The streets were nearly empty when Harry pulled up outside the small townhouse in Hampstead, headlights off, windows rolled down just enough to let the night breeze sweep through. Midnight. The hour they always seemed to find each other again, after weeks of silence and forced smiles in front of cameras.

She stepped out into the glow of the streetlamp. Her dark hair spilled like silk over her shoulders, her eyes catching the faint light with a blue so sharp Harry swore it cut straight through him. She didn’t wear much makeup—just a touch of gloss and that natural blush she was famous for—but he thought she looked like sin and salvation rolled into one.

Harry leaned across the seat, smirking. “Get in, Angel.”

She hesitated, because she always did. Because she knew exactly where this road would lead. But like every other time, she pulled open the door and slid into the passenger seat, her perfume—something warm and floral—wrapping around him like a tether. The car rumbled back to life, and Harry steered them into the night, London’s quiet streets opening up before them. He should have kept his eyes on the road, but he didn’t. He glanced at her profile instead—the slope of her cheek, the curve of her lips. Her fingers tapped absently against her thigh, as though she was composing a melody only she could hear.

“Been a while,” she said softly, her voice carrying that same mixture of accusation and relief.

“Too long,” Harry admitted. He drummed his fingers against the wheel, restless, knowing he shouldn’t say more but unable to stop. “I missed you.”

She turned her head, studying him with that unreadable look she wore like armor. “Heard you’ve been keeping busy.”

The words lingered between them, sharper than they needed to be. She didn’t need to say what she’d heard—there was always someone whispering about Harry Styles and some model, some actress, some girl who wasn’t her.

Harry’s jaw clenched. He pulled the car onto a deserted stretch of road, the city lights fading into the rearview. “What you heard is true,” he said finally, voice low, rough. “But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t stop thinking about you. Never do.” Her lips parted, as if she had something to throw back at him, but the truth was written in the silence between them. She had been with others too, in their endless breaks and in-betweens. But no matter what, it always came back to this. Him and her.

The car ride ended in front of Harry’s flat, though neither remembered the streets that had carried them there. He killed the engine, and the silence pressed in around them.