part two of No Boats Involved. Read part one here!
after one unexpectedly good first date, Harry comes back to the city early and a spontaneous walk turns into the first stop on your very unofficial New York tour.
word count: 11.9k
The date goes well.
Not in a flashy, cinematic way. Nothing dramatic happens. No one at the bar recognizes him, no one interrupts, and the world outside keeps moving like this is just another quiet Wednesday night.
Which, for the two of you, it somehow becomes.
The strange part is how quickly the nerves fade. For the first few minutes you’re aware of everything. The way you’re sitting. The way he’s looking at you. The low hum of the bar around you.
Then the conversation finds its rhythm and suddenly it feels familiar.
Like the app just changed locations.
He takes a sip of his drink and glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“This is strange,” he says.
“Strange good or strange bad?”
“Strange like we’ve been talking for weeks but I’m only just hearing your voice in person.”
You laugh softly. “It is a little weird bringing the chat into real life.”
“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Feels like we skipped the awkward part.”
“You mean the part where two strangers pretend they’ve always liked the same music?”
“Exactly that.”
You tilt your head. “We did cover a lot of ground already.”
He smiles. “We did.”
There’s a small pause, comfortable enough that neither of you rush to fill it.
“So,” you say, turning slightly toward him, “how were the meetings today?”
He exhales softly, leaning back on the stool.
“Long,” he says. “A lot of people in rooms talking about the album like it’s a strategy.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not terrible,” he says quickly. “Just strange sometimes. You make something extremely personal and suddenly it’s being discussed like a product.”
You nod slowly.
“I think that happens with writing too,” you say. “Just smaller.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“How so?”
You shrug slightly, tracing the rim of your glass.
“I’ll write something about a neighborhood or a person and suddenly people online are arguing about it who have never been anywhere near the place I’m talking about.”
He smiles faintly at that.
“Sounds familiar.”
“Does it bother you?” you ask.
He thinks about it for a second.
“Not always,” he says. “Sometimes it means people care. Sometimes it’s just background noise.”
You nod.
“That’s the exact balance.”
He studies you for a moment, curious in a way that doesn’t feel intrusive.
“You’re exactly how I imagined you’d be,” he says.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “That sounds like a dangerous thought.”
“Why?”
“Expectations.”
He shakes his head.
“Not expectations,” he says. “Just… familiar.”
You glance down at your drink to hide the small smile forming.
The conversation drifts after that. Not shallow, not heavy. Just steady.
You tell him about the bakery that almost closed and the neighborhood that rallied around it. He tells you about the strange quiet of studios late at night when everyone else has gone home.
At one point he leans his elbow against the bar and tilts his head slightly.
“You ask good questions,” he says.
You shrug.
“That’s the job.”
He smiles at that, like he’s realizing something.
“Good thing you asked me out then.”
You blink.
“I did not ask you out.”
“You asked if I had plans.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It’s close enough.”
You laugh, shaking your head.
And somewhere between that moment and the next sip of your drink, the last of the nerves disappear.
You’re not meeting Harry Styles.
You’re just talking to Harry.
Eventually the night starts to wind down on its own.
Not because the conversation dries up, but because the bar slowly empties around you. The couple in the corner leaves. The bartender begins wiping down the far end of the counter again. The quiet hum of closing time creeps into the room.
You glance at the clock on the wall without meaning to.
He notices.
“Early morning?” he asks.
“Always,” you say. “Deadlines wait for no one.”
He smiles faintly at that, but there’s a small nod that follows.
“Same,” he says. “Flight’s early.”
That swims in the space between you. Not heavy. Just real life.
You both sit there for a moment longer, letting the night settle around the edges of the conversation.
“I’m glad you asked if I had plans,” he says after a second.
You look over at him.
“I’m glad you said yes.”
The simplicity of it makes you smile.
The bartender brings the check without being asked. He reaches for it automatically and you immediately reach too.
“You don’t have to—” you start.
“It’s one drink,” he says lightly.
“You flew across the country.”
“That’s unrelated.”
You hesitate, then let it go with a quiet shake of your head.
Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. The streetlights make everything look softer, quieter than the day version of the same block.
You stand there for a second on the sidewalk, both of you adjusting to the abrupt shift from dim bar to cold night air.
“Well,” you say.
“Well,” he echoes.
It’s not awkward. Just the natural pause of two people deciding what the ending of the night looks like.
Then he steps forward and wraps you in a hug.
It catches you slightly off guard, but you hug him back without thinking.
And for a brief second your brain short circuits.
Wow.
That’s a really good hug.
Warm. Easy. The kind that feels genuine instead of polite.
And he smells… incredible.
Clean, warm, something subtle and expensive that you can’t place but immediately notice.
You pull back before your brain can spiral too far down that path.
“Safe flight tomorrow,” you say.
“Good luck with the deadlines,” he replies.
You both hesitate for half a second like there might be something else to say.
But somehow it already feels complete.
You start walking toward your building, hands tucked into your coat pockets, trying very hard to act normal.
Halfway down the block you realize something.
You’re smiling.
And you can still faintly smell whatever cologne he was wearing clinging to your clothes.
Work drags the next morning.
Not because anything is particularly difficult. Just because your brain refuses to stay where it’s supposed to be.
Wednesday night keeps replaying in small, inconvenient flashes.
The bar.
The way the conversation never stalled.
That hug.
You sit through a meeting Thursday morning where someone is explaining a zoning amendment and realize halfway through that you haven’t heard a single word. Your editor asks you a question and you answer just slowly enough that she pauses.
“Coffee,” you say.
She nods like that explains everything.
By the afternoon you’re finally settling back into your work when your phone buzzes on your desk.
Raya.
Your stomach flips immediately, which is deeply annoying.
You open it.
Made it.
You blink at the screen.
Gone so soon :(
The typing bubble appears quickly.
Still thinking about our date.
A smile creeps onto your face before you can stop it.
Wow. A date? I thought it was just one drink.
Three dots appear.
Semantics.
You laugh quietly to yourself and lock your phone, setting it face down on your desk before you can keep the conversation going.
The rest of the afternoon slowly finds its rhythm again. Emails. Edits. A deadline that refuses to write itself.
Still, every once in a while, your brain drifts back to Wednesday.
Friday passes in much the same way. Normal enough on the outside, but with your mind wandering back to the same handful of moments.
By evening you’re finally packing up your bag when your phone buzzes again.
Camille.
Girl dinner tonight. My place.
You smile.
What time.
