looked peaceful. He looked exhausted. He looked edible.

She reached out, tracing the swallow on his shoulder blade with a manicured nail. "Harry."

A low groan vibrated from the mattress. "Dead. Leave a message."

"Not dead yet" she teased, walking her fingers down his spine, counting the vertebrae. "But you will be if we miss the bus. Sarah texted. Twice."

Harry cracked one green eye open. It was cloudy with sleep, but as soon as it landed on her, a slow, dangerous smirk curled his mouth.

"Let her wait," he rasped, his voice a gravelly ruin that made her toes curl. "I’m busy."

"Busy doing what? Drooling on Egyptian cotton?"

"Busy looking at you," he countered smoothly, rolling onto his back. He caught her wrist before she could pull away, tugging her down until she was hovering over him. "Hi."

"Hi, trouble."

"You’re the trouble," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips. "Waking me up. Risky business."

"I like risk," she whispered.

Harry huffed a laugh, shifting his hips upward—a subtle, deliberate friction that made her breath hitch. "Yeah? Prove it."

He sat up, taking charge effortlessly. His hands found the hem of her tank top. "Arms up. You’re overdressed for this conversation."

Y/N obeyed, letting him pull the shirt over her head. Harry tossed it blindly over his shoulder; he didn't even watch where it landed. His focus was entirely on her.

He didn't pounce. Instead, he leaned forward, his nose brushing against the skin of her neck, inhaling deeply. "God, I missed this smell," he whispered, nipping lightly at her pulse point. "Better than room service."

He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then another to her collarbone, his hands spanning her waist, thumbs digging in possessively.

"Just checking," he mumbled against her skin, his mouth moving lower to the swell of her breast.

"Checking what?" she gasped, her hands tangling in his messy morning hair.

"Checking the inventory," he teased, his voice vibrating against her ribcage. "Making sure you didn't leave any of these freckles in New York." He kissed a spot bellow her breasts. "Nope. Still here."

He looked up at her then, his eyes blown wide, dark and heavy with intent. "You have no idea," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "how hard it is to sing Love of My Life without getting a boner when I know you're watching."

Y/N laughed, a breathless, shocked sound. "Harry!"

"I'm serious," he grinned, shamelessly wicked. "It’s a professional hazard."

"Oh, is that right?" Y/N smirked. She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back until his head hit the upholstered headboard. "You think you have it hard?"

She crawled over him, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his gaze tracking her movement like a predator watching prey—except right now, he was the one trapped.

"I watched you for two hours last night," she said, her voice dropping, becoming predatory. She ran her hands down his chest, feeling the thud of his heart, over the ridges of his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his boxers. "Strutting around in those tight glittery pants. Throwing water on people. Looking like a jagged little rock god."

Harry let out a wrecked noise, his hips shifting restlessly. "Y/N..."

"You had twenty thousand people screaming your name, Harry," she whispered. She hooked her fingers into the elastic of his boxers, leaning in close so her breath ghosted against his ear. "But I’m the only one who gets to do this."

With a slow, deliberate yank, she dragged the fabric down. Harry kicked them off, breathless and impatient, leaving himself completely bare to the morning light.

He lay there, fully exposed, and the sight of him made her mouth go dry. It wasn't just that he was beautiful—a masterpiece of ink and muscle and golden skin. It was the vulnerability.

He looked beautiful and desperate. His chest was heaving, his skin flushed a faint pink. But it was his eyes that undid her. He was looking at her with a raw, starving neediness—lips parted, pupils blown wide, eyebrows drawn together in a look of pure, agonizing anticipation. He looked filled with it, overflowing with three weeks of pent-up longing, completely surrendered to her.

"Jesus," he rasped, his voice cracking. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white, anchoring himself. "Don't just look at me like that."

"I like looking," she murmured, her gaze traveling over him slowly, making him shudder. "You look so needy, H. So open."

