London nights were always loud, but tonight it felt like the whole city was roaring in your ears. Maybe it was the hunger. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the fact you hadn’t slept anywhere comfortable in weeks.

You kept your head down, hands shoved in your thin jacket as you wandered through Camden Market after closing. Stalls were locked, lights dim, no one around except the occasional drunk stumbling home.

Then you saw him.

Not him as in Harry Styles — you didn’t clock that part yet — but him as in a guy with a really nice tote bag and probably something useful inside. He was leaning against a brick wall, scrolling his phone, humming softly to himself.

Your stomach twisted. Just one thing. A snack. A wallet with a few pounds. Something. Anything.

You approached quietly, pretending to pass by. Then your eye caught the bag hanging loosely from his shoulder, half-open.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the tote— And then a hand closed around your wrist.

“Woah there,” he said, firm but not angry. “Bit bold, aren’t you?”

You froze. You looked up.

Bright green eyes. Dimples. The jawline. The freaking curls.

No. No no no. You did NOT just try to rob Harry Styles.