The café wasn't particularly busy—just past the morning rush, the espresso machine hissing like it needed a nap. The light coming through the tall windows made the space glow, hitting the faded brick walls and mismatched cushions like something out of a lifestyle blog.

Harry sat at a table near the back, one arm slung over the booth, a half-empty cappuccino in front of him. His cap was pulled low, and his sunglasses sat on the table beside him. He kept glancing at the door, leg bouncing slightly under the table.

"She said ten," he muttered under his breath.

Across from him, Christina sipped her chai latte and gave him a teasing look over the rim of her cup. "Relax. It's Cindy. She probably got distracted by someone's dog or by a pastry."

He snorted. "You mean like yesterday? When she followed that pug into a bookstore?"

"Exactly like yesterday," she grinned.

The café bell finally chimed.

Harry looked up—and froze for a second.

Cindy strolled in like she owned the place, as expected. Oversized sunglasses, giant iced mocha in one hand, a tote bag with some snarky quote swinging from her wrist. A girl coming in a café holding something to drink prior to entering. Only Cindy! Right behind her was Andy, looking sheepish and awkward wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt..

Christina blinked. "Okay... plot twist."

"Don't hate me," Cindy said as she approached. "I told him to come."

Andy raised a hand, already looking like he regretted his life choices. "Hey. Christina. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Harry immediately stood—casual but protective.

Christina touched his arm. "It's okay."

Andy exhaled like he was about to deliver a eulogy. "I was a jerk. The day you came in after the photos dropped... I saw them. I jumped to conclusions. I let myself get judgy and weird, and I forgot who you were."

She stared at him, stunned into silence.

He pressed on. "I forgot everything you've done for us. For the centre. For my wife."

Christina's brows pulled together. "Your wife?"

Andy nodded. "Sarah. She was the receptionist when I started. So yeah, I also blurred the lines myself. Anyway, you're the one who encouraged her to apply to physio school. She's working at the hospital downtown now."

Christina blinked, overwhelmed. "I didn't... I didn't know that. I didn't know about Sarah and you."

"I never said thank you," he added. "And I should've defended you when it mattered. I didn't. But if there's any way I can help—with your foundation or anything—I want to. Please."

Cindy leaned in, stage-whispering: "He even said it without crying. Growth!"

Christina finally let out a laugh. "Okay. That means a lot. We'll find a way to use that guilt productively."

Andy grinned. "I'm very available for manual labour."

Just then, a voice from the front of the café cut through the cosy lull.

"Oh my God. It is you."

They turned to see a young woman standing by the counter, wide-eyed. Probably early twenties. Holding her phone like it might shatter.

She wasn't looking at Harry. She didn't even see him there.

She was looking at Christina.

"You're the physio, right? The one in the Harry Styles scandal?"

Christina's spine straightened, but her expression didn't change.

Harry bristled, his hand clenching slightly on the table.

The woman kept going. "Wow. I've been a Harry Styles fan for years. I mean, I guess it's true what they say—you don't need talent if you've got the right... assets."

Cindy wheeled forward like she was about to launch herself into a courtroom drama. "I swear, if one more basic pumpkin spice witch opens her mouth like that, I'm gonna start throwing straws."

Harry didn't let her.

He stood up instead.

The girl blinked at him. She was stunned to see him there.

Harry's voice was calm. Steady. Quiet—but every word hit with weight.

"You're not my fan," he said.

The girl froze. "What?"

"You're not my fan," he repeated. "Because if you were, you'd care about the people I care about. You'd know that real fans treat people with kindness, not gossip and cheap shots."

Her eyes widened, mouth parting like she wanted to argue—but didn't know how.

"This woman changed my life," he added, nodding toward Christina. "She helped me stand when I didn't think I ever would again. And if all you can see is a headline, then maybe you're not seeing me either."

The girl backed down, cheeks flushing. "I didn't mean—"

Cindy, still simmering, crossed her arms. "You didn't mean to get publicly dunked on by Harry Styles in a vegan café, but here we are."

The girl mumbled an apology, grabbed her latte, and made for the door.

"Also, for the record, she's richer than him. So if anyone bagged anyone—it wasn't her," she piped up.

