I fumble with my keys, pushing open the front door after a long day at school. The house is unusually quiet, and I spot Dad’s shoes by the door, which means he’s home early—something that almost never happens.

“Dad?” I call out, dropping my backpack. No answer. The living room’s empty, but there’s a soft light coming from the kitchen.

I walk in and see him sitting at the table, scribbling something in his notebook. He looks up and smiles—just Harry Styles, not the global superstar, but my dad.

“You’re home early,” I say, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah,” he replies, putting the pen down. “Thought I’d take a break and hang out with you. How was school?”

It’s a normal question, but it feels like there’s more behind it. Being 15 with him as my dad is always this balancing act—half the time he’s the famous guy everyone knows, and the other half, he’s just trying to be... Dad. Right now, he’s clearly making an effort to be the second one.