When Harry opened the front door of the villa, the last thing he expected to see was D standing there — framed by the soft morning light, flanked by two modest suitcases and a beach bag slung over her shoulder.

She wore a faded black hoodie, denim cut-offs, and the expression of someone trying not to be a burden. A strand of hair blew across her face, and she pushed it away quickly, as if it might somehow make her request more presentable.

"Hi," she said, almost sheepishly, eyes flicking up to meet his. "I didn't plan to stay this long... and my suite's been booked out. So I was wondering—if it's not too much—could I stay here?"

Harry blinked. Once. Twice.

And then grinned so wide it nearly cracked his face.

"Are you kidding? Yes. Of course. You're more than welcome."

Relief washed over her so quickly that she didn't bother to hide it. She stepped inside as he grabbed the handles of her bags, and for a second, they stood in the wide entrance hallway — just them, soft sunlight pouring in behind her and the scent of coffee drifting in from the kitchen.

Then she hugged him.

It wasn't just a "thanks for the lift" kind of hug — it lingered. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders a little tighter, her fingers curling briefly into the back of his t-shirt. He felt her chest rise and fall once before she let go, and when she stepped back, she smiled at him like maybe this was a bigger ask than she'd let on.

He didn't say anything. He just smiled right back.

Later that afternoon, it was like she'd always been part of the villa. The bags had disappeared into the guest room next to Gemma's, and the team didn't bat an eye when she slid into her usual spot on the carpeted floor of the studio.

She sat cross-legged on a throw blanket, scribbling lyrics into her battered notebook, her handwriting looping with increasing urgency as melodies formed in her head. Harry was perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, guitar in hand, strumming through a slow, deliberate chord progression that had been echoing in his brain since sunrise.

They were working on a new track — "Ever Since New York." Something raw. Unfiltered. Not just a song, but an open wound set to melody.

"This one's personal," he murmured, his voice quiet, like he didn't want to spook the moment. "It's not fiction."

She looked up, meeting his gaze with something close to reverence.

"It sounds like it," she said. Not like a compliment, but like an observation — as though she could feel it vibrating from the strings of his guitar into her bones.

"It's about someone who..." he paused, exhaling through his nose. "...meant something. But it didn't work. And there were things I couldn't fix. No matter how much I wanted to."

She didn't fill the silence. Didn't press for details.

She just nodded, a small, empathetic gesture that said: I understand.

That's what made her different. She didn't try to fix him, or dissect him, or analyse his every lyric like it was a puzzle she had the key to. She just let him feel it. Trusted the process.

Other people he'd dated wanted exclusives. Wanted to decode his art for bragging rights or private gain.

But D?

She just handed him lyrics and asked for a harmony. Sat in silence with him when the chords got stuck in his throat. Offered coffee when she knew he didn't need caffeine but the warmth of a mug in his hands.

It was strange. Easy. And that made it dangerous.

Because when something feels this effortless, it's either the beginning of something rare — or the part that hurts most when it's gone.

That night, when the house had settled and the crickets outside were louder than the speakers had been earlier, Harry and D sat out by the pool.

Sara and Mitch were curled up inside on the sofa, watching something black-and-white and way too slow for Harry's taste. So he'd offered D a drink and a walk, and they'd ended up lounging poolside, toes grazing the cool tile, wrapped in light jumpers against the breeze.

The stars above were ridiculous — like someone had shaken glitter across a black sheet.

Their glasses were half-full, the red wine warm and earthy on the tongue, and for a while they said nothing at all. Just listened to the night breathe around them.

"Do you believe in love?" he asked suddenly.

D tilted her head. "Absolutely. I think it's real. Even if it doesn't always last."

Harry nodded, then after a beat asked, "And God?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"I don't," she said eventually. "Not really."

He turned to look at her, brows rising slightly.

"I grew up in Greece," she went on, her voice soft. "A place where churches are on every corner. Where priests baptize babies before they've even taken a proper breath. But... I don't know. It's hard for me to believe in something that allows so much injustice. So much hurt."

He nodded slowly. "I do believe. I think... it gives me comfort. Like something bigger's holding all of this together."

She smiled, faintly. "I think that's beautiful. People who believe have something non-believers never will."

"What's that?"

"Hope."

He looked at her. "Does it bother you that I believe?"

"Not at all. Does it bother you that I don't?"

He hesitated. "No. But... I feel sorry you don't have that kind of hope."

She turned to him then, eyes steady and impossibly blue in the moonlight.

"I don't need that kind," she said softly. "I have hope in other things."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "Like what?"

She smiled. Not coy. Not flirtatious. Just honest.

"You."

The word hung there, between them, heavier than any song.

He stared at her, startled. Not by the weight of what she said, but by the certainty with which she said it. There was no performance in her eyes. Just truth.

She stood after a moment, brushing invisible dust from her jeans, the moment dissolving into the soft sounds of the night.

"Night, Harry."

And just like that, she walked inside, leaving the echo of her words behind.

Hope. In him.

He wasn't sure what to do with that.

But he knew he'd never forget it.