"I am," he admitted, the confession torn out of him, zero ego left. "I am. Please."

She smirked, satisfied by the desperation in his tone. She moved lower, her hair brushing against his skin, teasing him. She pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh, right over the tiger tattoo, and felt the muscle jump violently under her mouth.

"Since you asked nicely," she whispered.

She moved between his legs. The visual of it—her head bowing, her hair curtaining around his thighs, the anticipation of her mouth—made Harry’s breath hitch in a strangled gasp.

She didn't hesitate. She leaned forward, her breath hot against him for a split second, and then she took him in.

The sensation was a shock of pure, wet heat.

She didn't just kiss him; she engulfed him. Her lips were soft but firm, sliding down to take him deep, the suction tight and overwhelming. She swirled her tongue, tasting him, humming against his skin as she established a slow, maddening rhythm.

Harry’s composure shattered instantly.

He didn't just moan; he broke. His hips bucked off the mattress, snapping upward to meet her, a guttural, broken sound tearing out of his throat that was half-prayer, half-curse.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice straining. One hand flew down to tangle in her hair—not pulling, just holding on, his fingers digging into her scalp to ground himself as the pleasure hit him like a physical blow. "Yeah. There. God."

He was completely at her mercy. His head rolled back against the headboard, exposing the long, taut column of his throat, the veins standing out. His eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in a mix of agony and bliss. The tour, the schedule, the screaming fans—it all evaporated into white noise.

There was only this. The visuals of her head moving between his legs. The wet heat of her mouth. The feeling of being entirely, wholly consumed by the person he loved.

“You're a brat." he stammered, breathless, writhing as she took him deeper.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

The pounding on the door was violent enough to wake the dead.

"STYLES! I KNOW YOU'RE AWAKE!"

Harry’s body went rigid. He instinctively reached down, his hands hovering over Y/N’s head, expecting her to pull back, to scramble away, to hide.

She didn't.

Instead, Y/N tightened her grip on his thighs. She didn't stop. She didn't even pause. In fact, hearing Sarah’s voice seemed to embolden her. She hummed against his skin, the vibration traveling straight down his spine, and swirled her tongue right over the most sensitive part of him.

Harry’s eyes flew open, wide and panicked, staring down at the top of her head.

"Fff-fuck," he hissed through his teeth, biting down on his own knuckle to stifle the moan that tried to escape.

BAM. BAM.

"Harry! I’m not kidding!" Sarah shouted from the hallway, her voice muffled but authoritative. "We are loading luggage in ten minutes! Answer me!"

Harry looked at the door. He looked down at Y/N, who was currently bobbing her head with enthusiastic, maddening rhythm, completely unbothered by the threat of his assistant breaking in.

He tried to push her away gently, but his hands betrayed him, tangling in her hair and holding her there instead.

"Y/N," he wheezed, his voice a broken whisper. "Stop. She’s... ngh... she’s waiting."

Y/N ignored him completely. She took him deeper, the suction wet and loud in the quiet room, her hand working in tandem with her mouth to twist him into absolute ruin. She looked up at him through her lashes—eyes bright with mischief, cheeks flushed—and sucked harder.

Harry’s head slammed back against the headboard. A tear of pure frustration and pleasure leaked out of the corner of his eye.

"HARRY EDWARD STYLES!" Sarah roared.

Harry snapped.

"I AM BUSY!" he roared back, his voice cracking, straining over the sensation of Y/N’s mouth. "FUCK OFF!"

Y/N almost choked on a laugh, vibrating against him, but she turned it into a deep, heavy swallow that made Harry’s entire body convulse.

Silence from the hallway.

Then, Sarah’s voice, dry and unimpressed: "Fine. Five minutes”

As soon as her footsteps faded, Harry collapsed. He didn't push Y/N away; he melted. His head lulled to the side, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Jesus Christ," he whimpered, looking down at her with a look of pure betrayal and overwhelming lust. "You are... evil. You are so evil."

