⋆ Zari ⋆

The weather helps, too. Most days have been bright and warm, the kind of late spring heat that makes the canals glitter and the parks fill with people pretending they don't have work to do. Between shows, rehearsals, social media plans, meetings, soundchecks and Harry’s carefully scheduled rest, the two of you have still managed to steal pieces of the city for yourselves. Walks after breakfast, runs along shaded paths, coffee dates where Harry wears sunglasses and pretends they make him invisible, quiet meals tucked into corners, your knees touching under the table while he steals the food from your plate and then looks offended when you notice.

It has been lovely, mostly. Because Harry can never really be invisible. You know that, he knows that and everyone who has ever loved him has probably had to learn it in one way or another. His fame follows him even when he moves gently through the world, even when he keeps his head down and his hand tucked around yours, even when he clearly tries to be only a man on a walk with his girlfriend. People still recognise him. They stop him, call his name, ask for photos, ask for signatures, ask him to write lyrics on scraps of paper and tote bags and phone cases. Some are shaking, some cry before he has even said hello, some are sweet, some are overwhelming, some try very hard to be respectful but have no idea what to do with the fact that someone they have loved from a distance is suddenly standing in front of them. Harry handles it with patience that still surprises you sometimes, even after two years.

But there are harder moments too. Fans sharing his location online before the two of you have even reached the next street, people appearing somewhere they shouldn't be, a group of girls following too closely during one of his runs earlier in the week, laughing breathlessly as they tried to keep up until he had to stop and ask them, still kind, still careful, to please not chase him through a public park.

And then there is the other part, the part that belongs mostly to you. The comments, the edits, the posts picking apart your face, your clothes, your job, your place beside him. The strange jealousy that rarely shows itself to you in person but appears online with a confidence people only seem to have when there is a screen between them and consequence. Most fans are kind, you know that, and you try not to let the loudest corners of the internet convince you otherwise. Still, when Harry gets stopped, you usually drift to the side. It has become automatic. You step away, hold his coffee, take the photo if someone asks, smile politely if anyone looks at you. Sometimes they do, most of the time they don't. They are there for him, not you, and you have never expected it to be different.

Today, though, the sun is out, the park is green, and for the first little while, everything is easy. You and Harry walk side by side beneath the trees, his fingers laced with yours, his thumb moving lazily over your knuckles. He has a cap pulled low and sunglasses on, though both of you know it's more ritual than disguise at this point. You're supposed to be at the arena later, swallowed by another show day, but for now there is only warm air, patches of shade, bicycles gliding past on nearby paths, and the smell of grass and sunscreen.

“You sure we have time for this?” you ask, though you're not exactly walking quickly.

Harry glances at you over the top of his sunglasses. “Are you asking as my girlfriend or as the person who knows my schedule better than I do?”

“Both.”

“Then yes to girlfriend, probably to schedule person.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Probably means yes.”

“Probably means you don’t know.”

“I know enough.”

“You once thought soundcheck started at four when it started at two.”

“That was a spiritual misunderstanding.”

“It was Tuesday.”

He smiles, pleased with himself when you laugh. You have already been stopped a few times since entering the park. A pair of girls near the entrance had asked for photos, and Harry had taken them with an arm around each of their shoulders, warm and patient. Another girl with a notebook had asked him to write a lyric, hands trembling so much that Harry had steadied her hand for her. Someone else had burst into tears, apologised for crying, and then cried harder when Harry told her she didn't need to apologise. You had waited a little way off each time, content enough, though aware of the minutes slipping away.

You keep your eyes forward. “I saw.”

Now, for a small stretch of path, there is quiet again, until Harry’s hand tightens slightly around yours, which makes you look over. His face has changed, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. The public softness remains in place, the easy expression he uses when moving through a place where he knows people might be looking. Underneath it, something sharper has appeared. “There’s a guy with a camera by the trees,” he says quietly.

“Been there a while.”

“Since we passed the pond.”

Harry’s mouth presses into a line. “Course you noticed.”

“I’m very observant.”

“You are.”

The man is too far away to be obvious to anyone not looking for him, half-hidden near a row of trees, pretending to be interested in something on his phone every time Harry glances his way. But the camera is there. The lens too big for casual sightseeing, the posture too deliberate. Harry exhales through his nose and you feel his irritation before he says anything. He can tolerate a lot, more than he should, sometimes. But there is a difference between fans asking for a moment and a stranger lurking through an afternoon that was supposed to belong to the two of you. “I’m going to ask him to stop,” Harry says.

You look up at him. “Now?”

“Yeah. He’s had enough.”

But before he can turn, four girls approach from the other side of the path. They slow down when they recognise him, then stop a respectful distance away, all of them visibly trying to organise themselves into calm human beings before speaking. They look early twenties, maybe students, dressed in summer clothes and tour merch, one with a tote bag over her shoulder, another clutching a book against her chest like it might fly away.

“Hi,” one of them says, voice bright but nervous. “Sorry, we don’t want to bother you.”

Harry’s expression changes immediately, the irritation tucked away for the moment. “Hi. You’re alright.”

The girl looks from him to you, and to your surprise, her smile widens. “Hi, y/n,” she says. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

The word both lands gently but noticeably. You blink once, caught off guard, then smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you too.”

