°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Hollywood 😳

ZAYN

"I wish I'd have stayed
'Cause love can find a way to make your feet run heavy
Make your heart run steady
Then it breaks
So I'm praying that you're feeling the same"
Shitshitshitshitshit.

Oh my god.

God literally hates me.

Of all the artists in the world—of all the talented, brilliant, low-profile, non-heart-attack-inducing people this could have been—it had to be him.

Harry. Fucking. Styles.

I would have gladly, gratefully, thrown myself into an active volcano in that moment if it meant escaping the reality of what was unfolding before me. Or a sinkhole. A trapdoor in the floor. A rogue meteorite. Anything, anything, to spare me from the humiliation that had already taken root like a wildfire in my chest.

But no such miracle came. Because—as I might have mentioned—God hates me.

Every pair of eyes in the room was on me. That sharp, silent kind of attention that says: you're late, and we noticed, and now we're judging you for it. But I couldn't even feel properly ashamed, because my brain had shut down all operations except for one: processing the fact that Harry Styles was sitting across the table from me.

And he was looking right at me.

His green eyes—those very green eyes I had spent the better part of my teenage years memorising through grainy YouTube videos and interview screenshots—met mine with quiet curiosity. My pulse spiked so violently I thought I might actually pass out. My heart was doing the Macarena. Or spontaneous combustion. Or both.

I was going to die. In this room. Dressed like a washed-up art student who lost a fight with their laundry basket.

I swallowed hard and tried—tried—to remember that I was a professional now. I was here in an official capacity. I had a contract. A project. Responsibilities. I was no longer the 16-year-old who once made an entire art journal based on Harry's outfits from 2015. I was supposed to be cool. Grounded. Capable.

But that all crumbled to dust the moment I remembered something crucial—something catastrophic.

I have "Harry" tattooed in braille across my fingers.

Yeah.

That's a real thing.

(A/N: I really do. I need help.)

I had gotten it when I was twenty, in a moment of what I told myself was "committed fandom" and not "utter delusion." It was subtle, most people didn't notice—but I couldn't risk him seeing it. Not now. Not before I even said a word. Not before I had a chance to prove I wasn't still the hormonal wreck who used to cry over his acoustic performances of "From the Dining Table."

So I shoved my hands into the sleeves of my jumper like my life depended on it and kept my head down as I moved—walked, I told myself, not ran—to the only empty seat in the room. It was diagonally across from his, far enough to avoid direct eye contact, but still close enough that I could feel his presence like a gravitational force.

He was wearing a deep navy jacket that looked like it had been sculpted just for him. His curls were tucked back loosely behind one ear. Effortlessly composed, radiant in that annoying way that only the truly ethereal manage to pull off. And then—because of course he did—he smiled.

Just a small one. A polite, gentle, genuine smile. The kind that said, Hey, it's okay. I'm not mad.

And honestly? That nearly ruined me more than if he had rolled his eyes.

Because I know—I know how kind and open he is. I've watched every behind-the-scenes video, every fan interaction, every interview where people talk about how warm and grounding he is in person. I've studied "The Real Harry Styles" compilations like they were sacred texts.

But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what it feels like when you're the one he smiles at like that.

Like you belong in the room.

Like he's glad you're here.

I sat down, cheeks burning, and tried to calm my breathing. Everyone else had moved on—papers rustling, introductions being exchanged, someone from the label explaining the creative brief—but I could barely focus. Because I was still replaying that smile. That moment.

And the tiny voice in the back of my head—the one I had buried for years under professionalism and therapy and sheer, stubborn adulthood—whispered:
You're working with Harry Styles. You, specifically, are going to design for him. He's going to see your art. You're going to speak. To him. Repeatedly. For months.

Jesus save me.