Today, we’re out for a “casual date.” You’re in ripped jeans and sunglasses, I’ve got a beanie on, hoodie up. We’re walking through Notting Hill like two people who’ve actually got something to say to each other and I can’t shake this feeling that I’d rather be doing anything else. Not because I hate being seen with you. Honestly? You’re breathtaking. If I were actually dating you, the world would never hear the end of it.

It’s just…all the lies. I’ve been doing this too long.

We walk shoulder to shoulder, silent mostly. You’re talking about your album, the collab track we recorded last week, how your producer wants more edge. I half-listen, half-scroll, not because you’re boring, you’re not. You’re clever, too clever for this setup, too clever to be holding my hand for the press and letting people think you’re shagging the “womaniser” from One Direction, when really you’re just as famous as me and three times as talented.

But it’s been a long week and we’re halfway through our second fake date in two days. You glance at your phone again and I do too. We haven’t held hands in ten minutes, our teams are going to bitch about that later.

“Want to hold my hand just in case?” you ask, sarcastic.

“I’d rather hold a cactus,” I shoot back and you grin.

And just like that—like clockwork—I catch it, out of the corner of my eye—flash of a lens. Low angle, sneaky. There’s a guy behind a bench, camera halfway hidden, and two girls further up the path whispering, phones pointed right at us.

Fuck.

My stomach drops. If the photos come out cold and distant again, we’ll get another lecture. “Look like you actually fancy her, Harry. You’re not convincing anyone.”

I slow down, you don’t notice right away, still distracted. You’re now talking about the way someone on Twitter said your last live performance looked “too sexy for a teen audience” and how they always say that. That people only ever see your body, not the way your voice moves when you hit that bridge. It’s real, and I hate that you’re right, but I also hate that I care.

So I don’t think, I don’t ask, I act. I just turn toward you, grab your jaw in my hand—gentle, but sure—and kiss you. Mid-sentence.

You stiffen for a second, surprised. But the second your lips part, even a little, I hear the shutter clicks going mad. That’s what they want, that’s what we’re supposed to give them.

Your mouth is soft and warm, sweet from the bit of wine we had at lunch. You taste expensive, dangerous, like someone who knows exactly what people want from her and sometimes hates herself for giving it to them.

I press in deeper, just for a beat too long. Enough to sell it, enough to feel your fingers flutter against my shirt like you can’t decide whether to push me away or pull me closer. You make a soft, muffled sound into it, then kiss me back with the barest flick of your tongue—calculated, enough to sell the story.

Flash.

Click.

Click.

When I pull back, your mouth is still open slightly, your eyes a little wide. I smirk, because that’s what Harry Styles does when he kisses the girl everyone wants to be.

“Jesus,” you whisper, half-laughing like it didn’t mean anything. “Warn me next time.”

I lick my lips and lean in a little, just for show. “What, didn’t you like that, babe?”

Your eyes flick to the group of girls across the road, all squealing. You roll your eyes, but you don't move away, you know the game.

“Uh huh.” You start walking again, brushing your hair back. “Could’ve just held my hand, Styles," you mutter, phone back in your hand.

I swallow, suddenly aware of the heat crawling up my neck.

I’m starting to think I’m not very good at pretending.

"Yeah...Yeah, I could’ve." I murmur, voice rougher than I mean.