"Are you serious right now?" he says, staring at me like I've just insulted his entire existence.

"She's thirteen," he adds, incredulity dripping from every syllable. The irony in his voice stings more than it should.

"So?" I shoot back, defensively.

"So... not to sound cocky, but there are hundreds of teenage girls who have a crush on me, Ashley. She's a kid. She'll get over it." He sounds frustrated now, disappointed—and that frustrates me, because he doesn't understand. He hasn't heard her. He isn't her mother.

I must look like I'm seconds from breaking because he softens only slightly before continuing.

"You probably think I'm some inconsiderate asshole who doesn't care about your daughter, but that's not the case. I just know how this goes. She'll see me a couple of times, obsess a little, then move on. Teenagers are all-in until something shinier shows up. That's how they are."

"You don't know her, Harry," I say quietly. "You haven't heard the things she's said about you. If I had known how deep it ran, I never would have..."

"What?" he cuts in, voice turning sharp. "Slept with me? Fucked me?"

He's being a jerk now, pushing me toward a version of this story that only serves his pain. I shake my head slowly. That's not what it was for me—not even close.

"If all I wanted was sex," I say, my voice low but firm, "I wouldn't have waited five years. There have been others, Harry—suitors, opportunities—but I never acted on any of it. And then you came along. This twenty-one-year-old who threw my whole world off course."

He quiets, and I can tell I've hit something in him.

"What?" he asks again, softer this time. "Is that all it was to you?"

"No," I say immediately. "I don't know what it was exactly, but it wasn't just about sex. Yes, it happened fast. Ten days—barely—but that doesn't make it meaningless. And if your ego needs a little boost, yes... the sex was amazing, too."

I look down, unable to face those piercing green eyes for a second longer.

"Ashley..." His voice gentles as he steps closer. He lifts my chin with one finger, making me look at him. "It was amazing because it was with you."

I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes.

"You always say the perfect thing," I whisper. "But you don't want to see the reality."

"This is exhausting," he exhales, rubbing at his forehead. "God, it's exhausting."

"What's the truth then?" I ask, already knowing what's coming.

"It's simple," he says, and the way he's looking at me cuts right through my walls. "I like you. You like me—even if you don't want to. I crave you, and I know you crave me too, but you won't let yourself want this."

I stay silent, barely breathing.

"You finally gave in, we shared something real, and now you're running because your daughter has a poster of me on her wall. Because a thirteen-year-old has a crush. You're letting that be the reason to throw this away."

"It's not just a crush," I say, but the conviction isn't there anymore. "You didn't hear her—how she talked about you. I can't just—"

"Can't what?" he snaps. "Be honest? Or admit that maybe—just maybe—you're terrified, and this gives you a tidy excuse to retreat into that safe little world you've built?"

I don't respond. I can't. Because he's not wrong.

"It's convenient," he finishes, and this time the word cuts deeper than it should.

"Convenient?" I echo, confused and hurt. "What are you even talking about?"

"This," he says, gesturing between us. "It gives you what you wanted all along—a reason to step back. To avoid this getting messy. To hide again."

"Harry—"

"But I'm not begging anymore," he continues, voice unwavering. "I came here to be honest. To say that I care. I've made my intentions pretty damn clear. The rest is up to you."

He takes a breath, composing himself.

"We still have the campaign. The video launch. The speeches. Brussels. London. If you're uncomfortable being around me, we can loop in Elizabeth. She and Niall seem to be hitting it off. She doesn't give a shit what people think—she just goes for what she wants."

That one lands. Hard.

"It's not that simple," I whisper, barely audible.

"But it is," he replies, and I know then that he's said everything he came to say.

He steps back, gathering himself like he's drawing a line in the sand.

"It was nice seeing you again, Ashley. No—scratch that. It was great. You look incredible, as always. I hope I see you again."

And then he turns toward the door.

Panic bubbles in my chest before I can think better of it. On instinct, I move—rushing forward, catching him just before he leaves. My arms wrap tightly around him like I'm trying to anchor myself to the moment. For a beat, he stiffens in surprise.

Then, slowly, his arms come around me too.

I close my eyes, breathing him in. His warmth. His steadiness. His presence. Everything I didn't know I missed until he gave it back to me.

"Ash..." he murmurs, his voice cracking just a little. "Ashley..."

I'm not in love with him.

But I want him. I want his passion, his fire, his kindness. I want the way he sees me. The way he makes me feel.

But I've been alone for so long, I don't know how to let that in.

So I do the only thing I know how to do—I push him away. Gently. Slowly.

