The song is done. Finally.

It's late, and we're all exhausted - but the kind of tired that comes with a full heart and a buzzing brain. The kind that doesn't let you sleep because you know you've just made something that matters.

D stretches, arms high over her head, and lets out a satisfied little sigh.

"Okay," she grins, "that one's officially off the table."

"Only took four days and twelve rewrites," Tyler groans, scribbling something across the top of the final draft like he's signing a peace treaty.

"Worth every second," Jeff mutters, not looking up from the keyboard where he's saving the final take. "It's a good one."

I glance at her from across the room. Her cheeks are flushed, her smile soft. She doesn't realize it, but she's still humming the hook under her breath.

I could listen to that all night.

"Hey," I say quietly, catching her attention. "You up for a rematch?"

"Rematch?" she blinks.

"Scrabble. Out by the pool."

She tilts her head. "Is this a trap because I beat you last time?"

"You didn't beat me. You cheated."

"I'm Greek. We're known for strategy."

"You're thinking of war. This is wordplay."

She laughs - that easy, sun-warmed laugh that gets me every time - and follows me through the sliding glass doors.

The night air is warm, and the pool lights cast a soft blue glow over the patio. The waves crash in the distance, far enough to sound like a memory.

I set the board between us on a low table and start unpacking tiles while she curls up cross-legged on a lounger.

"This place is really private, yeah?" she asks casually, sorting her letters.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just..." she gestures vaguely. "Didn't want your Scrabble scandal ending up on TMZ."

"My team's locked down the whole area. No paps. No leaks." I pause. "Though I was probably a little reckless with you at the hotel."

She raises an eyebrow. "You think?"

"I'd do it again," I smirk. "Worth it."

She tries not to smile. Fails. "Your move, Styles."

I place my first word: KISS.

"Twelve points," I say, pretending to check the math.

She raises an unimpressed brow.

"Subtle," she comments, and pulls four tiles from her rack. She sets them down, one by one:
I D I O T
"Fifteen," she says sweetly.

"Rude," I mumble.

"Fair."

I frown dramatically at my tiles, then lay down: DEMO.

She looks at it, then at me. "That's not a real word."

"It is! Music demo. Demo version."

"Nope. Proper noun. Doesn't count."

"I'm the musician. I declare it valid."

"And I'm the Greek strategist. I call veto."

"Fine."

I remove the tiles and replace them slowly, then lay down a new word: SECRETS.

She pauses.

Her fingers still on her tile rack, eyes flicking down at the board and then back up at me. Just for a second.

But it's enough.

"Seven letters," I say quietly. "Double word score."

She sets down her own tiles with deliberate calm:
P R O T E C T

"Ten points," she murmurs. "And some boundaries."

I nod, lips twitching. "Fair."

Then I lay down: C A R E

Her gaze lingers on the board. On the three words sitting side by side now - Secrets. Protect. Care.

It's not a triple word score.
But it's close.

She leans back, pulling her hair off her neck, trying to shift the mood.

"You know," she says, "for two people whose lives revolve around words, we really suck at this game."

"Speak for yourself."

"You've used three vowels in a row."

"It's called poetic license."

"It's called desperation."

We both laugh, and the tension breaks like a wave pulling back from the sand.

We keep playing, but it's less competitive now. More... rhythm. More flow.

Eventually, she yawns and sets her tiles aside.

"Alright," she says softly, standing. "I should crash before Jeff makes us rewrite the bridge again tomorrow."

I nod, standing with her.

There's a quiet beat between us - not awkward, just still.

She leans in and hugs me. No hesitation. No pretending this part doesn't feel good.

I hold her there for half a second longer than I should.

Then I do it.

I kiss her on the cheek.

It's quick. Barely there. A brush of lips against skin.

Still, I pull back immediately.

"Sorry," I say. "That just-felt right?"

She looks at me, unreadable for a moment.

Then she smiles - a real one, not teasing.

"It's appropriate for friends to kiss each other goodnight," she says gently.

And she kisses me back.

Cheek to cheek.

Soft and warm and absolutely devastating.

Then she walks back inside, bare feet silent against the stone path, ponytail swaying.

I don't move for a long time.

The word care still glowing on the board behind me.

+++

She doesn't show up the next day.

No casual knock at the studio door. No teasing jokes. No humming under her breath as she crosses the room to the piano.

