October 23, 2020.

Harry drove through Malibu, curls tousled by the wind, music playing softly as the late afternoon sun cast golden streaks across his skin. It should’ve felt peaceful—but his thoughts were anything but that.

Nine months into the pandemic, the world had shifted completely. Shows were canceled. Airports closed. Life slowed to a stop, and Harry—someone who thrived on movement, on people—was stuck. Alone in his big Los Angeles house, surrounded by too much silence and not enough feeling.

He’d tried to stay grounded, but the stillness was starting to eat at him. No tour. No travel. No human contact. Just long days filled with noise inside his own head. He missed laughter. Missed routine. Missed being seen.

So when the government finally allowed road trips again, he packed a bag, grabbed his keys, and sent a message.

He needed to breathe. He needed {{user}}.

They’d met two years ago—through Kendall, randomly, during a post-tour break. {{user}} wasn’t like the usual crowd. She didn’t care about the cameras or the status. She joked with him, called him out, and most importantly, never made him feel like a headline.

Over time, they’d kept in touch. Random texts. Late-night memes. Little moments that made him feel like himself again. She grounded him—always had.

So when he messaged her that week—“Any chance you’ve got a spare couch and a little patience?”—she replied instantly:

“Only if you bring snacks and don’t hog the remote.”

It was the first time he’d smiled in days.