Harry lingered by the door, thumb resting lightly on the edge of the frame. The morning sunlight cut soft lines across the floor of her suite, and everything between them felt calmer than it had in days. D stood opposite him, arms loosely folded, her expression still gentle from their talk on the balcony.

"I'm really glad I met you, Harry," she said, the words rolling out with the ease of something that had lived inside her for a while. "Even if it came with long hours and stolen lyrics."

He chuckled, his smile tired but genuine. "You stole my chords first. Fair's fair."

Her eyes lit up with a quiet spark. "Touché."

He took a step back, hands slipping into his pockets. "You should get some rest. I mean it. Sleep in, forget about me for a bit."

"Impossible," she teased.

He grinned and dropped his gaze to the floor briefly before looking up again. "If you feel up for it later... I was thinking maybe we meet down at the private beach? Say around three?"

She nodded almost instantly. "That sounds perfect."

"If not, no pressure. I just—"

"I'll be there," she interrupted softly. "And I'll be back in the studio tomorrow, too. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

He gave a playful salute. "Noted."

And with that, he left her suite, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

By the time three o'clock rolled around, Harry was already stretched out under the wide canvas of a sun umbrella, toes buried in the warm Jamaican sand, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses low on his nose.

She arrived in a floaty sundress the colour of pale peach sorbet, her hair braided over one shoulder, and a beach bag slung casually over her arm. Her only makeup was the flush on her cheeks from the sun. She looked relaxed. Free.

"You're early," she said as she approached.

"I had to claim the best spot," he replied, patting the towel beside him.

From her bag, she pulled out a small box filled with fresh mango slices, strawberries, and pineapple chunks. She handed it to him before sinking into the towel with a satisfied sigh.

"Beach and fruit. Can't beat it."

They sat in a rhythm that felt strangely familiar. Bites of fruit were passed between them. Music wasn't mentioned once.

Instead, they argued about TV shows.

"Breaking Bad is objectively the best show ever made," Harry declared between bites of mango.

"Objectively? Oh, please. It's slow, it's dark, it's full of people who need therapy and a slap."

"You watched it all."

"Out of spite."

He laughed, full-bellied. "You watched six seasons out of spite?"

"Yes. And I stand by it."

The debate shifted to books, then food. She told him that Greek food was obviously superior to all others — except, perhaps, Thai.

He made a valiant but losing argument for English cuisine.

"Mushy peas, Harry," she deadpanned. "Mushy. Peas."

"That's not our fault. That's texture innovation," he shot back, pretending to be deeply offended.

They both dissolved into laughter, falling back against the towels as the sun stretched lazily above them.

When the heat grew too much to ignore, they stood up and headed for the water. She paused only to tie her braid into a bun before dashing into the sea. He followed close behind.

The swim turned into a splash war. The splash war turned into a race.

She was fast, cutting through the waves like a sea sprite. He claimed victory anyway, swearing she false-started.

"Don't be a sore loser," she teased, tossing water at him.

"I'm not a sore loser. I'm a creative truth-teller."

He loved how she laughed at that — not just a polite chuckle, but a real one. The kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her toss her head back without caring what anyone else thought. He'd never tire of trying to make her laugh like that.

They floated in the waves for a while, letting the salty water carry them like two lazy buoys, eyes on the cloudless sky. Everything slowed down. The world — their stories, their scars, the songs left half-finished — faded into the background.

Eventually, they made their way back to shore, wrapping themselves in towels and sharing the last of the fruit.

As the shadows stretched longer across the sand, Harry leaned back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded behind his glasses.

"We're going out tonight," he said casually, glancing over at her.

Her head turned. "Out where?"

"Some place not the studio. Drinks, music, dancing if the vibe's right."

She raised a brow. "Dancing?"

"Don't laugh. I have excellent hips."

She smirked. "I've seen the videos."

He narrowed his eyes, mock-offended. "So that's how you found me charming. Archival footage."

She shrugged, smiling. "Can't confirm or deny."

"Well," he said, standing and brushing the sand from his legs, "you're coming with us. All of us. We deserve it."

She stretched like a cat, rising slowly to her feet. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."

The night air was thick with music, spice, and the smell of rum-soaked fruit.

The place Gemma picked was hidden down a narrow alleyway, nestled between two crooked buildings painted bright yellow and green. A small wooden sign read Crescendo in fading white letters, and the moment they stepped inside, it was like being swallowed by the heartbeat of Jamaica.

