Everything plays out in slow motion.

"Mate, I didn't... I..."
Harry couldn't find the words. His mouth moved, but nothing came out that could begin to describe what he was feeling — not for himself, but for everyone around him.

He felt heartsore for his friend — the one who just realised his crush would never return his feelings.
Sad for the girl only metres away, unaware of the scene unfolding.
Wrecked for the girl who poured her hurt into art — who hid her emotions in charcoal lines and delicate brushstrokes.
And somehow, exhilarated — because those sketches meant something. They meant everything.

"Harry," Louis finally muttered. "We need to talk."

A pause.

"But first... I need a drink. A strong one," he added, placing the painting down with deliberate care.

Liam and Niall glanced at each other, their mouths hanging open. Shock still clung to both of them.

"That's you, mate!" Niall finally blurted out, as if he'd cracked a mystery no one else had solved.

"Gold star for you, Ni," Liam said, dryly. "Now shut up."

He stepped forward, arms crossing.

"Don't do anything stupid. Either of you."
He pointed first at Harry, then at Louis. His voice dropped to something more serious, more commanding.
"Niall and I will stay with the girls. You two — go find somewhere quiet and talk. Like the brothers you are. Don't live up to the reputation Brits have here. No shouting, no drama, no fists. Don't make me angry. You know exactly the kind of shitshow that would follow."

He paused, his eyes firm.

"Talk. And listen."

He nudged Louis gently toward the door.

"Louis, I haven't—I didn't—" Harry started, rubbing the back of his neck. Suddenly the air felt ten degrees hotter, his palms clammy, his throat dry.

"That's what we need to talk about," Louis said calmly.

A beat.

"Maybe you should go to her," he added.

Harry looked up, startled. "I... I can't."

They started walking — down the narrow, familiar path they'd walked so many times before. But tonight, it felt different. The road seemed longer, the air heavier, the steps slower.

They ended up at a nearby pub, settled into barstools with a pair of vodkas in front of them.

Louis took the first sip, then looked sideways at Harry — who was still deep in thought, clearly trying to piece together the right words.

Louis broke the silence first.

"Do you love her?"

Harry blinked. "Love her? I... I care about Natalia. A lot. I don't know if it's love, but... yeah. I care for her. So much."

"I meant Darya," Louis said, raising an eyebrow. "But thanks for confirming where your head's at."

Harry's lips parted, but he said nothing.

"You should go to her," Louis said simply, more serious now.

"I can't. Not like this."

"Because of Darya? Or because of me?" Louis asked, though his tone held no anger.

Harry hesitated. "Both. Mostly... you."

Louis leaned back, sighing. "What is the deal with Darya?"

"I don't know. What do you want me to say?" Harry looked frustrated — not with Louis, but with himself. "She's... she was a distraction. A fling. I hate that word, but it's what it was. And she knows it."

Louis nodded, then drained the rest of his drink.

"Then stop dancing around it," he said. "Grow a pair. Go after the girl you were meant to be with."

Harry looked down, spinning his glass slowly. "We made a rule, Lou. We always said—"

"You're not doing anything to me," Louis interrupted. "Jesus, Harry. Stop being a pussy and go get the girl. The rule doesn't apply if I say it doesn't. Yeah, I liked her — but I moved on."

He shrugged. "What, you thought I'd cry over her?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but Louis cut him off again.

"Louis..."

"Don't 'Louis' me. Just talk to Darya, be honest, and go find the girl who sketches your damn face like it's her religion."

"Lou... I don't know what to say."

"Then don't. Just shut the fuck up and go before we start crying and hugging and turning this into a soap opera."

Harry laughed, breathless with relief. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure. Not my fault the girl's got questionable taste in men and prefers hairy monkeys over Churchill's descendants."

"Churchill?" Harry snorted. "You're not related to—"

"Details," Louis smirked. "Now go, before I change my mind and propose to her myself."

Harry stood, a slow smile spreading across his face. He clapped a hand on Louis's shoulder — a simple, wordless gesture that said everything.

He turned to leave.

"Oi!" Louis called after him. "Where the hell are you going?"