And with every ounce of heartbreak clinging to my throat, I whisper the words he was dreading:

"I'll have Elizabeth contact you."

*************************************************

It's been three days since I last saw Harry.
Three days since I cried my eyes out for what I let go.
Three days since Liz called me—and I quote—a "stupid, silly, ungrateful cow."
Yes. Cow. Moo and all.

I called to let her know I wouldn't be handling the campaign anymore and suggested we meet so I could walk her through everything she needed to take over. Of course, she already knew. Why? Because her precious Niall had already spilled the beans about my little emotional implosion with Harry. In graphic detail, apparently.

Liz was furious—not because I'd let "Harry Styles from One Direction" slip through my fingers (although, let's be honest, she might have cried about it on my behalf later)—but because I'd done what she called "self-sabotage of Olympic proportions." Her words. She was upset I'd deprived myself of a good time. But the thing is, Harry was never just a good time. Not to me. Treating him like a fling felt wrong. So I did what I thought was best. I walked away—before it got messier. Before it got harder.
Before it got more... complicated. There's that word again.

When Liz came over that evening to talk logistics, things went downhill fast.
Enter Anzee: teenage girl, One Direction enthusiast, part-time interrogator.
She was relentless. "Is Harry dating anyone?" "Did he bring a girlfriend to the shoot?" "Are his eyes really that green?" "Is he, like, genuinely kind or is that just PR?"

Liz kept shooting me looks that screamed Say something before I do. But I just smiled through gritted teeth, pretending my daughter's pop star soulmate hadn't recently had his tongue in my mouth. And, well... elsewhere.

There was absolutely no fooking way, as Niall would say, that I was telling Anzee anything. Not. A. Chance.

After dodging questions all night, Liz and I agreed to meet at her flat today to go through the remaining campaign details in peace. So here I am, three days later, standing outside her place, arms full of Chinese takeaway like some kind of guilt-ridden peace offering.

She opens the door and I immediately spot Niall sprawled on the sofa, fully immersed in football and potato wedges.

"Hey... you could've warned me Niall was here," I whisper, slightly panicked.

"Niall's always here," Liz says with a shrug, like I should've known this by now. And suddenly it hits me—I've been a terrible friend. Between my Harry spiral and dramatic exit, I never even asked about her and Niall. It's always been me me me, drama drama drama.

Somewhere, even my therapist is rolling her eyes.

"Ashley! How are you?" Niall calls out cheerfully, giving me that signature boyish grin and hair that looks like it was styled by a playful windstorm.

"I'm good, Niall. You?"

"Grand," he says, grinning wider. "So... you dumped Harry?"

I choke on absolutely nothing. "Excuse me?!"

He blinks. "Well, you're not together, are you?"

"No, but—"

"So you dumped him."

"I didn't dump him!" I protest.

"Then are you still together?"

"No!"

"Right. So you dumped him." He shrugs and continues munching his spring roll like he's just solved climate change.

"Why do you assume I did the dumping? What if he dumped me?" I argue.

"Did he?"

"No."

"Then yeah. You dumped him," he concludes, with the logic of a man who has mastered simplicity. "Exactly what I said."

I start laughing despite myself. I mean, how can I even argue with that kind of bulletproof Irish logic?

"It's... complicated, Niall."

"Ah. There's that word again." He digs into some sweet and sour chicken, and for a blessed second I think I'm off the hook.

"I mean," he says with a mouthful, "I thought you liked him."

"I do," I admit, softly. "So much. That's the problem."

He pauses, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, I just hope seeing each other all the time won't be awkward."

"We won't be seeing each other. Liz is taking over the campaign now," I say, thankful for the subject shift. "And I'm trusting you to help her. This is really important."

"Oh, I know about that." He sets his plate down, suddenly suspiciously casual.

"I wasn't talking about the campaign," he adds, tone far too innocent.

I narrow my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"He's enrolled in your class."

It takes a full five seconds for the words to register.

"I'm sorry—what?"

"Your class. Sociology of Human Behaviour, right? Mondays and Thursdays? Yeah, he's in it now." Niall grins like he's just delivered the juiciest plot twist in a telenovela.

I stare at him. Then at Liz. Then back at him.

"You're joking."

"Nope," he says, popping a wonton in his mouth. "Said something about 'wanting to broaden his intellectual horizons'... but I think he just wants to sit at the front and make you sweat."

I let my head fall back against the couch cushion with a dramatic groan. Liz cackles beside me.

"He enrolled in my class?"

"Welcome to the syllabus, Professor Cameron," Liz says, raising her glass of wine. "May the odds be ever in your favour."