The others seem encouraged by that. “We’re here for tonight’s show,” another says, looking between you and Harry. “Well, obviously. Sorry. That was obvious.”

Harry smiles. “S’alright. We do have a show tonight, so good guess.”

They laugh, the nervousness breaking a little and for a moment, it's actually sweet. They are excited, but careful. A little starstruck, but not pushing. One of them tells Harry she came from Belgium, another says this will be her third show already. The one with the book keeps glancing at you like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she's allowed. Then Harry’s gaze shifts past them, the paparazzi lifts the camera again and Harry’s jaw moves slightly, before he touches your arm. “I’ll be right back.”

You know where he's going before he says it. The girls turn, following his gaze, and immediately seem to understand.

Harry gives them a polite little nod. “Sorry. Just need a second.”

He walks away down the path towards the trees, calm but unmistakably purposeful. You stay where you are with the girls, all of you watching as he approaches the photographer. You can't hear everything from this distance, but you can read enough from Harry’s body language. Not angry, just firm. A hand lifted slightly, a few words, a glance back towards where you're standing. The photographer seems to argue for a second, then Harry says something else, and whatever it is makes the man lower the camera. Paparazzi don't seem to like being called out when other people can see them, and so a minute later, the man is walking away.

One of the girls beside you lets out a quiet breath. “That’s so unfair.”

You look at her.

“For you both, I mean,” she says quickly. “I know it’s part of everything, but still. You should be able to walk in a park.”

The sincerity in her voice makes your smile soften. “It’s complicated.”

Another girl nods. “We saw people posting about where he was running the other day. It was really weird. A lot of us were telling them to stop.”

“That’s kind of you,” you say.

“We just want him safe,” the girl with the book says, then looks shyly at you. “And you too. Sorry, we’re probably being so awkward.”

“No,” you say, a little touched. “You’re being very sweet.”

“We mean it,” the first girl says. “Also, we really love what you’ve been doing with his socials. The livestream from soundcheck was honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to my phone.”

You laugh. “That seems like high praise.”

“It is. My phone peaked that day.”

Another girl lifts her tote bag slightly, suddenly excited. “And I got this from Pleasing last month.”

You recognise it immediately, smiling. “Oh, I have that exact one.”

Her eyes widen. “You do?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite, actually. It fits way more than it looks like it would.”

The girl clutches the strap like it has just become a sacred object. “I’m never recovering from this.”

You laugh again, feeling heat rise to your face, but it's not unpleasant, it's simply unfamiliar, being included with this much open kindness. You're used to the sidelines, the polite absence people create around you when they are focused on Harry. You’ve made peace with that, mostly. It makes encounters like this feel strange in your hands, like being handed a gift you didn't expect and don't quite know how to hold.

The girl with the book says, “You’re really beautiful, by the way. Not in a weird way. Just… you are.”

Your smile turns shy. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“And he seems so happy,” another adds. “We can all see it.”

That one leaves you quiet for a second, but before you have to answer, Harry returns and the girls straighten instantly, excitement returning in full force now that he's close again, though they still keep the same respectful distance.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says.

“Don’t be,” one of them says quickly. “That was really annoying.”

“Little bit,” Harry agrees, then looks at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes linger on yours for half a second, checking, then he turns back to the girls with his usual warmth. One of them holds out the book with shaking hands. “Could you maybe sign this? If you don’t mind?”

“Course.”

She hands him a pen, and he takes the book carefully, resting it against his palm. “Who’s it for?”

“Lena.”

“For Lena,” he murmurs as he writes, concentration softening his face.

Another girl asks, “Could you write a lyric too? It’s all waiting there for you?”

Harry looks up, smiling slightly. “Planning a tattoo?”

The girl blushes. “Maybe.”

“If you do,” he says, pointing the pen at her with mock seriousness, “proper tattoo artist. Clean studio. No one’s kitchen. No friend with a machine they got online.”

The girls laugh. “I promise.”

“Good. I don’t want to be responsible for a tragic thigh tattoo.”

“It would be on my arm.”

“Still tragic if done badly.”

He writes the lyric for her neatly, then signs underneath, and when he hands the book back, she looks like she might cry, but in a contained, smiling way. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, course.”

Then comes the inevitable question. “Could we maybe get a picture?”

You do what you always do, you step back. Not far, just enough to clear the frame, to make space for the girls to gather around him. If someone hands you a phone, you will take the photo. If not, you wait. It's simple, practiced, almost invisible. Except this time, one of the girls notices immediately.

“No, no, wait,” she says.

You pause. “Do you want me to take it?”

“No.” Her face brightens. “We want you in it too, if that’s okay.”

You stare at her for a second. “Oh.”

The other girls nod quickly. “Please,” another says. “Only if you’re comfortable.”

“We’d love a picture with both of you.”

Because he is the tallest, Harry ends up holding the phones. The girls cluster around both of you, careful not to crowd too much. You smile through the first photo feeling oddly nervous, then laugh when Harry complains that his arm is “carrying the entire production.” By the third selfie, the awkwardness has eased enough that you lean into the moment properly, Harry’s arm warm around you just below the frame and when it is done, the girls thank you both several times.