Soon. I made pasta and something I’m calling salad but it’s mostly cheese.
On my way.
You step out into the early evening air and start walking toward her neighborhood, letting the noise of the city swallow up the end of the workweek.
Your mind drifts again, unhelpfully, to Wednesday night.
The way he laughed when you told him about the laundromat cat.
The way he listened when you talked about your job.
The way that hug lingered just a second longer than you expected.
You shake your head slightly as you walk.
It was just one drink.
A very good drink.
But still. Just one.
By the time you reach Camille’s building the sky has already turned that deep blue that only happens at the end of a long day in the city, the kind of evening where the sidewalks are still busy but the rush has softened into something looser, people lingering outside restaurants and talking louder than they probably should. You climb the familiar stairs and let yourself in the way you always do, the faint smell of garlic and something creamy drifting down the hallway before you even reach her door.
When you push it open she’s standing at the stove with her back to you, hair twisted up loosely and one of those oversized sweatshirts she claims is vintage even though you’re fairly certain she bought it last month. A pot is bubbling on the stove and the island is already scattered with bowls and plates in a way that somehow still looks intentional.
“You’re early,” she says without turning around, stirring something with exaggerated focus.
“You texted soon,” you reply, dropping your bag near the couch and shrugging out of your coat.
“That’s my version of time management.”
You walk over and slide onto one of the stools at the island while she finishes whatever final step she’s pretending requires deep concentration. Without even looking she reaches behind her, grabs a wine glass from the counter, pours generously, and slides it across the island toward you.
You accept it gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says, finally turning around. “You look calm for someone who had a full work week.”
You take a sip before answering, letting the wine settle for a second.
“It was normal.”
“Normal is boring,” she says, leaning her hip against the counter and studying you.
You shrug. “It was busy.”
She starts plating the pasta while you talk, asking about your editor, about the piece you were finishing, about the bakery story that had you rewriting the same paragraph three different ways. The conversation drifts the way it always does between the two of you, jumping between work and random stories and small complaints about the city.
You answer her, but you’re quieter than usual.
Not distant exactly. Just… thoughtful.
Camille notices almost immediately.
She always does.
Halfway through telling you about a brand event she went to the night before she stops mid sentence and squints at you across the island.
“What happened.”
You blink. “What.”
“You’re thinking about something,” she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you like it’s evidence. “And you’re trying to act like you’re not.”
You look down at your wine for a second before glancing back up at her, a small smile already pulling at the corner of your mouth.
“Nothing dramatic,” you say.
Her eyes narrow further.
“Tell me.”
You take another sip of wine, setting the glass down carefully before finally saying it.
“I met up with Harry Wednesday night.”
There’s half a second of silence where the words land.
Then Camille screams.
Not a polite gasp. Not a surprised laugh.
An actual scream.
The wooden spoon flies out of her hand and clatters across the counter as she grabs the nearest thing within reach and throws it at you, which turns out to be a folded kitchen towel that bounces harmlessly off your shoulder.
“YOU WHAT?”
You burst out laughing despite yourself while she stares at you like you just announced you’ve secretly been living on the moon.
“You went on the date and didn’t tell me?” she demands, already pacing behind the island.
“It wasn’t a whole thing,” you protest.
“You went on a date with him, and then just casually came to pasta night like that didn’t happen?”
You lift your hands defensively, still laughing.
“It was one drink.”
“ONE DRINK?” she repeats, throwing her hands in the air. “You buried the lead for forty eight hours and now you’re acting like this is normal information?”
You shake your head, smiling into your wine glass.
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?” she demands. “Next month?”
“I was literally about to tell you.”
She stops pacing and stares at you, hands on her hips, trying to process the fact that the story she’s been waiting weeks to unfold apparently already happened without her.
“You went on the date,” she says slowly, like she’s confirming reality.
You nod.
“And?”
You take another sip of wine, letting the suspense linger just long enough to annoy her.
“It was really good.”
You take another sip of wine, letting the moment breathe while Camille stands there across the island looking like she might explode if you don’t start talking.
“It was great,” you say finally.
She blinks.
“That’s it?”
“It was short,” you add with a small shrug. “He was a little late. But once he got there it was… really good.”
Camille leans forward across the island like she’s conducting an interrogation.
“How good.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head.
“Camille.”
“I need details.”
You roll the stem of your wine glass between your fingers for a second before answering.
“It was just easy,” you say. “We talked the whole time. It didn’t feel weird or awkward like I thought it might. It just felt like we picked up the conversation we’d already been having.”
She studies your face carefully, clearly reading between the lines.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Did you kiss.”
You chuckle at the bluntness of it and take another sip of wine before answering.
“No.”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“No?”
“We hugged.”
She leans back, crossing her arms.
“A hug.”
“It was a really good hug,” you say defensively.
“That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She watches you for another second, then smirks slightly.
“You liked him.”
You try to keep your expression neutral and fail completely.
“He was amazing,” you admit.
Her reaction softens just a little at that.
“Okay,” she says. “So what did he think.”
“What do you mean.”
“The date,” she says impatiently. “Did he say anything. Did he text you after. Did he vanish into the pop star void.”
You reach into your bag and pull out your phone, unlocking it before sliding it across the island toward her.
“He messaged me when he got to the airport.”
She grabs the phone immediately and starts scrolling through the short exchange on the screen, reading the messages silently while you sip your wine.
Her expression moves through a full range of reactions in about ten seconds.
“Hm.”
“What.”
She looks up at you.
“Well first of all,” she says, pointing at the screen, “I love that he called it a date.”
You smile slightly.
“Second,” she continues, narrowing her eyes a little as she hands the phone back to you, “I don’t love that he hasn’t taken it off the app.”
You blink.
“What.”
“He should’ve given you his number,” she says matter of factly. “That’s step one.”
“It’s been like… thirty hours,” you reply.
“I don’t care,” she says. “Men with phones give numbers.”
You laugh.
“That’s your takeaway.”
“It’s one of them.”
She leans forward again, lowering her voice slightly like she’s sharing a theory.
“But.”
“But?”
She points at the screen again.
“He said he’s still thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the message again.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not casual,” she says. “That’s a man who wants to see you again.”
You take your phone back from her and stare down at the screen for a second, the short exchange suddenly feeling heavier now that someone else has looked at it.
Camille watches you closely while you think.
You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back in that absentminded way you do when your brain is moving faster than your words.
“I want to see him again too,” you admit finally, your voice quieter than it was a minute ago.
