The text came just as he was pulling his sweatshirt over his head.
D: Is it still OK to come? Is it OK with Camille? I was so happy to see you I forgot to ask if it was OK with her.

Harry stared at the screen for a beat, the words blurring slightly.
Camille.
A different life.
A different Harry.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but in the end, he kept it simple.
Harry: It's OK.

He didn't tell her Camille was out of the picture.
He didn't tell her she'd been gone for a while now, just like the version of himself he'd tried so hard to maintain when D had vanished.
Some things didn't need to be explained right now.

Another text, quicker this time:
Harry: Suite 105.

And then the waiting began.

He paced the suite like a caged animal, dressed down in sweats and an old black t-shirt, barefoot, heart hammering hard against his ribs.
Every knock of the heating pipes made him jump.
Every passing set of footsteps in the hall made him whip toward the door, pulse rattling.

Calm down. Breathe.

But then - finally - a real knock.

His heart stalled.
Then raced.
He opened the door.

And there she was.

No fancy gown.
No flashing lights.
No makeup.
Just D.
Hair up in a messy ponytail, jeans and a plain white t-shirt, cheeks flushed from the cold night air.

The breath he didn't even know he was holding escaped in a rush.
Before he could stop himself, he reached for her, pulling her into a fierce hug.

She froze for just half a second - surprised - and then melted into him, her arms sliding around his waist, clutching tight like a life raft.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his face against the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo - familiar and devastating all at once.
But after a second, he pulled back.
Too much.
Too soon.

He stepped away, his arms dropping heavily to his sides, trying to shove the vulnerability back down where it couldn't hurt him.

"Hey," she said softly, voice wobbling just slightly.

He swallowed hard.
"I need answers, D."

She nodded once.
"I know."

Without another word, she slipped the bag off her shoulder and dug inside, pulling out an iPad.
Her hands trembled slightly as she tapped through screens.
Then she turned it toward him.

He blinked down at the images.

DEMY WITH CHEF AKIS. TALK ABOUT HOT SAUCE!
A grainy beach photo - her laughing, sunglasses pushed into her hair, a man's arm wrapped tight around her waist.

She swiped.

DEMY AND AKIS, NATIONAL POWER COUPLE?
Another.
Smiling out for a walk. Looking perfect.

Swipe.

AKIS BAKED A BUN AND IT'S IN DEMY'S OVEN!
He flinched at the headline, at the gross insinuations.

Swipe.

DEMY DESPERATE WHEN AKIS CHEATS.

Swipe.

EXCLUSIVE: DEMY AND ARGYROS? PAYBACK FOR AKIS?

Harry looked away, the bile rising in his throat.
It was too much.
Too invasive.
Too cruel.

When he finally looked back at her, her face was tight, pale, but composed.

"This," she said quietly, "was my life. The year before I met you."

He didn't say anything.
Just watched her, breathing hard.

"I went to Jamaica to get away from it. From the lies. The stories that weren't true - or were twisted beyond recognition."
Her voice cracked a little, but she powered through.

"Akis..." she said, like the name itself tasted bitter. "He pursued me. Flattered me. Said all the right things. Handsome. Charming. And I believed him."

She bit her lip hard, the memory burning behind her eyes.

"But it wasn't about love. It wasn't even about me. He needed connections. Exposure. Fame. And I had those."
Her voice dropped lower.
"He called the paparazzi. He fed them stories. He turned our lives into a circus. And I was stupid enough to stand there smiling like it was real."

Harry felt a dark rage simmering low in his gut.

"The cheating was real," she said bitterly. "That's about the only thing they got right. But the rest... the rest was a lie I didn't even know I was part of until it was too late."

She turned the iPad off and placed it carefully on the coffee table, like it might explode.

"I wasn't devastated about him," she said, shaking her head. "I was devastated that my music - my privacy - my life - didn't matter anymore. I wasn't a person. I was a headline."

She took a shaky breath.
"And then I found out about the retreat in Jamaica. And I ran."

Harry swallowed, throat thick.

"And you," she said, finally looking at him. "Working with you... it wasn't supposed to happen. I told myself I'd stay out of the way. Just... breathe. Heal."
She laughed, hollow.
"But then you happened. And it was easy. And terrifying. And real."

"Dem..." he started, but she lifted a hand.

"Please. Let me finish."

He nodded stiffly.

"I've been where you are, Harry. Maybe not on the same scale, but the feeling is the same. Being used. Being exposed. Being turned into something you're not."

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and shattering.

"I didn't want that for you. Or for us. I was selfish, yes - for wanting you - but I was also scared. Terrified."

She wiped her eyes clumsily, breathing raggedly.

"Imagine the headlines," she whispered, voice shaking.
DEMY CERTAINLY HAS A THING FOR TATTOOS.
DEMY GOING INTERNATIONAL WITH HEARTTHROB HARRY STYLES.
THERE'S A WILL AND THERE'S A WAY - THE STYLES WAY.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling her pain like it was his own.

"That's why I didn't want credit," she said. "That's why I left. I didn't want us to be reduced to that."