Y/N pulled back just an inch, her lips slick and swollen, looking distinctly proud of herself.

"I thought we had to pack?" she teased breathlessly.

Harry looked at her, his eyes dark, blown out, and desperate. He reached down, grabbing her face with both hands, his thumbs pressing into her cheeks.

"Pack later," he growled, pulling her back down. "Finish it."

The Mercedes sprinter van had been tight, but the tour bus was a different kind of torture.

It was a luxury vehicle, technically—leather seats, ambient lighting, a kitchenette—but right now, it felt like a prison cell. And worse, it was a prison cell with an audience.

The front lounge was full. Sarah was typing furiously on her laptop near the window, still radiating waves of disapproval. Harry’s stylist, Harry Lambert, was flipping through a rack of clothes hanging from the bunk rail. Two members of management were discussing logistics for Amsterdam in low, serious tones near the kitchenette.

There was absolutely nowhere to hide.

Harry and Y/N were squeezed together on the back bench of the lounge, thighs pressed tight.

For Harry, the morning had ended in a crash of release, but it hadn't brought peace. He was slouching in his hoodie, legs spread wide, looking deceptively relaxed to the casual observer. But Y/N knew better. She could feel the tension radiating off him. His hand was resting on her thigh, his thumb rubbing the denim in a rhythmic, agitated motion.

He wasn't satisfied. He had come, yes, but he hadn't finished.

He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, replaying the last twenty minutes in his head. He was thinking about how he had wanted to pull her down. He was thinking about how desperate he was to taste her, to return the favor, to hear the specific pitch of her moan that he hadn't heard in three weeks.

And Y/N... Y/N was in agony.

She shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, unable to get comfortable. The friction of her jeans against her skin was maddening. She was aching, damp, and hyper-aware of her own body. The sudden stop in the hotel room hadn't just been an interruption; it had been a physical shock. Her body was still humming, waiting for a touch that wasn't coming.

Harry noticed the shift. His eyes flicked to her face, dark and heavy. He saw the flush high on her cheekbones. He saw the way she bit her lip.

He leaned in, pitching his voice low so it would be lost under the hum of the bus engine and the chatter of the management team.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," she lied, staring straight ahead at the back of Sarah’s head.

"You're squirming," he murmured. His hand slid higher up her thigh, dangerously close to where she needed him. "You're uncomfortable."

"I’m frustrated, Harry," she whispered back, the words sharp. "I’m sitting on a bus with your entire payroll, and I’m..." She cut herself off, taking a shaky breath.

Harry’s grip on her leg tightened. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, looking for all the world like he was just sharing a private joke.

"I know," he breathed, his voice rough. "I know."

Y/N’s breath hitched. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't."

"I hate this," he whispered, the venom in his voice real. He glanced around the crowded bus with genuine disdain. "I hate that we're in here. I wanted..."

He paused, his thumb digging into her muscle.

"I wanted to put you on top of me," he confessed, the words pouring out of him in a rush of dirty, desperate heat. "I had this image in my head. I wanted to see you bouncing on my cock. Wearing nothing but that ring."

The image hit Y/N like a physical blow—the visual of it, the specific depravity of being naked except for the diamond he gave her. She let out a small, strangled noise.

Harry Lambert turned around from the clothes rack. "You guys good back there? Want a water?"

Harry snapped his head up, the mask slamming back into place instantly. "We're good, thanks, H."

As soon as Lambert turned back around, Harry dropped his head back to Y/N’s shoulder.

"I wanted to taste you," he whispered, torturing himself as much as her. "I wanted to spend an hour just... making you a mess. I wanted to hear you scream my name without worrying about the world outside”

"Harry, stop," she begged, her voice trembling. "Please. You're making it worse."

He finally pulled back to look at her. His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the green, filled with a frustration that matched her own. He looked at her lips, then down to her lap, then back up.

