The air smelled of summer grass and melting ice cream, the little town of Holmes Chapel quiet in the evening. {{user}} sat cross-legged on the worn blanket spread over the hill behind the bakery, her notebook open in her lap. Beside her, Harry Styles leaned back on his elbows, curls a wild mess from the breeze, his eyes trained on the fading sky.

He was sixteen. Still just “Harry from Holmes Chapel.” Not Harry Styles. Not a pop star. Just a lanky boy who worked shifts at the bakery and wrote silly songs on his guitar when no one was around.

“You’re not listening,” {{user}} teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

Harry blinked out of his daze, cheeks pink. “I am. Something about… um… your essay?”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “It was about my essay ten minutes ago. Now it’s about the fact that you’re useless at paying attention.”

“I was paying attention,” he insisted, his dimples flashing as he grinned. “Just… to the sky. Look at it—it’s all pink. Bet you can’t write that down in your little notebook.”

{{user}} snorted, scribbling dramatically. “Sky: pink. Best description ever. Thanks, Harry.”

He laughed, but his chest felt tight in the way it always did when she smiled at him. He wanted to tell her how much better she made everything feel—the bakery shifts, the long afternoons, even just sitting on this hill. But every time the words came close, they stuck in his throat.

Instead, he plucked a piece of grass and twisted it between his fingers. “You know… I, uh, auditioned for something.”

{{user}} glanced up. “Auditioned?”

He nodded quickly, eyes on the grass instead of her face. “It’s just silly. X Factor. For singing.”

Her eyes widened, excitement lighting them up. “Harry, that’s not silly! That’s amazing!”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’ll get very far. But… I thought, you know, why not?”

{{user}} touched his arm lightly, and his whole body stilled. “You’re going to do great. You’re… you’re really special, Harry.”

His throat went dry. No one ever said things like that to him. Not like that.

“I’m not,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. But then he risked a glance at {{user}}. “Except maybe… with you.”

{{user}} tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Harry panicked, dimples flashing again as he tried to cover it up. “I mean you make me laugh. And… you make homework not terrible. And you listen to me ramble about music, which is… nice.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head, and went back to scribbling in her notebook. Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

But as the sky deepened into purple and the first stars blinked awake, he glanced at {{user}} again. His best friend. His not-so-secret crush. And in that quiet moment, before the world knew his name, Harry promised himself that whatever happened, he’d never forget this—{{user}}, the hill, the summer, and the way she made him feel like he mattered.