The words seem to scatter your usual instincts. For a moment, you don't know where to put your hands, or your face, or the sudden warmth that rises in you. Harry notices, and without making a big deal of it, he offers you his hand. You look at him, and there's no pressure in his expression, only quiet reassurance. You take his hand and let him draw you back towards the group. “There we are,” he says softly.

“Have the best night,” you tell them.

“You too,” one of them says, then immediately laughs at herself. “I mean, obviously you’re not watching in the pit like us, but—”

“I’ll have a good night,” you promise.

Harry smiles. “Enjoy the show.”

“We will!”

They leave in a little cluster of excitement, looking back once or twice and waving. For a moment, you and Harry stand quietly on the path. Then he squeezes your hand. “They were nice.”

“They were very nice.”

You start walking again, hand in hand, the park opening up around you in green patches of lawn and sunlight. People are scattered across the grass, some lying on blankets, some sharing food from paper bags, some reading with sunglasses on, a few children running in circles around a dog that seems thrilled to be included.

After a little while, you say, “It felt weird.”

Harry looks over. “Weird how?”

“I don't know. Just weird.”

“Because they wanted you in the photo?”

“Because they wanted me in the photo. Because they spoke to me like they were excited to meet me too.” You shake your head lightly. “I’m not used to that.”

Harry is quiet for a second, then he nods towards a sunny patch of lawn near a tree. “Let’s sit for a bit.”

“We have to go soon.”

“We have a bit.”

There’s no point arguing because he has already started walking towards the grass, and because the spot is very nice. You follow him, letting the sun warm your face as you cross the lawn and when you find a place far enough from the path to feel peaceful but not so secluded that it becomes strange, Harry sits first, legs stretched out in front of him. You decide immediately that the only proper way to enjoy this situation is to lie down, and so you do. You lower yourself onto the grass and rest your head on his thigh, eyes closing the moment you settle. The grass is warm beneath your back, the sun gentle through the leaves overhead and Harry laughs softly above you. “Comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Glad I could be useful.”

“You’re an excellent pillow.”

“Best review I’ve had all day.”

His hand moves into your hair, fingers combing through slowly, you hum before you can stop yourself and for a little while, neither of you says much. His fingers move through your hair, then down to your shoulder, then along your arm in slow, absent caresses. The park continues around you without asking anything of either of you. Somewhere nearby, people are speaking Dutch, a bike bell rings on the path, people are laughing, the world feels beautifully ordinary. After a few minutes, Harry looks down at you. “You tired?”

Your eyes stay closed. “No.”

“You’ve gone very floppy.”

“I’m enjoying.”

“Enjoying what?”

“The sun, the grass, your thigh.”

“Alway so romantic.”

“And recovering.”

His fingers pause. “Recovering from what?”

“The fan encounter.”

Harry’s brows lift, though you can't see it. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just unfamiliar.”

His hand resumes, slower now. “Tell me.”

You open your eyes halfway, looking up at the leaves moving above you rather than at him. “Usually I just stand nearby and wait,” you explain, “which is fine. I know they’re not there for me. They’re excited about you, and I understand that. But those girls spoke to me, and they were kind, and then they wanted me in the picture.” You smile faintly. “It felt nice. Strange, but nice.”

Harry’s gaze stays on your face. “In my opinion,” he says, “that’s how you should always be treated.”

You tilt your head slightly against his thigh so you can look up at him. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You know that’s not realistic.”

“I know people get excited.”

“They’re your fans. They grew up with your music, or they love your albums, or your shows mean something to them. Meeting you is huge for them. They’re not thinking about me.”

“They could still say hello.”

“Some do.”

“Some don’t.”

You sigh softly, not frustrated with him, only with the complicated shape of the conversation. “I don’t expect them to like me just because I’m your girlfriend.”

“It’s not about liking you,” he says. His voice remains calm, but firmer now. “It’s about respect. If someone stops me while we’re together, they’re taking your time too. Even if it’s only five minutes. Even if you don’t mind. You’re standing there waiting while they get their moment. The least they can do is acknowledge you’re a person beside me.”

The way he says it makes something tender move through you. You look back up at the leaves. “I don’t mind waiting,” you say. “Most of the time, I really don’t. I know it might be the only time they ever get to meet you, and I’m happy for them when it happens. I like seeing them happy. But…” You pause, choosing honesty carefully. “Of course it feels nice when someone notices me too.”

Harry’s fingers trace down your arm, light and steady. “You’re too understanding, you know that?”

You smile. “I’ve been told once or twice.”

“I think about it,” he admits after a moment. “How to handle it. When someone ignores you, I mean. Not when they’re rude, because if anyone is rude to you in front of me, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

“Saying something.”

“Very detailed plan.”

“It’ll be better in the moment.”

You laugh.

“But when it’s just…” He searches for the right word. “Not cruelty, more like… just ignorance. I never know how to push back without making the whole thing awkward for you.”

“You don’t have to push back.”

“I want to sometimes.”

“I know.” You turn your face towards him again. “But I also want you to decide for yourself what you give to people, and where your boundaries are. I don’t want to be another thing you have to manage during a moment that’s already complicated.”

