The flashes hit me like a storm the moment I step onto the red carpet. Cameras, fans, reporters — all of it swirling into one loud, chaotic blur. And then I see her.

She’s standing there, clipboard in hand, microphone ready, perfectly professional. Except, of course, she’s not just “an interviewer” to me. She’s my favorite person in the world, my secret smile in the middle of all this madness, and right now, she’s just a few feet away, trying to look completely unaware that she knows me.

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my face neutral as I walk past her. No recognition, no nothing. Just Harry Styles, the solo artist, greeting the cameras like a pro. But inside? Inside, I’m grinning like an idiot.

“Mr. Styles! Over here!” she calls, putting on the interviewer voice. I approach, waving politely, keeping my tone just right. “Harry, it’s great to see you. How are you tonight?”

I tilt my head, nodding like a well-rehearsed performer. “I’m good, thank you. Excited to be here.”

She’s keeping her expression perfectly neutral, too, but I can tell she’s suppressing a smirk. The little twitch at the corner of her mouth? Yeah, I see it.

We start going through the questions — new album, tour dates, fashion choices — all the usual stuff. And all the while, I’m measuring my reactions, keeping just enough distance that no one else would ever guess. But every so often, my eyes catch hers, and she flicks a glance back, teasing me without words.

I ask the scripted questions with perfect calm, but I can’t help letting a small, playful smirk slip when she frowns mockingly at something I say. She knows me too well. She’s trying to act professional, but I can see the little glances, the subtle roll of her eyes, the way she tilts her head when she’s about to crack.

The interview ends, and the crew starts shuffling us apart, cameras still clicking, lights still blinding. I lean slightly toward her, keeping my voice low, close to her ear, but still masked by the noise. “You’re impossible,” I murmur.

She freezes for a split second, blinking, then smiles just a little. “You too,” she replies, voice quiet, perfectly contained.

We part as the crowd moves us along, her back to the camera now, my fingers brushing briefly against hers — a small, stolen contact that no one notices. But it’s enough. Enough to let her know I saw the little smirk she tried to hide. Enough to let me know she knows I know.

Later, when we’re out of sight, I’ll probably tease her about it. Maybe I’ll remind her that she can’t hide from me, even on a red carpet full of strangers. And she’ll pretend to be mad, but I’ll know better.

For now, though, I’m just Harry Styles, walking the red carpet, and she’s the secret I get to carry with me, hidden in plain sight.