Her expression immediately softens into something smug and sympathetic at the same time.
“I knew it.”
“But,” you continue quickly, leaning your elbows on the island and wrapping your hands around your wine glass, “we haven’t actually talked about that.”
She tilts her head.
“What do you mean.”
“I mean we had the drink, he had to fly out early the next morning, and then he texted when he got to the airport. That’s it.”
Camille squints at you like she’s examining evidence.
“And you didn’t bring it up.”
You shake your head.
“He’s so busy,” you say, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “He flew back to LA for promo and meetings and all of that. I’m not going to be the person who immediately asks when he’s coming back.”
She leans against the counter, thinking.
“That’s fair,” she says slowly. “But also you’re allowed to want to see someone again.”
“I know,” you say with a small laugh. “I just don’t want to make it weird.”
She studies you for another second, then gestures toward your phone again.
“You realize this whole situation is already weird, right.”
You smile into your glass.
“I’m aware.”
Camille sighs dramatically and pushes the pasta bowl closer to you.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s establish a few things.”
You brace yourself.
“One,” she says, counting on her fingers, “you went on a date with Harry Styles and had a good time. No, a great time.”
You nod.
“Two,” she continues, “he texted you after and called it a date.”
Another nod.
“And three,” she says, pointing directly at you now, “you both clearly liked each other.”
You laugh quietly.
“When you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“It is ridiculous,” she says immediately. “But it’s also happening.”
You glance down at your phone again, the screen still dark in your hand.
“I just don’t know what the next step looks like,” you admit.
Camille grins.
“Oh, I think we’re about to find out.”
You shake your head immediately.
“No.”
Camille lets out a dramatic groan.
“Why are you acting like this is a hostage negotiation,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Just message him.”
“I am not messaging him.”
“You literally already message him.”
“That’s on the app,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone on the counter between you. “That’s different.”
“How.”
“Because that’s where we’ve been talking,” you explain. “This would be… something else.”
Camille stares at you for a long moment like she’s trying to understand how your brain works.
“You two have already gone on a date,” she says slowly. “You hugged goodbye.”
You wince slightly.
“That was a really good hug.”
“That is not the point.”
You drag your hands back through your hair again, leaning your elbows on the island.
“I don’t want to make it weird.”
Camille leans forward, suddenly calmer.
“Okay,” she says. “Then don’t make it weird.”
You squint at her.
“I don’t like when you say things like that.”
“Just send him your number.”
You blink.
“What.”
“Send him your number,” she repeats, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “You’re not asking for anything. You’re just saying, hey, if you want to text instead of the app, here it is.”
You hesitate.
“He might actually feel more comfortable with that,” she adds. “Think about it. He probably doesn’t just hand his number out on apps.”
You sit there quietly for a second, considering it.
“That’s actually… not a terrible point,” you admit.
“I know.”
“But it’s still terrifying.”
Camille smiles.
“That’s because you like him.”
You look down at the phone again, suddenly very aware of the empty message box waiting on the screen.
Your stomach twists.
“I can’t.”
“You absolutely can.”
“No, I really can’t.”
She sighs and holds her hand out across the island.
“Give me the phone.”
You hesitate for a second before sliding it toward her across the counter.
“I regret this already,” you say.
Camille grabs it immediately, eyes lighting up like she’s been waiting all night for this moment.
“Relax, look what happened when I messaged him last time for you,” she says, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“You are not allowed to say anything weird.”
“I would never.”
“That’s a lie.”
She grins without looking up.
“Trust the process.”
You lean back on the stool and cover your face with one hand while she starts typing.
Camille studies the screen for a second, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard while you sit across from her with your hand still half covering your face.
“You better not say anything crazy,” you mumble through your fingers.
“I am crafting a perfectly normal message,” she says calmly.
“That sentence alone makes me nervous.”
She ignores you and starts typing, pausing once or twice to reread it like she’s editing an email instead of sending a message on a dating app.
“Okay,” she says after a moment. “Tell me if this is insane.”
You slowly lower your hand and lean forward across the island.
She turns the phone so you can read it.
Hey, I really enjoyed our time together Wednesday. I figured I’d send my number in case texting is easier than the app. No pressure, just thought I’d share it.
Below it she’s typed your number.
You stare at the message for a few seconds, reading it twice.
It doesn’t sound desperate. It doesn’t sound awkward. It sounds… normal.
Thoughtful, even.
“That’s good,” you admit quietly.
“I know,” Camille says smugly.
You hesitate for another second, your stomach tightening again now that the send button is right there.
“What if this is weird,” you say.
“It’s not weird.”
“What if he thinks it’s weird.”
“He won’t.”
You exhale slowly and lean back on the stool again, pushing the phone back toward her.
“I can’t press send.”
Camille grins.
“Good thing I can.”
Before you can change your mind, she taps the screen.
The message disappears into the chat.
For a moment neither of you move.
You both just stare at the phone sitting on the counter between you like it might explode.
“Oh my god,” you say, dropping your head into your hands.
Camille laughs and slides the phone back toward you.
“Relax.”
You peek at the screen again, your heart suddenly beating much louder than it should.
“Now what.”
“Now,” she says, reaching for her wine again, “we wait.”
And you did wait.
Not dramatically at first. The message had been sent, the number shared, and for the rest of that night you and Camille forced yourselves to stop staring at the phone like it might immediately light up with an answer. Dinner continued, the pasta was eaten, the wine disappeared from your glasses, and eventually the conversation drifted to other things the way it always did.
The next morning passed quietly. You checked the app once out of habit and saw the message sitting there exactly where it had been left, your number at the bottom of it like a small offering you were now trying not to overanalyze. You told yourself that was fine. He was traveling. He had meetings. You had no idea what his schedule actually looked like and you refused to become the person who refreshed a dating app every twenty minutes.
So you let it sit.
A few days moved past that way, filled with work and errands and the small routines that keep a week moving forward whether your brain cooperates or not. By the time the weekend rolled around you had mostly convinced yourself not to expect anything. If he texted, great. If he didn’t, the date had still been good and that could simply be where the story ended.
Late Sunday afternoon you left your apartment to walk to the grocery store a few blocks away, your coat half zipped against the chill and your mind already making a mental list of things you needed to buy. The sidewalks were busy in that lazy weekend way where people move slowly and no one seems particularly rushed.
Your phone started ringing in your coat pocket just as you reached the corner.
