By late morning, the studio felt like the inside of a lived-in mind — lyrics scattered, coffee cups cold and forgotten, cords coiled like lazy snakes across the floor. They'd spent the better part of the day fine-tuning harmonies, arguing over bridges and choruses, and scribbling notes in every margin they could find.

Harry was buzzing, but it wasn't caffeine. It was momentum.

"We need air," he declared, standing abruptly. "Sun. Wind. Retail therapy."

"Retail therapy?" Tyler raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, you know. Souvenirs. Gifts. A reason to buy things I don't need but will absolutely justify later."

Gemma looked up from her seat with an amused smile. "Who exactly are you shopping for, little brother?"

"Mum," Harry said. "Anne's birthday is coming up. And some friends. Maybe even a candle or two for Ronna before she threatens to kill me for leaving socks in the kitchen again."

The group collectively groaned.

"Pass," Mitch mumbled. "Gonna take a nap. Or write. Or both."

"I've got a call with the label," Jeff added.

"Me-time," Sara said, already halfway into her book.

Only Gemma stood, stretching. "I'll tag along for a bit. I need a break from all the testosterone."

Harry turned to D, half-expecting her to politely decline too — but she smiled, brushing her notebook aside.

"I'd love to go," she said simply.

He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath.

The drive into town was calm — lazy reggae on the radio, windows half-down, a salty breeze rolling through the car. The island's colors blurred past: sun-faded murals, fruit stands, bougainvillea vines climbing up stone walls like they were reaching for something.

"I still can't believe it," D said, watching the waves glitter as they curved along the road. "We're almost done."

Harry nodded. "It's weird, isn't it? A few weeks ago, I hadn't written a thing. And now we've got over twenty songs to narrow down."

She grinned. "And one epic choral piece waiting for London."

He laughed. "You really won't let that go, will you?"

"Queen had longer songs," she shrugged, smug. "I'm just saying."

There was a pause, and then he added, more quietly, "I'm proud of it. Of all of it. Of what we made."

She glanced over at him, her expression warm and unreadable. "You should be."

The town came into view — colourful, sun-bleached, humming with life. As Harry slowed near a row of shops, he pulled the car into a shaded lot and shifted into park. He turned off the engine, but didn't move.

"Hey," he said suddenly, voice low. "Before we go in..."

She looked over, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah?"

He scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. "I've been thinking... about the album. The credits. About you."

She blinked, slowly.

"You've done so much, D," he continued, voice low and sincere. "You've been there every step. I don't feel comfortable leaving your name off it. You've earned credit. You've earned more than that."

She tilted her head. "Harry..."

"I mean it," he said. "And not just credit. I'd like to pay you, too. Properly. You've put in hours — real hours. This isn't just friendly jamming anymore."

Her expression shifted — softened, but with a flicker of pain he couldn't quite place.

She looked down for a beat before meeting his eyes again.

"I don't need your money," she said gently. "You already gave me more than I ever expected. Being part of something that matters to you... being part of something real... that's enough."

"D..."

"No, listen," she said, and now she was turning in her seat to face him fully. Her hand reached up, cupping his cheek with quiet firmness. "You promised."

He froze, her touch featherlight against his skin.

"We shook hands," she said. "And where I come from, I told you before, that means something. It's not just a deal. It's honour."

He searched her face. "I know. I just... it doesn't feel right. You deserve—"

"I don't want credit," she cut in. "I don't want money. I wanted to be close to something beautiful. Close to you."

The words lingered.

Her eyes dropped suddenly, and her voice softened.

"I didn't expect you, Harry. I didn't come here looking for anything. This was supposed to be a break. A chance to breathe. But then I found you. And the music. And this version of myself that I... missed."

She hesitated. "And I felt blessed for it."

Harry didn't speak right away. The wind caught the ends of her ponytail, tugging a few strands loose around her face.

"Ditto," he said finally, his voice rougher than before. "You know... I came here to figure out who I was without the band. Without the noise. But it's you that helped me hear myself again."

A silence fell between them. Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just honest.

