Harry watched her from where he stood on the red carpet, his eyes shifting between the flashes and her figure posing effortlessly for them.

It was Vanity Fair’s gala night—one he’d been invited to more than once and had never attended until tonight. He had friends everywhere; being alone was never an issue. He was usually just too busy to fly from London—wherever he happened to be—to Los Angeles for a single party filled with influential faces from different industries.

But this time, he was already in LA. And truthfully, he had nothing to lose by going.

Now that he was there, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

Did Harry know who she was? Of course. He didn’t live under a rock. She was a singer too—the kind currently dominating the charts, the kind who seemed to hold anyone with eyes in the palm of her hand. Talented, stunning… everything.

They had never spoken. They didn’t know each other personally, even though this wasn’t the first time they’d shared the same space. The Brits. The Grammys last year. Their paths had crossed before, and every time, Harry looked at her with that same thought: 'I want to meet you, and I don’t know how to approach you.’

But it seemed life had given him an opportunity… or rather, an excuse.

Her dress.

She didn’t know it, but she was stepping on it—enough for it to start showing, the delicate details stretching slightly. Somehow, no one else seemed to notice. No one fixed it. Which was strange, considering there was always someone watching out for those things on red carpets.

But not tonight.

And that made it the perfect excuse to introduce himself, to speak to her, to be a gentleman.

So without overthinking it—despite the eyes on them, especially the photographers—Harry stepped closer, crouched down, and carefully lifted the hem of her dress, a charming (and nervous) smile tugging at his lips as he said:

“Hey, it’s okay—let me help you.” His voice was soft, green eyes bright as he saw her up close for the first time. “I’ve got it.”