You pulled it out without thinking, already assuming it was Camille calling to ask if you wanted to come over again or some unknown number trying to sell you something you definitely didn’t need. The screen lit up with a number you didn’t recognize and for a moment you just stared at it, thumb hovering over the answer button while the phone continued vibrating in your hand.
You debated letting it go.
If it was important, they would leave a voicemail. If it was spam, it would stop eventually. There was no real reason to answer a random number while standing on a cold sidewalk.
The phone kept ringing.
You sighed quietly and tapped the screen.
“Hello?”
There was the faintest pause on the other end before a familiar voice came through the speaker, warmer than you expected and immediately recognizable in a way that made your stomach flip.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s Harry. I hope it’s alright that I called.”
You stop walking the second you heard his voice.
Not gradually either. One step forward and then nothing, like your body forgets the next instruction.
People move around you on the sidewalk while you stand there holding your phone to your ear, the grocery store completely forgotten.
“Harry?,” you say after a second, your voice catching slightly before settling. “Yes. Hi.”
You hear him let out a quiet breath on the other end, almost like relief.
“Good,” he says. “I was starting to think you might not answer.”
“Well… I almost didn’t.” You laugh softly, the sound more nervous than you meant it to be.
There’s a small pause between you. Not uncomfortable, just the kind that happens when two people who are used to texting suddenly have to remember how conversations move out loud.
“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he says.
You glance around, still standing on the corner with a grocery bag hanging off your arm.
“No,” you reply. “I was just walking to the store.”
“I’ve been meaning to reach sooner, but things got a little chaotic here.” He replies.
“LA,” you say.
“Exactly.”
You start walking again without thinking, moving slowly down the block while you talk.
“So,” you say after a moment, “you survived the meetings.”
“Barely,” he says. “But I did.”
“That’s impressive.”
Another small pause settles in, the kind that feels thoughtful instead of empty.
Then he says something that makes your stomach flip all over again.
“I’ve been thinking about Wednesday.”
You glance down at the pavement while you walk.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is calm, almost reflective.
“I had a really good time.”
You feel yourself smile automatically.
“Me too.”
A few steps pass before he speaks again.
“I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you something.”
You slow down slightly.
“Okay.”
Another breath on the other end of the line.
“When are you free again?”
You feel the smile before you even answer.
It spreads slowly, the kind you can hear in someone’s voice even if they’re miles away.
A quiet laugh escapes you as you continue walking, weaving around a couple pushing a stroller while you tuck the phone closer to your ear.
“I’m actually free next week for a few days,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply, a little sheepish now that you’re saying it out loud. “I decided to take what the kids call a mental health break.”
He laughs softly at that.
“Good for you.”
“I figured if I didn’t step away from my computer for a minute I might start writing zoning updates in my sleep.”
“That sounds like a real risk to the public.”
You smile to yourself.
“So I took a few days.”
There’s a small pause on the other end of the line before he asks, casually but with just enough curiosity tucked into the question.
“Do you have any plans?”
You slow your pace slightly as you approach the grocery store, the automatic doors sliding open and letting out a burst of warm air that fogs your glasses for a second.
“Not really,” you say, stepping inside and grabbing a basket without breaking the rhythm of the conversation. “That was kind of the point.”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end, like he’s settling into the call.
“That’s good,” he says.
You pause in the produce aisle, leaning your hip against the display while you listen.
“Why’s that?”
There’s a brief moment of quiet before he answers, his tone still easy but carrying a small thread of intention now.
“Because I happen be in New York again that week.”
You stop mid step in the produce aisle, your fingers hovering over a basket of apples as his words settle in.
“Wait,” you say, a small laugh slipping out with a hint of surprise, “really?”
“Yeah.”
There’s something casual about the way he says it that makes it feel almost spontaneous.
You let out a quiet gasp before you can stop yourself.
“Yeah? Doing anything fun while you’re here?”
You hear him shift slightly on the other end of the line, like he’s leaning back wherever he is.
“I decided to just take a trip,” he says. “See the scenes a bit. Walk around without a schedule for once.”
You smile to yourself, picturing it.
“That’s actually a pretty good plan.”
“Thought so.”
You pick up one of the apples absentmindedly, turning it in your hand while you think.
“Well,” you say lightly, trying to keep your voice casual, “there are a few places you should try if you’re actually going to do that properly.”
“Oh yeah?” he replies.
“Yeah,” you say. “Most people do the obvious stuff and miss the good parts.”
There’s a small pause on the line.
Then he answers, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Well,” he says, “maybe you know a good tour guide.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you set the apple back down.
“That depends,” you say.
“On what?”
“On whether you’re actually interested in the local version of the city and not just the Instagram one.”
He hums thoughtfully.
“I think I’d prefer the local version.”
You shift the basket on your arm, leaning your shoulder lightly against the display while you answer.
“Well then,” you say, smiling into the phone, “you’re in luck.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “I’m pretty good with the local area.”
There is a small pause on the other end of the line, just long enough that you know he is smiling.
“I had a feeling you might say that.”
You shift the basket on your arm and start slowly down the aisle again, scanning shelves while trying not to look like someone currently planning an entire tour of New York in their head.
“So,” he says, voice relaxed, “are you volunteering.”
You laugh quietly.
“That might be possible.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Only if you’re actually interested in seeing the city properly,” you say. “I have very strong opinions about the right way to do New York.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“I refuse to be responsible for someone thinking Times Square is the highlight,” you add.
He laughs again, the sound warmer this time.
“Fair enough.”
You grab a box of pasta off the shelf without really looking at it.
“So when are you coming,” you ask, keeping your voice casual even though your stomach has started doing something inconvenient.
“Early next week.”
You pause in the aisle.
“That’s soon.”
“Yeah,” he says simply.
You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf, thinking for a second.
“Well,” you say slowly, “lucky timing.”
“How’s that.”
“My very official mental health break starts Monday.”
There’s a brief silence.
“Perfect,” he says.
You continue down the aisle, turning toward the next row of shelves.
“So what does your ideal version of sightseeing actually involve,” you ask.
“Honestly?” he replies. “Walking around, finding places that look interesting, eating something good.”
“That’s a solid approach.”
“I figured someone with local expertise might refine the plan a bit.”
You bite back a smile.
“I could probably work with that.”
“Good.”
The conversation settles for a moment as you reach for a loaf of bread, your phone tucked between your shoulder and your ear.
Then he asks, almost casually,
“What are you doing Monday.”
You slow your steps a little as you reach the end of the aisle, the basket resting against your hip while you think about the question.
A small smile slips across your face before you answer.