Y/N swallowed hard, the ache between her legs throbbing in time with the bus’s vibration.

The automatic doors slid open, hitting them with a blast of warm air that smelled of coffee and floor wax.

Harry moved through the shop with the easy, practiced confidence of someone who knows exactly how to take up space without drawing unnecessary attention. He kept one hand intertwined with Y/N’s, steering her toward the snack aisle.

He grabbed two large bags of salt and vinegar crisps, tucking them under his arm like a rugby ball.

"Right," he muttered, scanning the shelves. "You wanted a KitKat?"

Y/N frowned at the display. "I don't see them. How can a petrol station not have KitKats?"

"Excuse me?"

A voice came from the end of the aisle. Three girls were standing near the refrigerated drinks, holding baskets. They looked like they were vibrating slightly, but they were trying hard to play it cool.

"If you want a KitKat... you should try a Leo," the girl in the middle said, pointing to a purple wrapper on the shelf right in front of Y/N. "It’s the Belgian version. It’s better."

Harry turned slowly. He didn't look surprised; he just flashed that lazy, trademark grin that had been on a thousand magazine covers.

"Thank you" he said, his voice raspy and chill. "We'll give it a go."

"Hi Harry. Hi Y/N," they chorused, stepping a little closer now that the ice was broken.

"How are you?" Harry nodded at them, easy and relaxed.

"We just wanted to say congratulations on the engagement," the girl on the left said.

"Thanks," Harry said, giving Y/N’s waist a squeeze.

"Are you guys heading to the Amsterdam show?" Y/N smiled, grabbing three of the Leo bars and tossing them into Harry’s armful of snacks.

"Yes!" the girl said, her eyes lighting up. "We're driving there now. We've got pit tickets."

"Nice," Harry nodded approvingly. "Make sure you get some sleep before then."

The girl in the middle took a half-step forward, looking at Y/N. "Also, I love your lip gloss. What shade is that?”

Y/N laughed. "Oh, it's just a tinted balm,”

She dug into the front pocket of the oversized hoodie she was wearing—Harry’s hoodie—rummaging past a crumpled receipt and a loose guitar pick until she pulled out a small, silver tube.

"It’s Revlon," she said, checking the label. "‘Rum Raisin.’ It costs like five euros and it survives everything. Eating, sleeping…”

"It’s such a nice color," the girl said.

Y/N didn't hesitate. She held the tube out. "Here. You take it."

The girl blinked, stunned. "What? No, I can't—"

"Take it," Y/N insisted, pressing it into the girl’s hand coolly. "I have spares in my bag. It’ll look great on you."

The girl looked at the lipstick like it was a holy relic. "Oh my god. Thank you."

"Can we get a picture?" the third girl asked, holding up her phone hopefully. "Quickly?"

Harry shifted his weight, adjusting the bags of crisps under his arm. "Course," he said smoothly. "Come on then. Squeeze in."

He didn't need to be told what to do. He dipped his head, pulling Y/N against his chest, and flashed a perfect, camera-ready smile as the girls huddled in.

Click.

"Lovely," Harry said, straightening up. "Right. We better crack on. Don't want the driver leaving us. "

"Thank you so much!" The girls waved, buzzing with excitement. "See you in Amsterdam!"

"See ya," Harry called over his shoulder, already guiding Y/N toward the counter.

As they walked away, Harry glanced down at her, shaking his head with a small, amused smirk.

"You're cool, aren't you?" he teased low in her ear. "Giving away your makeup. Woman of the people."

"It’s a good shade," Y/N shrugged. "And she was sweet. Now pay for your crisps, Styles. I want to try this Belgian chocolate."

The internet moves fast, but the Harry Styles fandom moves faster.

Y/N was sitting on a flight case in the hallway outside Harry’s dressing room, scrolling through Twitter. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the Paris show, and the timeline was a war zone of emotions.

The hashtag #HomeIsAPerson was trending worldwide at number one.

