We’re creeping down the street outside the hotel at midnight, both of us dressed like idiots. I’ve got on a massive grey hoodie with the hood up, sunglasses perched on my nose despite it being pitch black out here. You’re wearing my beanie pulled down so far it nearly covers your eyes, plus an oversized denim jacket that swallows you whole.

“Babe, slow down,” I whisper, grabbing your hand as you nearly trip over the pavement. “We’ll look more suspicious if you faceplant.”

“I can’t see, Harry,” you hiss back, adjusting the beanie again. “Why’d I let you style my disguise?”

I snort softly. “Because I’m a professional. Been dodging paps since I was sixteen.”

You roll your eyes, but then we’re almost past the row of parked cars and I grin, feeling triumphant. We’re gonna make it to the Tesco Express without anyone noticing. I can already taste the pick n’ mix.

Then, just as we step onto the main road, I hear it.

“IS THAT HARRY STYLES?!”

You freeze. I freeze. And before I can even react, a bright camera flash goes off in my face. I hear you squeal beside me, clutching my arm as two paparazzi appear out of nowhere, snapping rapid-fire photos of us.