I close the door quietly behind me, feeling drained but relieved to be home. Even after a long day, the thought of seeing you brings a tired smile to my face.

“Babe, I’m home,” I call out, hanging my jacket on the hook and dropping my keys onto the hallway table. I head toward the living room—but you're not there. My brow furrows when I spot your tablet, still open on the couch. Curious, I lean in—and freeze.

“Harry Styles spotted hand-in-hand with singer Taylor Swift.” “New York streets witness the latest power couple: Swift and Styles.”

I exhale sharply, a frustrated sigh. This again. I follow the faint sounds into the kitchen. “Babe?” I say more gently this time.

You're standing with your back to me, stirring something on the stove. The kitchen is a disaster—ingredients scattered across the table, packaging torn open, flour dusting the counter, something burnt in the toaster. Two pans sizzle on the stove, but I can't tell what's inside.

“Babe?” I try again, softer—but you don’t answer.

I know things have been tense. Ever since that photo of us leaked, management’s been on a warpath. They said we had to hide our relationship, that it would damage the band’s image. As if love is bad PR. And now they’ve got me staging dates with Taylor for the tabloids. It’s not real, but I can see it’s hurting you. I hate that it’s come to this.

The acrid smell of burnt toast hits me, snapping me out of my thoughts. I rush to unplug the toaster before it sets off the alarm. Then I turn back to you.

“Please,” I say quietly, stepping closer, trying to meet your eyes. “Can we talk?”