Harry's been the best man three times this year. He's good at it — the speech, the toast, the dancing until 2 am, so nobody notices he drove home alone. Tonight is no different. Or it wasn't, until he spotted her across the reception — laughing too loud, shoes already off, completely unbothered in the best way possible. Something about her makes him feel like a song he hasn't written yet. He doesn't know her name. He just knows he doesn't want the night to end before he does.

His friends are in love with American Girls (2)

His parents finally put their foot down. After years of public heartbreaks, Zayn agreed to an arrangement — and out of everyone, he chose you. You chose him, too. Neither of you explained why. Six weeks, one quiet engagement, and zero media coverage later, his mother has sent you both to London's Chaand Raat bazaar. First real time alone. Fairy lights, bangles, henna, and a man you're only just beginning to know.

Eid shopping with your fiancé 

He told himself he was fine. Fine through breakfast, fine through the drive, fine through signing in — right up until his four year old walked into your classroom, sounded out her name on a little card, and sat down like she owned the place without looking back once. You found him in the doorway doing his best impression of a man who was absolutely fine. You weren't fooled. Neither was Biscuit, the stuffed rabbit. His name is Zayn. Your feelings are welcome here too.

Single dad, first day, & one unbothered 4-year-old

New job. New city every week. You were finally finding your footing — until your babysitter cancelled and you showed up to work with your kid in tow. Harry Styles wasn't supposed to find out like this. He wasn't supposed to look at you like that either. Yet here you are. And something tells you nothing about this job is going to be simple anymore.

Accidental bring your kid to work day (2)

He pulled his cap low and his hoodie tighter, just another stranger in the park. One ordinary afternoon — no cameras, no noise, just him and his thoughts. Then the smell hit him. Biryani. Korma. Jalebi. The sound of bangles. Suddenly he's eight years old in Bradford again. He turns around and there you are, setting up a spread that smells exactly like home. He's awkward. He's embarrassed. But he asks anyway. You recognize him in two seconds flat — and decide he doesn't need to know that.

A plate of biryani & a stranger who felt like home

He came back to Bradford for Eid because his mum gave him the look, and Adil called three times. He wasn't expecting much — just biryani, familiar faces, and a quiet exit. Then someone across the room laughed like she had nothing to perform, rose, and jasmine bracelets at her wrists, henna deep maroon on her hands, Eid clothes like a fresh ray of light. He stopped mid-conversation. Adil said your name like it was nothing. It wasn't nothing. It was never nothing.

Eid, old faces & eight years of unsaid things.

He came to the wedding to be invisible — shalwar kameez, no entourage, just a quiet favour for an old friend. You came to celebrate your best friend's barat and ended up at the gol gappa stall in an outfit worth a second look, telling the vendor to make it spicier. He was counting down to a reasonable exit. Then your cheeks puffed out, you made eye contact, and he raised an eyebrow like he had all the time in the world. Somewhere across the hall, three aunties exchanged a very satisfied look.

Fairy lights, flowers, and one gol gappa girl.

Cyrus Voss. 54. CEO of Voss Industries — a multi-million dollar automotive conglomerate he built from a corner store at nineteen. He never needed a wife. Until a contract said otherwise and the business gain outweighed the inconvenience. Now you share a name. A home. A room. But never anything aside from that — because whatever distance exists between you is longer than the six-foot dining table he sometimes joins you at.

He is not cruel. He is just... unreachable.

Arranged marriage to an older man.

You weren't doing anything important. Then Tricia Aunty appeared at your door and brought him with her — taller than you remembered, eerily quiet, staring at your chai like it owed him something. The boy who pulled your hair in kindergarten. Who you tutored through long division. Who ate two plates at every Friday dinner. Now he's sitting in your living room explaining red carpets and fake engagements while his mum pats your hand and calls you sensible. He said please.