Just... silence.

We're already half an hour into a session when my phone buzzes. I grab it, hoping for her name - and there it is.

"Hey H. Woke up a little under the weather. Gonna rest today. Hope the guys kill it. Catch you soon. D x"

I stare at the message longer than I should.

No emoji. No flirty follow-up. Just... polite, distant, missing.

I clear my throat and look up at the group.

"D's not coming in today," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. "She's feeling a bit off. Gonna rest."

Everyone pauses for a second.

Jeff adjusts his headphones. "You think she's alright?"

"Yeah," I say quickly. "Just tired, probably."

Tyler lifts an eyebrow. "She did carry the chorus yesterday."

Sara chuckles. "Carried the whole damn song."

Gemma comes in from the hallway, towel around her shoulders, clearly back from a swim.

"What's this?" she asks, grabbing a water bottle.

"D's skipping today," Jeff says. "Under the weather."

She stops mid-sip and looks directly at me.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," I reply, too fast.

Her eyes narrow.

"Harry..."

"I didn't," I repeat. "Seriously."

She crosses her arms. "You have that guilty Labrador look."

"I don't even know what that means."

She stares me down, and finally I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"I kissed her," I mumble.

There's a beat.

"Like-kiss kissed?" she asks.

"No. Just... on the cheek. Goodnight."

Gemma groans and drops her towel on the chair.

"And she friendzoned you."

"She said it was appropriate for friends to kiss each other goodnight," I defend. "Then she kissed me back. On the cheek."

"That's peak friendzone."

"Gem-"

"No, listen. I'm not saying she doesn't like you. I'm saying you're acting like a twelve-year-old with a crush. She's helping you make your album, not auditioning to be your girlfriend. Keep her around until the album is done," she chuckles but I don't see the humour in it.

What she said stings.

More than it should.

"I'm not going to use her," I say, voice quiet now. "She didn't ask for this. She came here to unwind - to not be anyone for a while - and I've got her working in the studio every day like she's on payroll."

Gemma's eyes soften, but I keep going.

"She's not being paid. She's probably spending a fortune on that hotel. And I've been pulling her into my mess without ever thinking what she might need out of this."

I grab my phone and keys.

"Where are you going?" she asks.

"To find her."

"Harry..."

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna make some big romantic gesture. I just want to check on her. Make sure she's okay."

Gemma exhales, grabbing her towel again.

"Stay low. You've been lucky so far - no one's caught on that you're here. Avoid the blonde receptionist. Head straight to the lift."

I nod.

"Suite 305," she adds, just as I reach the door.

"You remember that?"

"I remember everything," she mutters. "Especially when a mysterious girl in a white dress turns my brother into a nervous wreck."

I open the door, then pause, looking back.

"You didn't mean it, right?"

She tilts her head.

"What?"

"When you said we should keep her around just until the album's done."

Her expression softens.

"Of course I didn't, you twat. I was messing around."

I nod once, then step outside.

The drive to the hotel is short - and strangely quiet. Jamaica always hums with life, but right now everything feels like it's holding its breath.

I park discreetly around the side and slip on a cap, pulling it low. The concierge barely looks up as I head through the lobby. I'm thankful for that.

Elevator to the third floor. Hallway carpet soft beneath my sneakers.

Room 305.

I don't knock right away. I just stand there, hand hovering over the door, replaying everything from last night.

Her smile.
The way she said "friends."
The way she still kissed me back anyway.

I glance down at my phone again. Her message stares back at me.

"Woke up a little under the weather."

She's not lying.

But she's not telling the whole truth either.

I knock. Once. Then again.

No answer.

I wait.

Then slide down the wall across from her door, arms draped over my knees, head tilted back.

I don't know what I'm expecting. That she'll open the door and tell me it's all fine? That she needed space? That she didn't mean to make me feel so-whatever this is?

I reach into my hoodie pocket and feel the old Scrabble tile I took from the board this morning.

C.

I don't know why I grabbed it. Maybe because I couldn't look at the word care spelled out across the board without thinking of her.
Maybe because I needed to hold onto something.

My thumb presses into the letter as I sit there.

Waiting.

Wondering if this is what caring actually looks like - not the kiss or the flirting or the writing songs together - but this.

Just showing up. Even when it's quiet.

Even when you don't get invited in.