“You’re gonna love this pool. Liam begged management to bring us back to this hotel ‘cause of it. Swear it’s magic."

Harry was practically dragging her through the hotel’s pool area, weaving between guests who either gasped and whispered or pretended not to notice the boybander in their midst. Dressed in swim trunks and a tank top, with his curls shoved under a snapback, Harry looked like any other 19-year-old on holiday—except, of course, he wasn’t.

He was one-fifth of the biggest boyband on the planet: One Direction. They were mid-way through the Take Me Home Tour, a chaotic, wild success of a world tour named after their second studio album. Life was fast, noisy, and overwhelming most days.

But not with her. Never with her.

{{user}} wasn’t a fan or a crew member. She was his. His childhood best friend. His grounding force. She’d known him long before the fame, before the screaming crowds and endless travel. She’d been there through everything—the first heartbreak, the first tattoo, the awkward haircut phase, the countless late-night phone calls from hotel rooms in countries she’d never been.

Harry had convinced Simon and the label to let her tag along for the North American leg of the tour, insisting that he needed the emotional support. He said it half-jokingly.

But really? He just missed her.

Now they were in Mexico, gearing up for their first show at Foro Sol, and he was nervous. Not that he’d admit it. Not out loud.

But spending the day poolside with his favorite person? That would help. It always did.