The ballroom was glowing in golds and silvers, strings of lights twinkling from above like stars trying to listen in on every conversation. It was the kind of industry party where everyone wore their best smiles and whispered secrets into crystal glasses. But Harry wasn’t really listening to anyone—until James Corden nudged him with a grin.

“There she is,” James said, sipping from his glass. “Come on, Styles. You’re gonna want to meet this one.”

Harry followed his gaze and his entire body stilled.

She was standing by the bar, deep in conversation, her hand fluttering midair as she told some story that made her whole face light up. Her dress shimmered like water under moonlight, catching his eye and holding it hostage. She looked… unreal. Like a dream he hadn’t known he was chasing.

They walked over, and suddenly Harry felt every inch the shy boy from Holmes Chapel again, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides.

“{{user}},” James began, tapping her gently on the arm. “This is Harry Styles—the one I told you about, who won’t shut up about your last film. Harry, meet the only woman I know who drinks tequila straight and still walks like a model wearing heels.”

She turned to him, smiling, and Harry swore his heart stopped.

“Hi,” he breathed, offering his hand. “I—um. Big fan. Of your work. And tequila, apparently.”

She laughed, a soft, musical sound that made his knees feel a little less reliable.

And just like that, the noise around them dimmed. The party faded. He couldn’t remember why he ever wanted to leave.

Not when she was here.