He looks down at you for a long second. This is one of the things he loves most about you, though it's also one of the things that makes him want to protect you more. You don't try to pull him away from the parts of his life that are difficult. You try to understand them, you even find ways to fit yourself around the reality of loving someone who belongs, in some way, to millions of people, while still never making him feel less yours. It is generous, sometimes too generous.

“Would you want me to include you more?” he asks. “Like, if people stop us, I could introduce you, bring you into the conversation a bit. Make it clear.”

You think about that seriously, then you shake your head. “No.”

“No?”

“I think that would make me feel more out of place,” you admit. “If they naturally include me, that’s lovely. Like today. But I don’t want you to force me into a conversation with people who clearly don’t want to interact with me. That would feel worse, I think.”

Harry’s thumb moves over your wrist.

“I’m okay on the sidelines,” you say. “As long as they’re not rude. I promise.”

“I’d never let anyone be rude to you.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

You smile up at him. “Of course I do.”

He looks away briefly, out across the park, as if he needs a second to let that trust settle where it belongs. When he looks back, his expression is softer. “I don’t deserve you.”

You immediately make a face. “That’s bullshit.”

He laughs. “Is it?”

“Yes. Complete bullshit.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am. You deserve the world.”

He tilts his head, a small teasing smile beginning. “Do I now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re kind, because you always try to see the good in people, even when it would be easier not to. Because you care so much it’s almost annoying.”

“Almost?”

“Sometimes fully annoying.”

“Good to know.”

“And because you’re a good boyfriend,” you add.

Harry’s smile opens slowly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“How good?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t fish for compliments again.”

“I’m not fishing. I’m gathering data.”

“You’re a very good boyfriend, that's it.”

“Excellent.” He brushes a fingertip across your cheek, featherlight. “You make it easy, you know.”

You groan. “That was cheesy, H.”

“You started it.”

“I’m allowed to be cheesy, I’m a woman.”

Harry stares at you for half a second, then laughs. “Oh, we’re doing gender roles today?”

“Only when convenient.”

“Right. So you get emotional speeches, and I carry things?”

“Yes.”

You both laugh, and the seriousness of the conversation eases without disappearing completely. It remains there beneath the warmth, a little truth folded into the afternoon. Harry keeps touching you softly, fingers in your hair again, tracing along your temple, your cheek, down to your arm, as if each small contact is another way to say he heard you.

After a while, his voice turns quiet again. “Promise me something?”

“Depends.”

“If it ever does feel like too much, if you feel left out or uncomfortable, or if people make you feel small, you tell me.”

You open your eyes and he is looking at you with no teasing now.

“I mean it,” he says. “I know this part of my life asks a lot of you. More than people realise. I love that you understand it, but understanding doesn’t mean you have to swallow everything quietly. Your well-being comes first. Always.”

The words stay with you for a moment, not heavy, just real. You reach up and take his hand from your hair, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I promise.”

Harry’s fingers close around yours. “Good.”

“And you promise me something too.”

“Anything.”

“If it gets too much for you, you tell me as well. The fans, the cameras, all of it. You don’t have to be endlessly kind at the cost of yourself.”

His face changes, just a little, then he nods. “I promise.”

“No.”

For another few minutes, the two of you simply stay there. You with your head on his thigh, Harry’s hand resting over yours, both of you under the shifting shade of the tree while the park carries on around you, unaware of the quiet vows being made in the grass. Eventually, he glances at his phone, then he sighs. “We need to go.”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you.”

He smiles. “That’s not how time works.”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Being a floppy woman in the sun.”

“Right. Very important.”

“Finally, you understand.”

He leans over you slightly. “If you don’t get up, I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes open at once, he looks entirely too pleased.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“Harry.”

“What? Gender roles, I carry things.”

“I swear to God, if you carry me across this park—”

“You’ll what?”

“Break up with you for seven minutes.”

“That’s harsh.”

“And then I’ll make you carry my bag as punishment.”

“I already carry your bag.”

“Exactly. Don’t test me.”

Harry grins down at you. “Come on, love.”

You stay still for one more second, just to prove a point, but then he shifts like he is genuinely about to scoop you up and you sit up so quickly he bursts out laughing. “Look at that,” he says. “Miracle.”

“You are a menace, Harry Styles.”

“You love me anyway.”

He gets to his feet first, then offers you his hand with exaggerated dignity. “Since I’ve been cruelly denied the honour of carrying you, I’ll settle for hand-holding.”

You take his hand and let him pull you up. “Poor Harry.”

“Thank you for your sympathy.”

“I have very little.”

“Still taking it.”

You brush a few blades of grass from your clothes, and Harry, without thinking, reaches to pluck one from your hair. His fingers linger for half a second near your cheek before he drops his hand. Then the two of you start back across the lawn toward the path, hand in hand.

The arena is waiting, the show is waiting, the noise, the lights, the people who will scream his name as if it belongs to them are all waiting. But for now, Harry swings your joined hands once between you and looks over with a smile that belongs only to the woman he would always notice first.

“Hand-holding’s not a bad compromise,” he says.

You lean into his side as you walk. “Best offer you were getting.”

“Lucky me, then.”