“Well,” you say lightly, “I was hoping I’d be seeing you.”
There’s a quiet pause on the other end of the line.
Then you hear him laugh under his breath.
“I think that can be arranged.”
You pick up a loaf of bread and drop it into the basket, trying not to look like someone whose mood has just shifted dramatically in the middle of a grocery store.
“Good,” you reply. “Because my very official mental health break would feel wasted otherwise.”
“That would be tragic.”
You turn the corner toward the checkout lanes, the conversation settling into a comfortable rhythm again.
“So Monday,” you say. “What are you thinking.”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
For a second all you hear is the faint sound of movement on his end of the line, like he’s shifting the phone in his hand.
“There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to take you,” he continues. “It’s one of my favorite spots in the city.”
You raise an eyebrow even though he can’t see it.
“Oh, so now you’re the one giving the tour.”
“Something like that.”
You smile, shifting the basket onto the counter as the cashier waves you forward.
“Well,” you say, pulling your wallet out of your coat pocket, “I guess I’ll have to trust your taste.”
“I think you’ll like it,” he replies.
The quiet confidence in his voice makes you believe him.
The way he says it that makes you believe him without asking anything else.
The cashier starts scanning your groceries and you fumble for your wallet, suddenly aware that you’ve been standing in the middle of the store having a full conversation.
“I should probably let you go,” you say with a small laugh. “I’m currently holding up a checkout line.”
“Ah,” he says. “Important responsibilities.”
“Very important. Pasta and bread don’t buy themselves.”
You hear him laugh quietly on the other end.
“So Monday,” he says, his tone settling again, making sure it’s understood. “I’ll text you when I’m in the city.”
“Okay.”
There’s a brief pause before he adds, softer this time,
“I’m looking forward to it.”
You feel the smile spread across your face again, even as you swipe your card through the reader.
“Me too.”
Another quiet beat passes between you.
Then he says, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
“You too. Safe travels.”
“Talk soon.”
“Talk soon.”
The line clicks softly as the call ends.
You stand there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, while the cashier finishes bagging your groceries.
The ordinary sounds of the store fill the space again, carts rolling past and people chatting as they move through the aisles.
But as you pick up the bags and step back out into the cool evening air, the week ahead suddenly feels very different than it did an hour ago.
You step out of the store and into the cool evening air with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your phone still warm in your hand. For a moment you just stand there on the sidewalk letting the call settle in your head, the noise of the street moving around you like normal while your brain is still catching up.
Then you immediately tap Camille’s name.
The phone barely rings once before she answers.
“Hello?”
“Monday,” you say.
There’s a pause.
“What.”
“Monday,” you repeat, starting down the block toward your apartment, the grocery bags swinging slightly at your sides. “I’m seeing him Monday.”
You hear the rustling of something on her end, like she just sat up very quickly.
“You spoke to him?”
“He called me.”
Camille makes a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a shriek.
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“On the phone?”
“Camille, how else would someone call me.”
“Don’t get technical with me,” she snaps. “What happened.”
You weave around a couple standing outside a deli, shifting the bags in your hands while you start walking faster without meaning to.
“I was walking to the grocery store and my phone started ringing from a random number. I almost didn’t answer.”
“You almost didn’t answer a call from Harry Styles.”
“I didn’t know it was him!”
She groans loudly.
“Continue.”
You laugh under your breath and keep walking.
“He said he saw the message with my number and wanted to call. We talked for a bit and he asked when I was free next week.”
“And?”
“And I told him I’m off Monday through Wednesday.”
“And?”
You smile despite yourself.
“And he’s coming back to the city.”
There’s a full second of silence.
Then Camille screams so loudly you have to pull the phone away from your ear.
“I KNEW IT.”
You shake your head, laughing as you turn onto your street.
“He said he wanted to see me again.”
“Of course he does.”
“And he’s taking me somewhere,” you add.
“Oh my god.”
“He said it’s one of his favorite places.”
You hear Camille pacing through the phone now, the sound of her footsteps echoing as she processes this new development.
“So this is a second date,” she says finally.
“I guess so.”
“No,” she corrects immediately. “This is a second date.”
You smile to yourself as you reach your building.
“Well,” you say, pushing the door open with your shoulder, “I guess it is.”
The weekend passes slowly in a way that feels slightly unfair.
Not painfully slow, just stretched. Every normal moment feels a little heavier with the knowledge that Monday is coming.
After you hang up with Camille that night you put your groceries away and try very hard to behave like a person whose life is not suddenly orbiting a second date with someone she met on the internet. You cook dinner, you watch something mindless, you answer a few emails you’d been ignoring.
Still, every once in a while your brain drifts back to the call.
The quiet confidence in his voice.
The way he said he had a place in mind.
Saturday morning you wake up later than usual and take your time with the day. Coffee, laundry, a long walk through the park where the air still has that sharp early spring chill to it. At one point you catch yourself mentally calculating how many hours are left until Monday and immediately shake your head.
This is ridiculous, you tell yourself.
It’s just a date.
Sunday goes by even faster. You meet Camille for brunch where she spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to decide what you should wear tomorrow.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you tell her as she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of focus that would make sense if she were planning a photoshoot instead of brunch.
“It might as well be,” she says, completely serious while scrolling through her phone. “This is a second date.”
You laugh and shake your head, but she continues anyway, holding up different outfit ideas and explaining her reasoning like it’s a full strategy meeting.
By the time you get home that evening the city has that quiet Sunday night feeling where everything slows down just enough that you start noticing the coming week creeping in.
You tidy your apartment a little, mostly as a distraction, and eventually settle onto the couch with a book you read three pages of before realizing you’ve absorbed none of it.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table.
You glance at it automatically.
Harry.
Your heart jumps before you even open it.
You pick up the phone.
Made it to the city.
A smile spreads across your face before you even start typing.
Already?
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Flight got in early.
You lean back into the couch cushions.
Welcome back.
There’s a short pause before another message appears.
Still good for tomorrow?
You glance at the clock, then back at the screen.
Yes.
Another bubble appears.
Good.
You set the phone down on the coffee table and stare at it for a moment longer than necessary, the glow of the screen fading as it locks again. The apartment is quiet in that particular Sunday night way where everything feels paused for a second before the week starts again. Outside your window the city is still moving, distant traffic humming and someone laughing somewhere down the block, but inside your living room the silence feels heavier now that you know he’s back in the city.
Tomorrow.
