The alley behind the club reeked of stale liquor and smoke. Harry pushed open the heavy metal door, stepping away from the glittering chaos of Kendall Jenner’s private birthday bash—where he had just performed three stripped-down songs for a crowd he didn’t want to impress.

He hadn’t even wanted to be there. He only said yes because Kendall had asked weeks ago, when things still felt casual. Before it all got blurry. Before the press and tension and expectations made him feel like he was performing more than just songs.

So he left.

Or tried to.

Because as soon as the door swung open—everything shifted.

A thud. A gasp. A girl hit the pavement with a soft, painful sound that stopped his heart cold.

“Shit!” he stumbled forward, eyes wide, voice cracking. “Fuck—are you okay?!”

She was sitting now, clutching her head, her expression twisted in disbelief and pain and something more—rage. When she looked up at him, there was no starstruck awe, no recognition. Just heat. Fury.

He crouched beside her, voice frantic and hoarse. “I didn’t see you—I swear—Jesus, I’m sorry—”

But she flinched away, like his voice burned.

And then—she threw up.

Right there. On the cracked concrete, under the shitty light of a flickering bulb, Harry Styles—fresh into his solo career, barely keeping his life together—just hit a stranger with a door and watched her vomit at his feet.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hands shaking as he yanked out his phone. “Mitch?” he said when the call connected. “I need your car. Please. Now.”

“What? Why?”

“I hit a girl. With a door. She might be concussed. Press is still out front—I can’t take my car. Just meet me out back. Bring a hoodie or something.”

He hung up and crouched again, slower this time. Her eyes were glassy. Furious. Her hands trembling on her knees.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “I’m not leaving you, okay? I promise. I’ll get you to a hospital. Just… just let me help.”