Live music throbbed in the corner, the band tucked under a string of hanging lights. Tables were crowded. Laughter spilled out with the bass. Every surface felt alive.

Then she walked in.

And the world tipped a little.

She wore a short, flowing red dress with thin straps that slid off one shoulder like an afterthought. Her hair, once neatly braided, was now loosely tousled and pinned back in a way that made it look like she hadn't tried at all — which made it even worse. Or better. Depending on how much Harry was willing to survive the night.

Gemma elbowed him the moment she saw his face.

"Close your mouth," she whispered. "You look like you've seen an angel. Or boobs."

Harry blinked. "I—she—just shut up."

"She's stunning," Gemma grinned. "And you're a goner."

They joined the group already seated near the back — Mitch, Sara, Jeff, Tyler, Ryan — drinks in hand, plates of jerk chicken and fried plantains already picked over.

D moved through the chaos like she belonged there. No hesitation, no trying too hard. She greeted everyone with a smile, slid into the seat next to Gemma, and laughed at something Sara said before even taking a sip of her drink.

Harry couldn't take his eyes off her.

It wasn't the dress. Or her hair. Or even the way the candlelight flickered across her cheekbones.

It was the ease.

The way she didn't fidget. The way she didn't check her reflection. The way she didn't try to impress anyone.

She was just... herself.

Later, Harry leaned over to Gemma while D was busy pointing out something on the menu to Sara.

"I think I'm smitten," he muttered.

Gemma didn't even pretend to be surprised.

"You think?"

He smiled into his drink. "I love that she doesn't try. Doesn't fuss. She doesn't look at me like I'm him, you know?"

Gemma softened. "She looks at you like she knows who you are. Not just what you do."

"Exactly."

Across the table, one of Harry's friends from the label leaned toward him, watching D with obvious admiration.

"She's the bomb, man," the guy said, not bothering to whisper.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Don't even think about it."

"Whoa," the guy laughed. "Just a compliment."

Harry didn't respond. Just took a sip of his drink and kept watching her.

She was now dancing with Gemma and Sara near the small open space where people were starting to sway with the music. Her bare feet tapped lightly against the worn wooden floor, her dress moving like water. Her laugh floated back to him, and Harry felt it in his chest.

He turned to Mitch, who had gone suspiciously quiet beside him. The way Mitch kept sneaking glances at Sara did not go unnoticed.

"You're into her," Harry said, smirking.

Mitch blinked. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb. Sara."

"I am not," Mitch said too quickly.

"You so are," Harry grinned.

Tyler leaned in, catching the tail end. "Please tell me we're matchmaking now."

"Yes," Harry said. "Operation Music Love."

Gemma, catching on, danced her way over and whispered something to Sara before physically guiding her toward Mitch, who turned redder than the hot sauce on the table.

Meanwhile, Harry stood and crossed to D.

She caught him approaching and held her hand out before he could speak.

"If you're going to beg," she said, "just know I'll say yes."

He took her hand and pulled her gently toward him.

The music shifted — slower now, something with rhythm and sway — and he let his arms wrap around her waist as she stepped closer, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

They moved together without words. Without planning.

There were too many people to make it overt, but they didn't need to be pressed against each other to feel the heat. The space between them was electric. Her breath near his ear, his fingers trailing the bare skin of her back.

He didn't know if it was the music or the rum or just her.

But when the song ended, neither of them moved right away. Their chests rose and fell too quickly for how still they were. Her hands slid down, resting over his heart for a second too long.

"I need to go," she said softly, the spell cracking just slightly.

"I'll walk you," he offered, no hesitation.

She nodded, slipping her sandals on and grabbing her small bag from the table. Gemma caught his eye and gave him a thumbs-up behind her drink.

The walk down the beach was quiet at first.

The moon hung low and full, painting silver trails across the water. The sand was cool beneath their feet, and they moved slowly, side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally but never quite holding.

When they reached the alley that led to her hotel, she stopped.

Turned to face him.

The night air curled around them, soft and humid, but there was something colder in her voice when she spoke — not unfriendly. Just distant.

"Don't fall in love with me, Harry."

He blinked. "Why?"

She smiled faintly. Not teasing. Not flirty. Just sad.

"Because I'm a ghost."

Before he could ask what that meant, she leaned up, pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, and whispered, "Goodnight."

Then she turned and walked away — red dress swaying, hair flowing with the breeze — and disappeared into the shadows of the hotel courtyard.

Harry stood there for a long moment, staring after her.

The wind picked up.

And the only thing he could think once again was:
Too late.