You lean your head back against the couch and let out a slow breath, letting the thought settle in. A second date. The words still feel slightly surreal when you say them in your head. A few days ago you were standing on a street corner debating whether to answer a call from a number you didn’t recognize. Now you’re sitting here on a Sunday night knowing you’ll see him again in less than twenty four hours.
You pick up your book again and try to read, but your eyes move over the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word. Eventually you give up and set it aside, pushing yourself up from the couch and wandering into your bedroom instead.
Your closet door slides open and you stand there for a moment looking at the options like they might magically arrange themselves into the right answer. Camille’s voice echoes faintly in your head from brunch earlier, her dramatic commentary about outfits and second dates still fresh enough to make you smile.
“You’re acting like this is a red carpet,” you had told her.
“It might as well be,” she replied.
You shake your head and pull out the outfit the two of you eventually landed on, holding it up briefly before laying it carefully over the back of the chair. Seeing it there makes the plan feel more real, less hypothetical.
Your phone buzzes again from the living room.
Your heart jumps immediately and you walk back out faster than you intended, picking it up from the coffee table.
Harry.
You open the message.
Settled into the hotel.
A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth.
Hope it’s cozy for you.
A moment passes before the typing bubble appears again.
You watch it blink on and off, curiosity building as the next message appears.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight?
You stare at the screen for a second, completely caught off guard by the question.
Your heart does an immediate, inconvenient flip.
You read it again just to make sure you didn’t imagine it.
Is it wrong that I kind of want to see you tonight.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, quiet but incredulous, and you sink back onto the couch while you think about what to say. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the timeline. That was the reasonable, well paced version of events.
And yet the thought of seeing him tonight sends a warm ripple through your chest.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you start typing.
Wrong might be a strong word.
You hit send before you can overthink it, watching as the message disappears into the conversation.
You stare at the screen for a moment after sending it, the quiet of your apartment suddenly feeling a little too still. The message sits there for a second before the typing bubble appears again, blinking on and off like he’s reconsidering how much to say.
Then the next message comes through.
I know we said tomorrow.
You can almost hear the slight sheepishness in it.
Another bubble appears.
But I just got in and the city feels too quiet.
You shift your legs up onto the couch, tucking them underneath you as you read.
A third message follows.
Thought I’d ask.
Your stomach flips.
You glance back up at the ceiling for a second like the answer might be written somewhere up there. The plan had been tomorrow. That was the reasonable version of this. The paced, sensible one.
Instead you’re sitting on your couch with your heart doing something wildly unhelpful while a pop star casually asks if he can see you tonight.
You look back down at your phone just as the typing bubble appears again.
You’re probably tired.
A quiet laugh slips out of you.
I’m not, you type.
There’s a brief pause on the other end before the bubble returns.
Are you sure?
You glance around your apartment, taking in the quiet room, the outfit hanging over the back of your chair in the bedroom that you had carefully set aside for tomorrow.
You smile.
I think I can handle one spontaneous decision.
The response comes quickly this time.
I’m glad you said that.
You feel that same warm ripple again, the anticipation settling in where the earlier nerves used to be.
What did you have in mind, you ask.
The typing bubble flickers once more.
Nothing complicated.
Another message follows right after.
Maybe a walk.
You tilt your head slightly at the simplicity of it.
You flew back to New York for a walk.
Don’t sound so unimpressed.
You laugh softly.
I’m not.
There’s a small pause before his next message appears.
If you’re up for it.
You glance toward the window where the city lights glow faintly through the glass, the quiet hum of traffic still drifting up from the street below.
The idea of stepping outside again, of seeing him tonight instead of waiting for tomorrow, suddenly feels far more appealing than staying on your couch pretending to read.
Your fingers move before you can second guess it.
Where?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Central Park. West side entrance.
You read it twice, like seeing the words again might make the moment feel less surreal.
Give me twenty minutes.
Your heart jumps.
You sit up straighter on the couch, suddenly aware that you are currently wearing an old sweatshirt and socks that definitely do not belong in the category of spontaneous nighttime walks with someone you are very interested in.
Okay, you type.
The second you hit send you’re already standing up.
Your apartment shifts from quiet Sunday evening to low level chaos in about ten seconds. You move quickly through the living room and into your bedroom, mentally cataloguing options as you go. The outfit you had carefully laid out for tomorrow is still draped over the chair, looking far too intentional for what is now a late night walk through Central Park.
You pause for a second, staring at it.
“No,” you say quietly to yourself.
This needs to look like you didn’t panic.
You pull open your dresser and reach for something easier. Dark jeans. A soft sweater that hangs just loose enough to feel comfortable without looking sloppy. You run a hand through your hair while you walk past the mirror, pausing long enough to smooth it down and check that you at least look like someone who planned to leave the house tonight.
Your phone buzzes again on the bed behind you.
You turn back immediately.
Leaving now.
Your stomach flips.
Me too, you reply.
You grab your coat, slip your phone into your pocket, and head for the door before you can talk yourself out of how ridiculous this entire situation feels.
The hallway outside your apartment is quiet, the kind of still that only happens late on a Sunday night when most people have already settled in for the week ahead. Your footsteps echo lightly as you make your way down the stairs and push through the building’s front door into the cool evening air.
The city feels different at night.
Not quieter exactly, but softer somehow. The traffic is lighter, conversations drifting out of restaurants and bars as people linger over late dinners. You pull your coat a little tighter as you start walking toward the park, your mind moving faster than your feet.
You are meeting Harry Styles in Central Park for a walk.
You laugh under your breath just thinking it.
A few blocks pass before you realize you’re checking your phone every thirty seconds like someone waiting for a ride share to appear on a map. Eventually you force yourself to stop and just walk.
The park entrance comes into view ahead of you, the tall trees forming dark shapes against the glow of the city lights behind them. A couple walks past you with a dog, their conversation fading as they move toward the street.
You slow slightly as you approach the entrance, scanning the path without meaning to.
For a moment you wonder if you’re early.
Then you see him.
He’s leaning casually against the stone railing near the path, hands tucked into the pockets of a dark coat, his hair slightly windblown like he’s been standing there for a few minutes already. There’s something almost unfair about how easily he blends into the scene, like he belongs to the city in a way that makes him look completely natural standing there under the park lights.
He spots you at the same moment.
The small smile that spreads across his face is immediate.
You walk the last few steps toward him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat again.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
He pushes away from the railing, stepping closer.
“I’m glad you said yes, I know it’s late.”
You smile, hands tucked into your coat pockets.
“I’m glad you asked.”