Then she smiled — that small, secret smile that seemed to hold more than words could say.

"Come on," she said, opening the door. "Let's go find your mum the best candle Jamaica has to offer."

He followed her out of the car, heart thudding, the promise still echoing in his mind.

No name.

No credit.

Just the music.

Just her.

The town was warm and full of noise, the kind that didn't demand anything from you. Just soft music pouring from shopfronts, people chatting in patios over cold drinks, and kids darting barefoot through narrow streets with sticky fingers and wide smiles.

Harry and D wandered together, undisturbed and unnoticed — just two tourists blending in beneath straw hats and sunglasses.

Well, mostly.

Harry's disguise included a woven fedora and a loose shirt with a bright tropical print that looked like a piña colada had exploded across his chest. D gave him a once-over as they stepped into their third artisan shop and tried to contain the grin spreading across her face.

"That shirt should be illegal," she muttered, nudging his arm as he picked up a handmade candle and sniffed it thoughtfully.

"Excuse me," he said, feigning offence. "I'll have you know this was handcrafted by someone's eccentric aunt and it's fashion."

"It's crime," she deadpanned. "Honestly, what is it with you and the frilly shirts? I've seen the photos. New York. Rome. Are you okay? Blink twice if you're being held hostage by your own wardrobe."

He laughed, dropping the candle back onto the shelf. "I'll have you know, those shirts have personality."

"They have trauma," she shot back.

They paused near a display of wooden carvings — animals and little boats and suns with squiggly smiling faces. Harry picked up a tiny giraffe and handed it to her like it was something sacred.

"For your studio desk," he said solemnly.

D took it with mock reverence. "You shouldn't have. Really. How will I explain this to airport security?"

"Tell them it's art."

"Tell them you're mad," she muttered, but she tucked the giraffe into her tote anyway.

They kept walking, the air thick with the scent of coconut oil and grilled plantains from a nearby vendor. The sun danced between buildings, painting patches of golden light on the cobbled streets.

As they stepped into a small jewellery shop tucked between two murals, D turned to him, arms folded.

"So... Do your fans know how obsessed you are with candles and weird hats?"

Harry grinned, pulling a ridiculous wide-brimmed hat from a stand and plopping it on his head. "Are you fangirling right now?"

"In your dreams," she scoffed.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low as he adjusted the brim. "In my dreams you are a fangirl."

She froze just a second — barely — before brushing past him toward a display of silver rings.

"You're insufferable," she said over her shoulder, but there was no bite to it.

He followed, watching as she slid a delicate ring onto her index finger, admiring how it caught the light.

"You'd wear that?"

"No," she said, but left it on a moment longer than she needed to before slipping it off and placing it back. "But I'd think about it."

They bought trinkets. A mug with a hand-painted wave for Gemma. A journal for Jeff. A carved turtle for Sara that made them both laugh. And then, quietly, a pair of simple leather bracelets — matching, but not obviously so.

D ran her fingers over them. "These are nice."

Harry handed them both to the vendor without another word.

They stepped back out into the sun, walking slowly through the shade of palm-lined streets. Neither of them in a rush. Neither of them wanting the afternoon to end.

At one point, D looked over, her smile softening as she watched him read the label on a jar of local honey like it held the secrets of the universe.

"What?" he asked, catching her stare.

"Nothing," she said. "You're just..."

"What?"

She shook her head, laughing to herself. "Different than I expected."

Harry raised a brow. "You expected me?"

"Harry," she said with exaggerated patience, "you are Harry Styles."

He gave her a sidelong look. "So you are a fan."

She groaned. "Don't start."

"I knew it. You've got a playlist. You've probably named your shampoo bottles after my albums."

"You wish," she said.

"I do," he whispered again, just quiet enough that she almost missed it.

Almost.

She didn't look at him then, didn't press. But her smile lingered.

And for the rest of the walk, they didn't say much — just strolled in easy rhythm, side by side, hands occasionally brushing.

Two people, far from their lives, tucked in a quiet corner of the world, pretending for just a little longer that they were nobody at all.

And loving it.