The door creaked open long past midnight, the sound so soft she might have missed it if she hadn’t been waiting in the dimly lit living room. Her book lay abandoned on the couch, her thoughts consumed by worry ever since his last cryptic text hours ago. When Harry Styles stepped inside, her heart stopped—his dark jacket hung open, his shirt rumpled, and his arm was held stiffly against his side. He looked exhausted, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on her. And then they softened.

“Hi,” he murmured, voice rough.

She stood in an instant, crossing the room before he could take another step. “Harry… what happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite. “Shipment went sideways. Just a scratch.”

Her gaze darted to his arm, to the way his sleeve clung to him. She didn’t push. Instead, she touched his good hand gently, silently guiding him toward the bathroom. He didn’t argue, just followed her like he always did when the night had worn him down more than he’d admit.

She sat him on the edge of the counter, flicking on the warm light. The brightness made him wince, but he stayed still as she dampened a cloth and carefully peeled his sleeve away. The fabric stuck for a moment before it came free, and she forced herself to breathe evenly, her focus locked on the task rather than the what-ifs clawing at her chest.

“You should’ve gone to one of the guys,” she said quietly, dabbing at his arm.

“Didn’t want them,” he muttered, watching her every move. “Wanted you.”

Her heart ached at that. “You scare me when you come home like this.”

“I know.” His lips curved just enough to show he wasn’t entirely broken tonight. “I’m sorry.”

She wrapped the bandage snug around his arm, her fingers brushing his skin, lingering just a moment too long. His eyes tracked the motion, heat flickering there even as exhaustion pulled at him. When she finished, she smoothed her hands over his shoulders, grounding herself in the solid weight of him.

“All done,” she whispered.

Harry caught her wrist before she could step back. “Stay,” he said, barely audible, as if the word cost him.

She nodded, leaning into him. He rested his forehead against hers, his breath shaky but evening out with hers. The world outside might be fractured, violent, and uncertain—but here, in this small, quiet moment, he was just hers. And she was his.