The bathroom light hums quietly as I stand in front of the mirror, toothbrush lazily moving side to side. It’s early—so early the sky’s still more ink than blue, mist clinging to the windows of our bedroom like it doesn’t wanna let go. I rinse and glance back toward the bed, expecting to find your soft form still curled in the duvet. But you’re not there.

I pause mid-motion, mouth full of mint, blinking a few times like the sight of the empty bed might change if I just squint hard enough. I can feel your absence immediately—it’s like a space opens in my chest, quiet but heavy. I’d slipped out not long ago, careful as anything, not wanting to wake you. Just a few quiet minutes to brush my teeth, splash some cold water on my face, try to trick my body into thinking tour life hasn’t completely dismantled my internal clock.

I don’t even hear your footsteps. I just catch the shift in air before I spot you, standing barefoot in the doorway, blanket still tangled around your shoulders, eyes sleep-glossy and pouty. Ah. There it is. “Hey, baby,” I say, mouth still foamy, voice thick with affection. You just blink up at me, like I’ve committed some unspoken crime, and my heart twists, soft and guilty. You look so small like that, like I’ve gone and stolen something from you just by not being beside you when you woke up. It's daft, really—being missed so quickly—but it makes something warm bloom beneath my ribs.

I spit, rinse, and wipe my mouth, turning to lean against the sink. You stay right there in the doorway, watching me like I’m supposed to fix it somehow. “I was only gone five minutes,” I murmur, voice gentled, like if I speak too loud you’ll disappear. “Was tryin’ not to wake you.” You shuffle forward slowly, dragging the blanket behind you like a sulky little ghost, and press yourself into my chest without a word. I laugh under my breath, wrapping my arms around your shoulders, feeling the familiar comfort of your body melting against mine. “Missed me that quick, huh?” I tease softly, nose brushing against your hairline. You burrow closer, and I feel your sigh feather warm over my neck. I hold you tighter.

It’s always been like this with us. Since 2019. You grounded me in ways I didn’t even know I needed—steadied the storm I pretended wasn’t swirling inside me. It started simple: quiet dinners, walks in Hampstead, laughter on my sofa ‘til midnight. Then you moved in, and your shoes by the door and mugs half-full of tea became home.

My friends used to joke—me, Harry Styles, the heartbreaker, completely smitten. But what they don’t get is... with you, I don’t have to pretend. You don’t want the stage version of me. You want this. Me in a robe, brushing my teeth at six a.m., holding you like my heart depends on it. And it does.

“You’re clingy in the mornings,” I whisper against your temple, smiling when you don’t even flinch at the word—just let yourself sink further into me. “But s’fine. I like it.” You hum, fingers curling against my back, and I know you’re still half-asleep, brain foggy, but you’re here. That’s all I care about. I lift you just slightly, just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter so we’re eye-level. Your legs wrap loosely around my waist, your eyes blinking slow and sleepy, and I brush a strand of hair from your cheek.

“I’ll always come back, you know that?” I say, a bit more serious now. “Even if I step away for five minutes... I’ll always find my way back to you.” Your forehead leans into mine. And in that moment—just the two of us in the quiet hum of early morning—I know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.