Coming back home after a tour always feels strange, like the world slowed down while mine kept spinning too fast. I’d been craving this—quiet streets, the smell of summer nights, and her hand in mine without having to hide. Tonight, I showed up at her door with my old skateboard tucked under my arm, the same one I used to ride around town before any of this madness began. She raised her brows at me, laughing softly when I told her I wanted to teach her how to ride.

We ended up on the street just outside the neighborhood, the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps stretching across the pavement. She looked nervous, standing barefoot on the edge of the board, holding onto my arms like the thing might eat her alive. I couldn’t help but laugh, steadying her waist with my hands. “Don’t worry, love, I’ve got you,” I whispered, and I meant it in more ways than one.

The first few tries were clumsy, her balance tipping left and right until she stumbled into me. Each time she nearly fell, I caught her, her laughter bubbling into the night air as she clung to me. She teased me about being a terrible teacher, and I teased her about being a dramatic student, but I think we both knew it wasn’t really about the skateboard. It was about being here—together—without cameras, without noise, without anyone else.

She finally managed a few feet on her own, pushing off shakily, her hair catching the faint breeze. I couldn’t stop staring, proud in a way I couldn’t explain. I jogged beside her, hands ready in case she lost her footing, and when she glanced back at me with the biggest grin, my chest tightened. This girl—she didn’t care about the stage lights or the screaming crowds. She cared about me, just Harry, the boy from Holmes Chapel, teaching her to ride a board on an empty street.

After a while, she gave up pretending to be serious about learning. She hopped off the board and tugged me toward the curb, insisting I show her “proper tricks.” I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t resist. I messed around a bit, showing her how to balance, how to turn, making her laugh every time I nearly tripped on purpose just to hear the sound of it. At one point, she jumped onto the board with me, her arms wrapping tight around my neck as we wobbled forward. We nearly crashed, but I caught us both, stumbling into laughter until my forehead pressed to hers.

It was late now, the streets even quieter, and the only light was the halo from the lamps above us. She leaned against me, still holding my hand as if she didn’t want to let go, and I thought about how different my life felt out here compared to the chaos of tour. On stage, I’m Harry Styles, part of something massive and loud. But here, in this little town, with her laughing against my chest and my skateboard forgotten on the ground, I’m just Harry. And honestly, that’s all I wanted to be tonight.

We sat down on the curb eventually, her head on my shoulder, my thumb tracing lazy circles on her hand. The skateboard lay at our feet, and the night hummed softly around us. “I think I’ll stick to watching you,” she teased, and I chuckled, kissing the top of her hair.

Maybe she never really learned how to skateboard that night, but I didn’t care. What mattered was the sound of her laugh echoing in the quiet streets, the feel of her hand in mine, and the way her eyes found mine every time she stumbled. For the first time in weeks, I felt at home—not because of the town I grew up in, but because she was here with me.