There were clips of the speech from every conceivable angle. There were grainy zoomed-in videos of the VIP box trying to catch her reaction. There were threads dissecting Harry’s body language, his tone, the specific way he looked up.

@HarrysHouseKey: HE DIDN'T EVEN SAY HER NAME AND IT WAS THE LOUDEST THING HE'S EVER SAID. I am unwell.

@TreatPeopleWithKindness94: The way his voice dropped? That wasn’t for us. We were just interrupting.

@StylesUpdate: Harry performing 'Love of My Life' looking directly at Y/N in Paris. (Video)

Y/N bit her lip, a flush creeping up her neck even though she was alone in the hallway. It was overwhelming, seeing their private feelings dissected by millions of people, but mostly... it was sweet. The comments weren't hateful. They were celebrating it.

From inside the dressing room, she could hear the muffled sound of Harry doing his vocal warm-ups—the strange bubbling noises and scales that always made her giggle. He was with the vocal coach, deep in the zone.

She had twenty minutes to kill.

Steve looked up from his position by the door. "Yeah?”

"I want to go say hi," she gestured toward the stage entrance. "Just to the barricade. They’ve been waiting out there all day in the cold.”

Steve frowned, checking his watch. "Y/N, the doors have been open for an hour. It’s packed out there. Harry won't like it.”

He's busy warming up," she countered gently. "I’ll be quick. Just five minutes."

Steve sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew he couldn't say no to the boss's fiancée. "Alright. But you stay behind the secondary rail. Do not lean over into the pit."

They walked through the tunnel, the roar of the crowd growing from a hum to a physical wall of sound. As she stepped out from behind the heavy black curtain and into the "moat" between the stage and the barrier, the air felt electric.

A few girls in the front row spotted her immediately. There was no screaming this time—just a frantic tapping on shoulders and excited whispers that rippled down the line.

"Y/N!"

She walked over to the metal barrier, keeping her head ducked slightly. She wasn't the star; she was just the girl lucky enough to be with him.

"Hi everyone," she said, her voice soft.

"Hi! Oh my god, hi!" A girl with a Dutch flag painted on her cheek beamed at her. "You are here! Congratulations!”

"Thank you," Y/N said, a genuine, warm flush coloring her cheeks. She instinctively covered her left hand with her right sleeve, keeping the ring hidden. She didn't want to flash it; that felt boastful. "That is so sweet of you. Thank you."

"Where is Harry?" someone asked from the second row, craning their neck to see past the curtain.

"He's backstage," Y/N answered, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "He’s with his vocal coach right now, doing those weird bubbling noises he does to warm up. But he's ready. He's really excited to see you all tonight."

"Are you staying for the whole leg of the tour?" a girl in a pink boa asked hopefully.

Y/N nodded. "I think so! As long as work allows, I want to be here. I missed the bus life, believe it or not."

"Are you going to do some sightseeing in Amsterdam?"

"I really hope so," Y/N smiled. "I love this city. We haven't had a chance to go out yet because we slept in after the drive, but I want to walk around the canals tomorrow."

"Did you already have a stroopwafel?" the girl with the flag asked seriously. "You can't leave without one."

Y/N laughed. "Not yet! But it's on the list. I saw a place near the hotel that smells amazing, so I’m definitely getting one tomorrow morning. Maybe two."

The fans giggled, the conversation feeling easy and grounded. It wasn't about the fame; it was just people chatting.

"How is Barnaby?" a voice called out from further down. "Is he with you?"

Y/N’s face softened instantly at the mention of their golden retriever. "Oh, Barnaby is good! He's back in New York with my parents. He’s too chaotic for the tour bus—he’d eat the furniture. But we FaceTimed him this morning. He's happy and getting fat on treats from my dad."

"Y/N!" A girl holding a disposable camera leaned forward. "Are we getting new merch? Please tell us! The blue hoodie is sold out everywhere!"