For a moment neither of you move, the quiet of the park settling around you while the city hums softly beyond the trees.
Then he gestures toward the path.
“Walk?”
You nod.
And just like that the two of you start moving deeper into the park together, the gravel crunching lightly under your shoes as the lights of the street fade behind you.
The path curves gently as you move farther into the park, the noise of the city softening behind the trees until it becomes more of a distant hum than actual traffic. Lamps line the walkway in warm pools of light that stretch across the gravel, and every so often the wind moves through the branches above you with a quiet rustling sound that makes the entire park feel calmer than the streets just outside it.
For the first few moments you simply walk.
Not awkwardly. Just adjusting to the strange fact that you’re next to each other again after a week of messages and one date that ended faster than either of you expected.
He glances over at you.
“You look different.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Different good?”
“Different from the other night, but yes. Good.”
You glance down at yourself like the sweater might explain something.
“I didn’t exactly plan this outfit.”
“I know.”
You look back at him.
“You know?”
“You texted back too fast,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s how I knew you were scrambling.”
You laugh out loud.
“That’s rude.”
“It’s observational.”
“I had a perfectly good outfit ready for tomorrow,” you tell him. “You disrupted the entire plan.”
The path opens slightly ahead where a small clearing lets the skyline peek through the trees in the distance. The lights glow faintly above the dark outline of the park, and for a moment both of you slow without saying anything.
Eventually he asks, “How was your weekend.”
“Pretty normal,” you say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Laundry. Coffee. Camille interrogating me about you.”
He laughs.
“She is very proud of the Raya code.”
“I owe her then.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” you say quickly. “She’ll start expecting thank you notes.”
He smiles at that.
“I had a pretty quiet weekend too,” he says.
You glance over.
“That surprises me.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I assume your life is usually… louder.”
“It is,” he says. “That’s why I like coming here.”
You look around at the path, the trees, the quiet space stretching out around you.
“This is your version of normal.”
“For tonight,” he says.
A comfortable silence settles between you as you keep walking. Not the kind that feels empty, just a moment where neither of you feels the need to rush the conversation forward.
Eventually he nudges it again.
“So,” he says, glancing over at you, “do I get the official tour tomorrow or did tonight count.”
You smile.
“This was just the preview.”
“Good.”
“You still have to earn the full tour.”
“And how does one do that.”
You pretend to think about it.
“Well,” you say slowly, “not getting lost would be a good start.”
He laughs quietly.
“That feels like a challenge.”
“Everything in this city is a challenge.”
The path bends again and you pass a couple walking a dog, the leash stretching across the walkway as the dog stops to investigate something near the edge of the grass. The owner apologizes as they pull it back and you both step around them before continuing on.
After a few more minutes you slow your pace, glancing toward the streetlights glowing through the trees ahead.
“You hungry?” you ask.
He looks over.
“Always.”
You smile.
“Good.”
You turn toward the park exit and start leading the way back toward the street.
“I guess I can start the tour tonight after all.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, stepping out onto the sidewalk and turning down a quieter block lined with older buildings. “There’s a place a few blocks from here.”
“What kind of place.”
You glance back at him with a small grin.
“The kind that doesn’t look impressive at all from the outside.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It’s a hole in the wall pizza spot,” you say. “The best one I know.”
He nods immediately like that’s the easiest decision he’s made all day.
“I trust your expertise.”
The two of you walk the rest of the way down the block together, the bright lights of the tiny shop coming into view ahead. Through the window you can see the glow of the ovens and a man behind the counter sliding a fresh pie onto the counter.
You glance over at him with a satisfied little smile.
“Welcome to the real tour.”
The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as you push it open, the sound barely audible over the low hum of an old refrigerator somewhere behind the counter. The place is small in the way only real neighborhood pizza shops are, narrow with a few tiny tables pushed up against the wall and a long glass case stretching across the counter that holds rows of slices under warm yellow lights.
The air is thick with the smell of baked dough, tomato sauce, and something faintly sweet that’s probably been drifting out of the dessert case all day.
It isn’t polished. The tile floor has seen better decades, and the menu board above the counter is a mix of faded letters and handwritten additions taped into the corners. One of the tables near the window wobbles slightly when a guy in a Yankees cap shifts his weight, and the soda fridge in the corner rattles every few seconds like it’s considering retirement.
Behind the counter an older Italian man stands with his arms folded, watching the two of you walk in with the quiet authority of someone who has been working in the same place for thirty years and intends to continue doing so until they die.
He squints at you for a second.
“Late night pizza?” he asks.
You smile.
“Always.”
He nods like that’s the correct answer and reaches for a paper plate without asking another question.
You step up to the counter and glance back at Harry, who is taking the whole place in with clear amusement, his eyes moving over the slightly crooked menu board and the stack of flour bags tucked against the wall.
“So,” you say, turning toward him. “What do you want.”
He looks at you immediately.
“I feel like I should let you decide.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“That’s a lot of trust.”
“You’re the local,” he says with an easy shrug. “I’m following your lead.”
You turn back toward the counter, considering the options for half a second before nodding.
“Alright,” you say. “We’re going classic.”
The man behind the counter slides open the glass case.
“Two cheese,” you tell him. “And two cannolis.”
He nods approvingly like you’ve passed some kind of test and reaches for the slices with a metal spatula, sliding them into the oven for a quick reheat.
Harry leans slightly closer to you while you wait, lowering his voice just enough that it doesn’t carry across the room.
“This is already better than most restaurants I get dragged to.”
You glance sideways at him.
“Because it’s not trying to impress you.”
“Exactly.”
A minute later the man pulls the slices out and slides them onto paper plates before adding two cannolis wrapped in wax paper and pushing the whole thing across the counter.
You hand over a few bills and grab the plates before Harry can even reach for his wallet.
He notices immediately.
“You didn’t let me pay.”
“You’re the guest,” you say simply.
“That’s not how dates work.”
You shrug.
“You asked for the local experience.”
He laughs softly as you lead him over to one of the tiny tables by the window.
You set the plates down and slide one toward him.
“A slice of cheese,” you say. “The only correct first order.”
He studies it for a second before picking it up.
“You’re very confident about this.”
“You’ll understand in about thirty seconds.”
He takes a bite.
For a second he just stands there chewing while you watch him with the quiet satisfaction of someone who already knows the outcome.
Then his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Okay,” he says slowly.
You grin.
“Right?”
He nods once, looking down at the slice again like he’s reassessing something.
“That’s very good.”