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

The weather helps, too. Most days have been bright and warm, the kind of late spring heat that makes the canals glitter and the parks fill with people pretending they don't have work to do. Between shows, rehearsals, social media plans, meetings, soundchecks and Harry’s carefully scheduled rest, the two of you have still managed to steal pieces of the city for yourselves. Walks after breakfast, runs along shaded paths, coffee dates where Harry wears sunglasses and pretends they make him invisible, quiet meals tucked into corners, your knees touching under the table while he steals the food from your plate and then looks offended when you notice.

It has been lovely, mostly. Because Harry can never really be invisible. You know that, he knows that and everyone who has ever loved him has probably had to learn it in one way or another. His fame follows him even when he moves gently through the world, even when he keeps his head down and his hand tucked around yours, even when he clearly tries to be only a man on a walk with his girlfriend. People still recognise him. They stop him, call his name, ask for photos, ask for signatures, ask him to write lyrics on scraps of paper and tote bags and phone cases. Some are shaking, some cry before he has even said hello, some are sweet, some are overwhelming, some try very hard to be respectful but have no idea what to do with the fact that someone they have loved from a distance is suddenly standing in front of them. Harry handles it with patience that still surprises you sometimes, even after two years.

But there are harder moments too. Fans sharing his location online before the two of you have even reached the next street, people appearing somewhere they shouldn't be, a group of girls following too closely during one of his runs earlier in the week, laughing breathlessly as they tried to keep up until he had to stop and ask them, still kind, still careful, to please not chase him through a public park.

And then there is the other part, the part that belongs mostly to you. The comments, the edits, the posts picking apart your face, your clothes, your job, your place beside him. The strange jealousy that rarely shows itself to you in person but appears online with a confidence people only seem to have when there is a screen between them and consequence. Most fans are kind, you know that, and you try not to let the loudest corners of the internet convince you otherwise. Still, when Harry gets stopped, you usually drift to the side. It has become automatic. You step away, hold his coffee, take the photo if someone asks, smile politely if anyone looks at you. Sometimes they do, most of the time they don't. They are there for him, not you, and you have never expected it to be different.

Today, though, the sun is out, the park is green, and for the first little while, everything is easy. You and Harry walk side by side beneath the trees, his fingers laced with yours, his thumb moving lazily over your knuckles. He has a cap pulled low and sunglasses on, though both of you know it's more ritual than disguise at this point. You're supposed to be at the arena later, swallowed by another show day, but for now there is only warm air, patches of shade, bicycles gliding past on nearby paths, and the smell of grass and sunscreen.

“You sure we have time for this?” you ask, though you're not exactly walking quickly.

Harry glances at you over the top of his sunglasses. “Are you asking as my girlfriend or as the person who knows my schedule better than I do?”

“Both.”

“Then yes to girlfriend, probably to schedule person.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“Probably means yes.”

“Probably means you don’t know.”

“I know enough.”

“You once thought soundcheck started at four when it started at two.”

“That was a spiritual misunderstanding.”

“It was Tuesday.”

He smiles, pleased with himself when you laugh. You have already been stopped a few times since entering the park. A pair of girls near the entrance had asked for photos, and Harry had taken them with an arm around each of their shoulders, warm and patient. Another girl with a notebook had asked him to write a lyric, hands trembling so much that Harry had steadied her hand for her. Someone else had burst into tears, apologised for crying, and then cried harder when Harry told her she didn't need to apologise. You had waited a little way off each time, content enough, though aware of the minutes slipping away.

You keep your eyes forward. “I saw.”

Now, for a small stretch of path, there is quiet again, until Harry’s hand tightens slightly around yours, which makes you look over. His face has changed, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you. The public softness remains in place, the easy expression he uses when moving through a place where he knows people might be looking. Underneath it, something sharper has appeared. “There’s a guy with a camera by the trees,” he says quietly.

“Been there a while.”

“Since we passed the pond.”

Harry’s mouth presses into a line. “Course you noticed.”

“I’m very observant.”

“You are.”

The man is too far away to be obvious to anyone not looking for him, half-hidden near a row of trees, pretending to be interested in something on his phone every time Harry glances his way. But the camera is there. The lens too big for casual sightseeing, the posture too deliberate. Harry exhales through his nose and you feel his irritation before he says anything. He can tolerate a lot, more than he should, sometimes. But there is a difference between fans asking for a moment and a stranger lurking through an afternoon that was supposed to belong to the two of you. “I’m going to ask him to stop,” Harry says.

You look up at him. “Now?”

“Yeah. He’s had enough.”

But before he can turn, four girls approach from the other side of the path. They slow down when they recognise him, then stop a respectful distance away, all of them visibly trying to organise themselves into calm human beings before speaking. They look early twenties, maybe students, dressed in summer clothes and tour merch, one with a tote bag over her shoulder, another clutching a book against her chest like it might fly away.

“Hi,” one of them says, voice bright but nervous. “Sorry, we don’t want to bother you.”

Harry’s expression changes immediately, the irritation tucked away for the moment. “Hi. You’re alright.”

The girl looks from him to you, and to your surprise, her smile widens. “Hi, y/n,” she says. “It’s so nice to meet you both.”

The word both lands gently but noticeably. You blink once, caught off guard, then smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you too.”