Y/N bit her lip, her eyes dancing with mischief. "I can't tell you..." she teased, lowering her voice. "But... I did see some new designs in the wardrobe case. And they look really cool. Think... vintage colors."

A collective gasp of excitement went through the group.

"Is there new music coming?" someone shouted.

Y/N held up her hands in surrender, laughing. "My lips are sealed! If I spoil that, management will kick me out, and then I’ll have to walk home."

"Wait! Y/N, wait!"

Just as she was about to turn, a group of girls began frantically digging into their clear plastic bags.

"We made these for you," one girl said, her hands shaking slightly as she held out a handful of beaded friendship bracelets. "And this is a drawing I did of you and Harry in New York. Please take it."

Y/N felt her heart squeeze. She reached out, taking the drawing carefully. It was a charcoal sketch, incredibly detailed. "Oh, wow," she breathed. "This is beautiful. You are so talented."

"And these!" Another girl thrust a stack of bracelets into her hand. Some said TPWK, some said HARRY, and one spelled out MRS STYLES in gold beads.

"Thank you," Y/N said, sliding three of them onto her wrist immediately. "I’m going to wear them tonight. Thank you so much, guys."

Steve tapped her shoulder firmly. "We have to go. Now."

"Bye guys!" she waved, clutching the drawing and the bracelets to her chest. "Stay warm! Drink water!"

She turned and jogged back toward the side stage, feeling lighter.

She ducked back through the heavy black curtains, a smile still plastered on her face, and nearly ran straight into a wall of sequins.

Harry.

He wasn't smiling.

He was standing near the stairs to the stage lift, his in-ears already hanging around his neck. His jaw was set tight, his green eyes dark and scanning her face with an intensity that made her stop in her tracks. He looked tense—high-strung.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice sharp. He looked past her shoulder at Steve, shooting the guard a glare. "Why was she out there, Steve?"

"I was just saying hi," Y/N interjected quickly, stepping between them. "I asked to go."

Harry looked back at her, his hands coming up to grip her upper arms. He wasn't rough, but he was holding on tight, like he needed to make sure she was solid. "It's not safe, Y/N. The pit is crazy tonight. Someone could have grabbed you, or thrown something..."

"They were sweet," she said, keeping her voice calm to counteract his frantic energy. She knew this mood—it was the pre-show nerves mixed with the protectiveness he’d been carrying since Paris. "Harry, look."

She held up the drawing and the handful of colorful plastic bracelets.

Harry blinked, his gaze dropping to the items in her hands. He saw the charcoal sketch. He saw the MRS STYLES bracelet on her wrist.

The tension in his shoulders drained away all at once. He let out a long, shaky exhale, his grip on her arms softening into a caress.

"They gave you gifts?" he asked quietly, his voice losing its edge.

"Yeah," she smiled, handing him a bracelet that said SATELLITE. "They made this one for you. They asked about Barnaby. They told me to eat a stroopwafel."

Harry took the bracelet, turning it over in his large fingers. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The fear was gone, replaced by a wash of relief.

"They were nice?" he asked, needing the reassurance. "They treated you okay?"

"They were great," she promised. "They just wanted to say congratulations."

Harry nodded, sliding the plastic bracelet onto his wrist, right next to his expensive watch. He looked at her, really looked at her, and shook his head. "You gave me a heart attack, you know that?"

"I know," she teased, reaching up to fix his collar. "Keeps you young."

"Come here," he mumbled, pulling her in for a hug. He buried his face in her neck, taking a deep breath, grounding himself before he had to go be Harry Styles for two hours. "I love you”.

"I love you more," she whispered.

"Harry! Lift in thirty seconds!" the stage manager shouted.

Harry pulled back, kissed her forehead hard, and turned toward the stairs. "Go to the box. Don't talk to strangers."

"Go!" she laughed, swatting his arm.

He sprinted up the stairs, the SATELLITE bracelet rattling on his wrist, just as the arena went dark.