You pick up your own slice.
“See,” you say. “Tour guide knows what she’s doing.”
He takes another bite before saying anything, folding the slice the way people here do without thinking about it. The cheese stretches for a moment before breaking cleanly, and he chews slowly, looking down at it like he’s considering something.
Then he nods once.
“That’s very good.”
You smile slightly and take another bite of your own slice.
“I told you.”
For a minute the two of you eat quietly, the small shop carrying on around you in its usual rhythm. The oven door opens and shuts behind the counter, the soda fridge hums steadily in the corner, and every so often someone passes by the front window, their footsteps muffled by the glass.
Harry glances around the room again, taking in the slightly crooked menu board, the narrow tables, the flour bags stacked near the wall.
“It’s nice,” he says after a moment. “Feels real.”
“That’s why I like it,” you reply.
You brush a few crumbs from the paper plate and lean back in your chair.
“I’ve been coming here for years,” you add. “Usually late after work when everything else is closed.”
He nods like that makes sense.
The man behind the counter calls something in Italian toward the kitchen and slides another tray of slices into the glass case. The smell of fresh dough drifts across the room again, warm and familiar.
Harry wipes his hands on a napkin and looks back at you.
“You weren’t exaggerating about this place.”
You shrug lightly.
“It’s one of those spots people only find if someone brings them.”
He nods again, like he understands exactly what you mean.
You reach for the cannoli and slide the small wax paper package toward him.
“You should try that too.”
He unwraps it carefully and takes a bite, pausing for a second before giving a quiet laugh under his breath.
“That’s dangerous.”
You smile.
“Right?”
He sets the rest of it back down on the paper and leans back slightly in the chair, looking more relaxed now than when the two of you first walked in.
Outside the window the street has grown quieter, the late night crowd thinning as the city settles in.
You glance toward the clock near the counter.
“Technically this was the beginning of your tour,” you say.
He looks back at you.
“Just the beginning?”
You nod.
“Tomorrow is the actual tour.”
He considers that for a moment, then gives a small nod.
“Good.”
You both finish the last of the pizza slowly, the conversation drifting into easier things as the night settles around you.
By the time you stand up to leave, the shop has grown nearly empty, the older man behind the counter already stacking trays and wiping down the glass case.
When you push open the door the bell jingles softly again, the cool night air meeting you on the sidewalk.
For a second you both pause under the streetlight, the quiet stretch of the block glowing faintly in the distance.
Tomorrow suddenly feels very close.
The bell gives its soft, tired jingle again as the two of you step back out onto the sidewalk, the warm air of the pizza shop fading behind you the moment the door swings closed. The night has settled fully now, the street quieter than when you first walked in. A few cars pass at the far end of the block and somewhere nearby someone is dragging a metal chair across pavement, the sound echoing briefly before disappearing again.
For a moment you both just stand there beneath the streetlight, the glow from the shop window spilling out behind you.
You glance down the street and then back at him.
“So,” you say, adjusting your coat slightly, “where’s your hotel?”
He turns and points casually down the block.
“Couple streets that way.”
You follow the direction with your eyes, nodding.
“That’s close.”
Then he gestures in the opposite direction.
“And you?”
You point back the way you came, toward the darker stretch of street leading toward your neighborhood.
“That way,” you say. “Short walk.”
He looks down the block for a second and then back at you, considering it.
“I’ll walk you back.”
You blink, caught slightly off guard by the immediacy of it.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “It’s really not far.”
“That’s not the point.”
You smile faintly at the seriousness in his voice.
“It’s New York,” you reply. “People walk home alone all the time.”
He shakes his head a little.
“Still.”
You tuck your hands into your coat pockets and tilt your head at him.
“You realize it’s not exactly safe for you either.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
“You’re an international pop star,” you point out. “You walking around the city at midnight probably comes with its own risks.”
For a second he just looks at you.
Then he laughs, the sound easy and warm in the quiet street.
“Fair enough.”
You both stand there another moment, the night stretching comfortably between you.
Finally he glances down your street again and then back toward his.
“Well,” he says, “at least we both made it this far safely.”
You smile.
“So far.”
For a moment neither of you move.
The street is quiet, the glow from the pizza shop window behind you fading as the owner inside begins stacking chairs and wiping down the counter. A car passes slowly at the end of the block, headlights sliding across the pavement before disappearing around the corner.
You both know this is the part where the night ends.
You shift your weight slightly and glance down your street again.
“Well,” you say softly.
“Well,” he echoes.
There’s a small pause where it feels like something else might be said, but neither of you rush it.
Then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
It’s warm and easy, the kind that lingers just a second longer than a polite goodbye. Your arms wrap around him automatically and for a moment you just stand there like that beneath the streetlight, the quiet of the city stretching around you.
When you pull back he’s still smiling slightly.
“I had a really good time tonight,” he says.
“You said you wanted a walk,” you reply. “I upgraded it.”
“Good call.”
You hesitate for a second, suddenly aware again that tomorrow technically still exists. The plan. The tour.
“So,” you say, tucking your hands back into your coat pockets, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess you will.”
Another small pause settles between you, neither of you quite stepping away yet.
Then finally he nods toward your street.
“Text me when you get home.”
“You’re still doing the protective thing.”
“Just covering my bases.”
You smile.
“Goodnight, Harry.”
“Goodnight.”
You both turn at almost the exact same moment, heading in opposite directions down the block.
You make it about four steps.
Maybe five.
Then something in your chest tightens suddenly, a rush of adrenaline hitting you so quickly you stop walking without even thinking about it.
You turn around.
He’s already halfway down the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, head slightly down as he walks.
Your heart is pounding now.
Before your brain can catch up, you call out.
“Harry!”
He stops immediately and turns around.
“What—”
You don’t give him time to finish.
You’re already moving, jogging back across the distance between you with a burst of nervous energy that feels completely irrational and completely necessary at the same time.
He looks slightly surprised for half a second as you reach him.
And then you kiss him.
It’s sudden and unplanned and far more certain than anything you expected to do when you left your apartment earlier that night. Your hands find his coat automatically, pulling him slightly closer as your lips meet his.
For a moment he freezes in surprise.
Then he kisses you back.
The city fades into the background again, the quiet street and the glow of the streetlight blurring into something distant while the kiss deepens just slightly, enough to make the moment feel real instead of impulsive.
When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless.
He’s looking at you like he’s still catching up to what just happened.
You take a small step back, suddenly aware of the adrenaline still racing through you.