The others seem encouraged by that. “We’re here for tonight’s show,” another says, looking between you and Harry. “Well, obviously. Sorry. That was obvious.”

Harry smiles. “S’alright. We do have a show tonight, so good guess.”

They laugh, the nervousness breaking a little and for a moment, it's actually sweet. They are excited, but careful. A little starstruck, but not pushing. One of them tells Harry she came from Belgium, another says this will be her third show already. The one with the book keeps glancing at you like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she's allowed. Then Harry’s gaze shifts past them, the paparazzi lifts the camera again and Harry’s jaw moves slightly, before he touches your arm. “I’ll be right back.”

You know where he's going before he says it. The girls turn, following his gaze, and immediately seem to understand.

Harry gives them a polite little nod. “Sorry. Just need a second.”

He walks away down the path towards the trees, calm but unmistakably purposeful. You stay where you are with the girls, all of you watching as he approaches the photographer. You can't hear everything from this distance, but you can read enough from Harry’s body language. Not angry, just firm. A hand lifted slightly, a few words, a glance back towards where you're standing. The photographer seems to argue for a second, then Harry says something else, and whatever it is makes the man lower the camera. Paparazzi don't seem to like being called out when other people can see them, and so a minute later, the man is walking away.

One of the girls beside you lets out a quiet breath. “That’s so unfair.”

You look at her.

“For you both, I mean,” she says quickly. “I know it’s part of everything, but still. You should be able to walk in a park.”

The sincerity in her voice makes your smile soften. “It’s complicated.”

Another girl nods. “We saw people posting about where he was running the other day. It was really weird. A lot of us were telling them to stop.”

“That’s kind of you,” you say.

“We just want him safe,” the girl with the book says, then looks shyly at you. “And you too. Sorry, we’re probably being so awkward.”

“No,” you say, a little touched. “You’re being very sweet.”

“We mean it,” the first girl says. “Also, we really love what you’ve been doing with his socials. The livestream from soundcheck was honestly the best thing that’s ever happened to my phone.”

You laugh. “That seems like high praise.”

“It is. My phone peaked that day.”

Another girl lifts her tote bag slightly, suddenly excited. “And I got this from Pleasing last month.”

You recognise it immediately, smiling. “Oh, I have that exact one.”

Her eyes widen. “You do?”

“Yes. It’s my favourite, actually. It fits way more than it looks like it would.”

The girl clutches the strap like it has just become a sacred object. “I’m never recovering from this.”

You laugh again, feeling heat rise to your face, but it's not unpleasant, it's simply unfamiliar, being included with this much open kindness. You're used to the sidelines, the polite absence people create around you when they are focused on Harry. You’ve made peace with that, mostly. It makes encounters like this feel strange in your hands, like being handed a gift you didn't expect and don't quite know how to hold.

The girl with the book says, “You’re really beautiful, by the way. Not in a weird way. Just… you are.”

Your smile turns shy. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“And he seems so happy,” another adds. “We can all see it.”

That one leaves you quiet for a second, but before you have to answer, Harry returns and the girls straighten instantly, excitement returning in full force now that he's close again, though they still keep the same respectful distance.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says.

“Don’t be,” one of them says quickly. “That was really annoying.”

“Little bit,” Harry agrees, then looks at you. “You alright?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His eyes linger on yours for half a second, checking, then he turns back to the girls with his usual warmth. One of them holds out the book with shaking hands. “Could you maybe sign this? If you don’t mind?”

“Course.”

She hands him a pen, and he takes the book carefully, resting it against his palm. “Who’s it for?”

“Lena.”

“For Lena,” he murmurs as he writes, concentration softening his face.

Another girl asks, “Could you write a lyric too? It’s all waiting there for you?”

Harry looks up, smiling slightly. “Planning a tattoo?”

The girl blushes. “Maybe.”

“If you do,” he says, pointing the pen at her with mock seriousness, “proper tattoo artist. Clean studio. No one’s kitchen. No friend with a machine they got online.”

The girls laugh. “I promise.”

“Good. I don’t want to be responsible for a tragic thigh tattoo.”

“It would be on my arm.”

“Still tragic if done badly.”

He writes the lyric for her neatly, then signs underneath, and when he hands the book back, she looks like she might cry, but in a contained, smiling way. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, course.”

Then comes the inevitable question. “Could we maybe get a picture?”

You do what you always do, you step back. Not far, just enough to clear the frame, to make space for the girls to gather around him. If someone hands you a phone, you will take the photo. If not, you wait. It's simple, practiced, almost invisible. Except this time, one of the girls notices immediately.

“No, no, wait,” she says.

You pause. “Do you want me to take it?”

“No.” Her face brightens. “We want you in it too, if that’s okay.”

You stare at her for a second. “Oh.”

The other girls nod quickly. “Please,” another says. “Only if you’re comfortable.”

“We’d love a picture with both of you.”

Because he is the tallest, Harry ends up holding the phones. The girls cluster around both of you, careful not to crowd too much. You smile through the first photo feeling oddly nervous, then laugh when Harry complains that his arm is “carrying the entire production.” By the third selfie, the awkwardness has eased enough that you lean into the moment properly, Harry’s arm warm around you just below the frame and when it is done, the girls thank you both several times.

