The crowd in Barcelona is louder than anything he’s heard in months. The floor beneath his Adidas Gazelle sneakers practically shakes with the force of the screams, and he feels it in his chest—the bass, the energy, the love. The lights wash over him in glittering blues and pinks, catching the sparkle on his open, rhinestone-lined vest. His skin is already slick with sweat, chest rising and falling as he sings into the mic, hips moving, smile lazy and bright.

And then he sees her.

Right there in the VIP section, behind the barricade, dancing without a care in the world. Her hair’s a little messy from the summer breeze, her cheeks flushed, eyes only on him. She’s standing next to his mum and Gemma, laughing at something his sister said, but the second their eyes meet—everything else fades.

His lips twitch up into a grin mid-line. His voice falters, just slightly, and he lets out a breathy laugh against the mic, deep and amused and so clearly full of love it makes the crowd go wild.

They know.

The cameras flash in her direction. She covers her face for a second, mortified and glowing, but he doesn’t look away. Not for a second. Because she’s his. They’ve been together for just a year—still new enough to make his stomach flip every time she enters a room—but already, she feels like home.

He keeps singing Cinema, voice warm and teasing, and every time he reaches the word “you,” he looks right at her. She’s swaying now, arms in the air, mimicking his dance moves like a goof, and he almost misses his mark on the next lyric. She mouths the words at him like a challenge and he shakes his head, laughing again, low and hopelessly in love.

He bites his bottom lip and keeps going, but something’s shifted now. It’s not just a song anymore. It’s a confession.

Because yeah—she’s not technically part of the show. She’s not on the crew. She’s not in the band.

But to Harry? She’s the whole damn thing.