The café slowly resumed its quiet rhythm. The indie music. The hum of the espresso machine.

Cindy turned to Harry and Christina with a grin. "So. We doing this foundation thing or what?"

Christina stared at Harry for a long beat, eyes misty—but not from sadness this time.

"Let's do it," she whispered.

Harry gave her a soft smile. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Cindy took a long slurp of her drink. "Do I get to pick the name of the foundation now, or...?"

Andy groaned. "Please say no."

Christina smiled, eyes still slightly misty. "We'll see."

+++

Harry's living room smelled like cinnamon tea and takeout. A whiteboard was propped against the wall—Cindy's idea—and the coffee table was covered in half-filled notebooks, three different types of highlighters, and the remnants of a Thai lunch that no one had properly cleaned up. Initially they thought of creating headquarters at Christina's but Cindy insisted that her house was way too big for them.

"If we ever play hide and seek in that house, just go ahead and call it a missing person case." So, that settled it.

Christina sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open in front of her. Her hair was up in a messy bun, glasses perched low on her nose. She looked like she belonged in a think tank, not the centre of a media scandal that had nearly ruined her career a few weeks ago.

Harry was leaning back on the couch, crutches resting against the armrest. He wasn't using them as much anymore, but they were still within reach—just in case. He was wearing a faded "Treat People With Kindness" sweatshirt and had a pen tucked behind his ear like it was a fashion statement.

Andy sat at the edge of a dining chair, knee bouncing. Every now and then, he made earnest suggestions that were almost good—if only he could stop prefacing each one with "Okay, this might sound dumb, but—"

And Cindy, of course, had taken over the whiteboard.

She scribbled dramatically as she spoke. "Okay. Option number twenty-one: Stand Strong. Tagline: From Flat on Our Backs to Back on Our Feet."

Harry coughed. "That... sounds like a Viagra commercial."

Christina laughed behind her mug of tea. "It really does."

"Okay, rude," Cindy muttered, crossing it out with flair. "Moving on. What about something simpler? Like, 'The Callas Foundation'?"

Andy nodded. "That has a nice ring to it. Legacy stuff."

Christina's smile faded just slightly. "It was my dad's name. He was a neurosurgeon. The foundation was originally his idea. I always thought I'd take it over when I got older, but I didn't want it to be about prestige or board meetings. I wanted it to do something real. Something physical. Tangible."

"Like helping people walk again," Harry said softly.

She looked at him, and something passed between them—private, warm.

"Exactly."

Cindy clapped her hands. "Okay, so we keep the name. But we need something punchy under it. Mission. Scope. Glittery purpose."

Harry leaned forward. "What if we focused on accessibility in performance spaces? Concert halls. Stadiums. Studios. Most of them are a nightmare if you're in a chair or using assistive tech."

"That's actually brilliant," Christina said. "And unexpected."

"I know a few musicians who'd back it, too," Harry added. "Some have been through stuff. Others just get it."

Andy raised a hand. "Could we also include outreach? Like programs in schools about injury prevention? Especially for young athletes. Gymnasts. Runners."

"I love that," Christina said immediately, scribbling it into her notes.

"I mean," Andy said with a shrug, "you stopped me from screwing up my knee rehab twice, so I feel personally invested."

Cindy was unusually quiet for a beat.

Then she said, "Okay, I know I'm usually the one turning everything into a joke, but—this? This feels good. Like we're actually doing something."

Christina looked around the room, eyes taking in the people who'd stood beside her through one of the hardest chapters of her life. Her heart swelled—not just with relief, but purpose.

"I want this foundation to be about second chances," she said. "For patients. For caregivers. For anyone who's ever had to rebuild from the ground up. Because that's what we did. All of us."

Harry smiled. "Then let's make it happen."

"And let me make the website," Cindy added. "I already bought the domain. Also, I want us to have merch. Just putting it out there."

Christina laughed. "We'll talk about merch after the mission statement."

"Fine." Cindy rolled her eyes. "But only if I get a hoodie."

Harry nudged her playfully. "You've already earned it."

As they dove back into the brainstorming session, the energy in the room shifted from recovery to momentum.

They weren't just trying to fix something broken anymore.

They were building something better.