She looked so small, so broken standing there.
Like all the pieces she had stitched back together were tearing loose again.

Without thinking, Harry moved - closing the space between them in two steps, pulling her into his arms.

She sobbed once - a deep, guttural sound - and clutched the front of his t-shirt in her fists.

He held her tighter.
As if he could somehow hold her together.
As if he could fix the past by sheer force of will.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against his chest. "I'm so sorry for laying all this on you now. Especially now that you have a girlfriend."

He stiffened slightly - then relaxed.

"I just needed you to know," she said, voice cracking. "I never stopped caring."

And Harry?
He just held her.
Held her like she was something precious.
Held her like he wasn't about to let her slip through his fingers again.

Not this time.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

It was Harry who broke the silence first, his voice rough around the edges.

"D..."
He pulled back just slightly so he could see her face, her tear-streaked cheeks, the guarded hope shining behind her red-rimmed eyes.
"There's no Camille."

She blinked. Once. Twice.
Processing.

"We weren't... anything real. Not really."
He looked down, shame flashing across his face, a faint, bitter twist to his mouth.
"She was... noise. Distraction. Not what I wanted. Not what I needed."

When he finally looked back up, there was something almost boyish about the way he waited for her reaction.
Braced. Defensive.

D's breath left her in a small, shuddery rush - not quite a sob, but close - and she gave a tiny, shaking nod.
Relief painted across her face like sunrise after a storm.

"How about you?" he asked, softer now. "Anyone new in your life?"

She shook her head almost immediately.
"No."
Her voice was firm. Steady. Certain.

"Good," he said, and for the first time all night, he smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

She smiled too, shy and small.

Harry shifted his weight, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he needed to physically shake the heaviness off.
Then his gaze locked with hers again - clearer this time. Brighter.

"About everything else you told me..." he began, voice low, sincere, "I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I know how disgusting this world can get."
He paused, chest rising and falling slowly.
"And I wish you could've shared it with me back then. I would've understood. I swear I would've."

D's throat bobbed as she swallowed hard.
"I know," she whispered.
"You would have tried to convince me everything would be alright," she added, a wobbly half-smile tilting her lips.
"And maybe I would've believed you. Maybe I wouldn't have been able to say no."

The sadness in her voice shredded him.

"But you didn't give me a choice," Harry said quietly.
"And that hurts."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't lash out.
He just... spoke the truth.
Plain. Honest. Bruised.

She nodded.
She didn't defend herself.
She didn't beg.
She just stood there, carrying the weight of what she'd done and everything it had cost them.

He exhaled slowly, like he was setting something heavy down.
And then he gestured vaguely towards the golden trophy still resting on the side table.

"You obviously know about my year," he said, half-smirking.
"And tonight... I got a glimpse of yours."
He let out a low chuckle, full of awe.
"D, your performance tonight..."
He shook his head, searching for the words.
"You were breathtaking. I was stunned. I was proud. So proud of you."

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, but this time she didn't wipe them away.
She let them fall.

"Thank you," she said, voice breaking, "and likewise. I followed everything you did, Harry. Every show. Every interview. Every performance."
She laughed, a watery sound.
"Sometimes the photos... the headlines... they were too much. And the people around you-"
She broke off, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, another sob escaping.

Harry stepped closer instinctively, hand hovering near her elbow but not touching, letting her have space if she needed it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was rooting for you. Always."

He gave her a look - soft and unguarded - that said: I know. I felt it.

He let a beat pass, then cleared his throat.

"D," he said, voice steady now, "I want you in my life."

Her breath caught audibly.
He saw the hope flare in her eyes - so bright, so desperate - and it nearly undid him again.

"I just..." He hesitated, forcing himself to be honest. "I don't know in what form yet. I meant it when I said not having you around crushed me. But..."
He looked away for a second, breathing through the lump in his throat.
"I'm not ready yet."

She didn't flinch.
She didn't argue.
She just nodded, slow and solemn, like she understood something deep inside her bones.

"I understand, Harry," she said softly. "Really, I do. No pressure. No expectations."
Her smile was watery but real.
"You have my number now. Call me whenever you're ready. I'll be here."

He swallowed thickly, moved beyond words.

They stood there for a long second - a fragile, precarious silence filled only with their breathing, their heartbeat, their history.

Finally, she stepped back toward the door, her hand brushing the handle.

But before she could pull it open, Harry grabbed her wrist gently.

She turned back, startled.

He pulled her into one last hug.
Not fierce and desperate like before.
Not breaking apart.
But rebuilding.

He tucked his face into the crook of her neck and whispered, raw and broken:

"I missed you too."

She squeezed her eyes shut, clinging to him like he was something precious, something worth holding onto.

When they finally let go, there were no more words left to say.

She slipped out the door quietly.
Leaving the room filled with the scent of her.
The ghost of her laugh.
The promise of something not yet written.

Harry closed the door gently behind her.

And for the first time in a long, long time...
He felt the faintest flicker of hope crack open inside his chest.