The words seem to scatter your usual instincts. For a moment, you don't know where to put your hands, or your face, or the sudden warmth that rises in you. Harry notices, and without making a big deal of it, he offers you his hand. You look at him, and there's no pressure in his expression, only quiet reassurance. You take his hand and let him draw you back towards the group. “There we are,” he says softly.

“Have the best night,” you tell them.

“You too,” one of them says, then immediately laughs at herself. “I mean, obviously you’re not watching in the pit like us, but—”

“I’ll have a good night,” you promise.

Harry smiles. “Enjoy the show.”

“We will!”

They leave in a little cluster of excitement, looking back once or twice and waving. For a moment, you and Harry stand quietly on the path. Then he squeezes your hand. “They were nice.”

“They were very nice.”

You start walking again, hand in hand, the park opening up around you in green patches of lawn and sunlight. People are scattered across the grass, some lying on blankets, some sharing food from paper bags, some reading with sunglasses on, a few children running in circles around a dog that seems thrilled to be included.

After a little while, you say, “It felt weird.”

Harry looks over. “Weird how?”

“I don't know. Just weird.”

“Because they wanted you in the photo?”

“Because they wanted me in the photo. Because they spoke to me like they were excited to meet me too.” You shake your head lightly. “I’m not used to that.”

Harry is quiet for a second, then he nods towards a sunny patch of lawn near a tree. “Let’s sit for a bit.”

“We have to go soon.”

“We have a bit.”

There’s no point arguing because he has already started walking towards the grass, and because the spot is very nice. You follow him, letting the sun warm your face as you cross the lawn and when you find a place far enough from the path to feel peaceful but not so secluded that it becomes strange, Harry sits first, legs stretched out in front of him. You decide immediately that the only proper way to enjoy this situation is to lie down, and so you do. You lower yourself onto the grass and rest your head on his thigh, eyes closing the moment you settle. The grass is warm beneath your back, the sun gentle through the leaves overhead and Harry laughs softly above you. “Comfortable?”

“Very.”

“Glad I could be useful.”

“You’re an excellent pillow.”

“Best review I’ve had all day.”

His hand moves into your hair, fingers combing through slowly, you hum before you can stop yourself and for a little while, neither of you says much. His fingers move through your hair, then down to your shoulder, then along your arm in slow, absent caresses. The park continues around you without asking anything of either of you. Somewhere nearby, people are speaking Dutch, a bike bell rings on the path, people are laughing, the world feels beautifully ordinary. After a few minutes, Harry looks down at you. “You tired?”

Your eyes stay closed. “No.”

“You’ve gone very floppy.”

“I’m enjoying.”

“Enjoying what?”

“The sun, the grass, your thigh.”

“Alway so romantic.”

“And recovering.”

His fingers pause. “Recovering from what?”

“The fan encounter.”

Harry’s brows lift, though you can't see it. “That bad?”

“Not bad. Just unfamiliar.”

His hand resumes, slower now. “Tell me.”

You open your eyes halfway, looking up at the leaves moving above you rather than at him. “Usually I just stand nearby and wait,” you explain, “which is fine. I know they’re not there for me. They’re excited about you, and I understand that. But those girls spoke to me, and they were kind, and then they wanted me in the picture.” You smile faintly. “It felt nice. Strange, but nice.”

Harry’s gaze stays on your face. “In my opinion,” he says, “that’s how you should always be treated.”

You tilt your head slightly against his thigh so you can look up at him. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You know that’s not realistic.”

“I know people get excited.”

“They’re your fans. They grew up with your music, or they love your albums, or your shows mean something to them. Meeting you is huge for them. They’re not thinking about me.”

“They could still say hello.”

“Some do.”

“Some don’t.”

You sigh softly, not frustrated with him, only with the complicated shape of the conversation. “I don’t expect them to like me just because I’m your girlfriend.”

“It’s not about liking you,” he says. His voice remains calm, but firmer now. “It’s about respect. If someone stops me while we’re together, they’re taking your time too. Even if it’s only five minutes. Even if you don’t mind. You’re standing there waiting while they get their moment. The least they can do is acknowledge you’re a person beside me.”

The way he says it makes something tender move through you. You look back up at the leaves. “I don’t mind waiting,” you say. “Most of the time, I really don’t. I know it might be the only time they ever get to meet you, and I’m happy for them when it happens. I like seeing them happy. But…” You pause, choosing honesty carefully. “Of course it feels nice when someone notices me too.”

Harry’s fingers trace down your arm, light and steady. “You’re too understanding, you know that?”

You smile. “I’ve been told once or twice.”

“I think about it,” he admits after a moment. “How to handle it. When someone ignores you, I mean. Not when they’re rude, because if anyone is rude to you in front of me, I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

“Saying something.”

“Very detailed plan.”

“It’ll be better in the moment.”

You laugh.

“But when it’s just…” He searches for the right word. “Not cruelty, more like… just ignorance. I never know how to push back without making the whole thing awkward for you.”

“You don’t have to push back.”

“I want to sometimes.”

“I know.” You turn your face towards him again. “But I also want you to decide for yourself what you give to people, and where your boundaries are. I don’t want to be another thing you have to manage during a moment that’s already complicated.”

