The summer air was thick with the scent of sweat, spilled beer, and something sweeter—maybe the jasmine blooming somewhere in the dark or maybe just her perfume clinging to his shirt. The festival was over, the lights dimming behind them like an encore fading out, but Harry wasn’t ready to let go of the night.

She laughed, breathless and tipsy, stumbling over the uneven path leading out to the rideshare queue. Without hesitation, Harry scooped her up into his arms, bridal style, like it was second nature—like carrying her through the night was something he’d done a thousand times before.

Her head fell against his chest, giggling against the soft cotton of his tee. He smelled like cologne and sun-dried skin and the smoke from the fireworks they’d watched lying in the grass just hours ago. Their friends trailed behind, quieter now, tired and happy. But in Harry’s arms, with the sky still pulsing faintly with bass and laughter, she felt like the night still belonged to them.

He looked down at her with that lazy, lopsided grin—the one he reserved for after midnight. “Got you, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and thick with affection.

And he did. He had her. Always.