I didn’t expect this, not you, not this feeling, not now—thirty, taking time off, finally breathing again after years of touring, of pushing through arenas and interviews and being Harry Styles more than I ever got to be just Harry. I thought I’d use this break to hide, let the noise settle, focus on myself. I wasn't looking for anything, especially not you.

You’re twenty but you're not like people I’ve met on this side of the curtain. I’ve met so many people who play pretend, you don’t. That’s what got me first, I think. You’re so smart it scares me sometimes. I joke that you’re from Gen-Z and I need subtitles and you laugh so hard your eyes crinkle, you tease me when I say things like “no cap” and then misuse “rizz” like it’s a brand of sparkling water. You love me for it anyway. You're genuine, warm, soft with the world in a way that makes me want to protect you from it.

I didn’t expect to meet someone like you at a friend's birthday, let alone fall so hard. That day we talked for two hours about everything—from your favorite books to how you just got hired as a stylist at this new agency that you still can’t believe took you on. And here we are, six months in, still in that stretch of time where I can’t stop touching you—always under the sheets, tangled limbs, laughter in the dark, whispering dreams and old scars in the same breath.

We kept it private, for protection. You deserve love without flashbulbs and strangers trying to dissect the timeline of us and I’ve been good at keeping things quiet lately—no headlines, just home, just you. I’ve never felt peace like this before, but the world is cruel, especially when they think they know me.

Last week someone spotted us in Camden, I didn’t think anything of it until the rumors started. They said they saw me with a much younger girl, they didn’t even get a photo—just their word—but it was enough. The press had a field day: "Womanizer strikes again", "A baby on his list?", “Mystery Gen-Z", "Daddy issues?" Real funny that one. I’ve been called worse, but this time they aimed at you and that’s what gets me. You didn’t sign up for this—for my past, for my shadow, for fans who love me so much they hate anyone who might touch me—but you’re handling it with grace. They always make me out to be something I’m not, I’ve had friends I’ve barely spoken to called girlfriends—God forbid I look at a woman. But this time they’re right, I am with you and yet, they still miss the point.

Today, we just wanted coffee, so we went to this place we always go to—quiet, tucked away, always safe. I’ve been going for years and they’ve always been discreet, I thought it was safe. We joked on the way in about me trying to use “yeet” and you said I'm one birthday away from calling TikTok "the TikTok", I called you rude and kissed your neck until you apologized. But when we step out, the air changes—one flash, then another and my heart drops. There's a man standing across the road, camera in hand, lens trained like a sniper.

I approach the guy. “Mate, can you not?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “Please, just delete it.”

He shrugs. “It’s my job.”

I clench my jaw. “She’s not part of this, don’t drag her into—”

He cuts me off. “Too late, Styles”

I step forward then, firm, protective, because this isn’t fair, but then your hand slides into mine and you say softly “Let’s go, H.”

We slip into the car and I sigh, pressing my forehead to yours. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“For what?” you ask. “Loving me?”

I kiss your knuckles. “Never, cause I didn’t protect you,” I whisper.

It hurts—knowing they’ll twist this, knowing the comments you’ll see. They’ll talk about the age gap, your job, your clothes, your face, your life. And still, I wouldn’t change it, not a thing, because I’ve never been more sure of anyone.

This—you, us, the quiet moments, the laughter in bed, the soft way you say my name when it’s just the two of us—is real. This is everything and I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to protect that smile, because you? You’re it for me, no cap.