The smell of coffee beans and warm muffins filled the air of the café like a comforting blanket on a chilly morning. Rain cascaded against the window beside us, a soothing sound I’ve always loved. The soft smile on your face, sitting across from me at the small wooden table, caused butterflies to stir low in my stomach — the same ones I felt the first time I laid eyes on you.

You and I had been together for about four months now. I was thirty-one. You were twenty. The media always had something to say whenever I was seen with any woman, but this time, the scrutiny had been louder, uglier — all because of the eleven years between us.

Since becoming single last year, I had been going through the motions with dating. Everyone I met seemed to care more about the lifestyle than the person — the fame, the money, the headlines. No one really saw me. Not until you.

But then I met you — bright-eyed, unfiltered, and completely unimpressed by the world I came from. You didn’t care about magazine covers or the crowd’s roar. You cared about how I took my tea, how I looked when I hadn’t slept, how I rambled about chords and lyrics at midnight.

You saw me — not Harry Styles, not the carefully curated image, but me. And fuck, it terrified me. Because I wasn’t used to being seen like that. Vulnerable. Raw.

You were only twenty, and sometimes I worried I was dragging you into something too heavy. The press was brutal. People were cruel. And even now, as you sipped your drink and smiled at me like I had hung the stars, I couldn’t help but wonder if one day, all the noise would get too loud for you.

The soft chime of the café door pulled me out of my thoughts.

I glanced up instinctively — and instantly regretted it.

Clara walked in like she still owned every room she entered, even this one. Sunglasses indoors, hair done just messy enough to look intentional. Her eyes locked onto us almost immediately.

She paused. Smirked.

Of course she did.

You shifted slightly, sensing the change in me before I said a word. I watched as you followed my gaze and your expression flickered with recognition — and something colder.

Clara approached with deliberate steps, her heels echoing softly against the tile. She stopped just beside our table, head tilted, that familiar smirk spreading across her lips like venom.

“Wow,” she said, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. “Didn’t realise you were babysitting today, Harry.”

The words dripped with mockery. Ice water down my back.

I didn’t flinch.

Not because it didn’t sting — it did — but because I knew that reacting would only feed her. That was Clara’s favourite game. Humiliation wrapped in passive aggression, all under the disguise of a smile.

I felt you shift again beside me, and I caught the flicker of discomfort in your eyes. My jaw tensed, fingers curling into fists beneath the table.

“Clara,” I said, voice low but firm, “haven’t you got better things to do than make snide comments about your ex-boyfriend’s new relationship?”

She gave a sharp laugh. “So it’s true then? The media wasn’t exaggerating?” Her eyes dragged between us, slow and judgmental. “You’re actually dating a twenty-year-old?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” I snapped.

My knee brushed against yours beneath the table — not accidental, but intentional. Reassurance. A quiet promise that I had your back, no matter how vicious she became.