He looks down at you for a long second. This is one of the things he loves most about you, though it's also one of the things that makes him want to protect you more. You don't try to pull him away from the parts of his life that are difficult. You try to understand them, you even find ways to fit yourself around the reality of loving someone who belongs, in some way, to millions of people, while still never making him feel less yours. It is generous, sometimes too generous.

“Would you want me to include you more?” he asks. “Like, if people stop us, I could introduce you, bring you into the conversation a bit. Make it clear.”

You think about that seriously, then you shake your head. “No.”

“No?”

“I think that would make me feel more out of place,” you admit. “If they naturally include me, that’s lovely. Like today. But I don’t want you to force me into a conversation with people who clearly don’t want to interact with me. That would feel worse, I think.”

Harry’s thumb moves over your wrist.

“I’m okay on the sidelines,” you say. “As long as they’re not rude. I promise.”

“I’d never let anyone be rude to you.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

You smile up at him. “Of course I do.”

He looks away briefly, out across the park, as if he needs a second to let that trust settle where it belongs. When he looks back, his expression is softer. “I don’t deserve you.”

You immediately make a face. “That’s bullshit.”

He laughs. “Is it?”

“Yes. Complete bullshit.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am. You deserve the world.”

He tilts his head, a small teasing smile beginning. “Do I now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re kind, because you always try to see the good in people, even when it would be easier not to. Because you care so much it’s almost annoying.”

“Almost?”

“Sometimes fully annoying.”

“Good to know.”

“And because you’re a good boyfriend,” you add.

Harry’s smile opens slowly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“How good?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t fish for compliments again.”

“I’m not fishing. I’m gathering data.”

“You’re a very good boyfriend, that's it.”

“Excellent.” He brushes a fingertip across your cheek, featherlight. “You make it easy, you know.”

You groan. “That was cheesy, H.”

“You started it.”

“I’m allowed to be cheesy, I’m a woman.”

Harry stares at you for half a second, then laughs. “Oh, we’re doing gender roles today?”

“Only when convenient.”

“Right. So you get emotional speeches, and I carry things?”

“Yes.”

You both laugh, and the seriousness of the conversation eases without disappearing completely. It remains there beneath the warmth, a little truth folded into the afternoon. Harry keeps touching you softly, fingers in your hair again, tracing along your temple, your cheek, down to your arm, as if each small contact is another way to say he heard you.

After a while, his voice turns quiet again. “Promise me something?”

“Depends.”

“If it ever does feel like too much, if you feel left out or uncomfortable, or if people make you feel small, you tell me.”

You open your eyes and he is looking at you with no teasing now.

“I mean it,” he says. “I know this part of my life asks a lot of you. More than people realise. I love that you understand it, but understanding doesn’t mean you have to swallow everything quietly. Your well-being comes first. Always.”

The words stay with you for a moment, not heavy, just real. You reach up and take his hand from your hair, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “I promise.”

Harry’s fingers close around yours. “Good.”

“And you promise me something too.”

“Anything.”

“If it gets too much for you, you tell me as well. The fans, the cameras, all of it. You don’t have to be endlessly kind at the cost of yourself.”

His face changes, just a little, then he nods. “I promise.”

“No.”

For another few minutes, the two of you simply stay there. You with your head on his thigh, Harry’s hand resting over yours, both of you under the shifting shade of the tree while the park carries on around you, unaware of the quiet vows being made in the grass. Eventually, he glances at his phone, then he sighs. “We need to go.”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you.”

He smiles. “That’s not how time works.”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Being a floppy woman in the sun.”

“Right. Very important.”

“Finally, you understand.”

He leans over you slightly. “If you don’t get up, I’ll pick you up.”

Your eyes open at once, he looks entirely too pleased.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“Harry.”

“What? Gender roles, I carry things.”

“I swear to God, if you carry me across this park—”

“You’ll what?”

“Break up with you for seven minutes.”

“That’s harsh.”

“And then I’ll make you carry my bag as punishment.”

“I already carry your bag.”

“Exactly. Don’t test me.”

Harry grins down at you. “Come on, love.”

You stay still for one more second, just to prove a point, but then he shifts like he is genuinely about to scoop you up and you sit up so quickly he bursts out laughing. “Look at that,” he says. “Miracle.”

“You are a menace, Harry Styles.”

“You love me anyway.”

He gets to his feet first, then offers you his hand with exaggerated dignity. “Since I’ve been cruelly denied the honour of carrying you, I’ll settle for hand-holding.”

You take his hand and let him pull you up. “Poor Harry.”

“Thank you for your sympathy.”

“I have very little.”

“Still taking it.”

You brush a few blades of grass from your clothes, and Harry, without thinking, reaches to pluck one from your hair. His fingers linger for half a second near your cheek before he drops his hand. Then the two of you start back across the lawn toward the path, hand in hand.

The arena is waiting, the show is waiting, the noise, the lights, the people who will scream his name as if it belongs to them are all waiting. But for now, Harry swings your joined hands once between you and looks over with a smile that belongs only to the woman he would always notice first.

“Hand-holding’s not a bad compromise,” he says.

You lean into his side as you walk. “Best offer you were getting.”

“Lucky me, then.”

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