"You just said—"

"Twenty quid, dickhead. I gave you the green light, the least you can do is pay for the drinks."

Harry chuckled, pulled out his wallet, and handed him a fifty. Rolled it right into Louis's palm and closed his fingers around it.

"Keep the change, mate."

"You bet your arse I will," Louis grinned, already waving at the bartender for a refill. He sure as hell would need it.

"What's so urgent it couldn't wait till later, Harry?"
Darya's heels clicked sharply against the pavement as he led her away from the buzzing crowd and into a quieter side street. The music from the promenade still played faintly in the background — a summer beat that didn't match the tension now thick between them.

Harry's chest felt tight. His heartbeat drummed so loud in his ears he could barely hear himself think. He could feel the sweat gathering at his temples, sticking to the collar of his shirt. He stopped walking and turned to face her, forcing the words out.

"Darya..."

His voice was soft, almost kind — but it carried a finality that made her eyes narrow.

"Oh no," she said, taking a step back. "I know that tone."

She turned her back to him, folding her arms across her chest.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. And he meant it — for leading her on, for letting it go on this long, for not being honest sooner.

She whipped back toward him. "Mr. Panayiotides found out, didn't he?"
There was a flicker of panic in her voice, but it was quickly replaced with control. "I can have my father call him, Harry. Don't worry, baby. He won't—"

"It's not that," he interrupted gently. "It's not about work."

He swallowed hard.

"I just... I don't want to keep doing this. It's not fair. To you. Or to me."

Darya blinked. For a moment, she looked genuinely confused — as if the concept of Harry ending things hadn't even entered her universe.

"Have I done something wrong?"

God. His heart cracked at the vulnerability in her voice. Because she hadn't done anything wrong. Not really. She had flown back to the island for him. She had tried. But his heart was already elsewhere, and it wasn't something either of them could change.

"No. No, Darya. You're a great girl. But I—"

"Oh, come on," she cut him off with a bitter laugh. "Is this seriously an 'it's not you, it's me' speech? Really, Harry?"

He winced.

"Is that why you haven't touched me? Haven't made love to me since I got back?"
Her voice cracked on the word love, like it betrayed her more than she expected.

He didn't answer.

She kept going.

"Always with the excuses. Always tired. Always busy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You've barely even looked at me..."

Then she caught herself. Took a breath. Straightened her shoulders.

"Who is she?" she asked, sharper now. "Do I know her?"

Harry didn't respond.

"Say something, damn it!" she snapped, shoving his shoulder.

His silence confirmed what she already feared.

"You'll regret this," she hissed. "I swear to God, Harry, you'll regret this."

He looked at her then, really looked. And he saw everything she was trying not to show — the pain, the bruised ego, the disbelief.

"I'm sorry, Darya. But the truth is... we both knew what this was."

Her jaw dropped.

"I came all the way back here for you, you piece of shit!" she spat, pushing him harder this time. "I chose you!"

Harry steadied himself but didn't retaliate. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't flinch.

And for a brief second, he wondered — is it worth it? Hurting someone who once cared about you? Breaking a rule with a best friend? Letting go of something simple and familiar?

But then he pictured her.

Natalia's smile, all teeth and sun.
The sound of her laughter echoing in his head, unfiltered and pure.
The way she bit her lip when she sketched. The softness of her voice.
The fire in her kiss.

And suddenly, it was worth it. Every ache, every consequence. All of it.

"I didn't ask you to come back," he said softly.

Darya's face paled.

There was a silence, heavy and still.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I really am."

She blinked, stunned for a beat — and then her voice cracked again, louder this time.

"Who is she? Tell me, Harry!"

He sighed, but didn't budge. "It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't!"

He looked at her with nothing but honesty in his eyes.

"What matters is... it's not you."

It wasn't meant to be cruel — but it was the truth. And she deserved that.

He gave her one last look — a quiet apology in his expression — and turned to leave.

There were no more words left that would help.

He didn't hear her cry or call after him. He didn't need to.

Because now he had somewhere else to be.

Someone else to find.

++++

Filia to everyone!