°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

You flower, you feast 🌻

ZAYN

"I'm selfish, I know
But I don't ever want to see you with him
I'm selfish, I know
I told you, but I know you never listen"
The meeting had been a blur of words, images, and me trying desperately not to pass out from either professional pressure or sheer, blinding starstruck chaos.

We spent the better part of an hour discussing the themes and aesthetics of Harry's third album. He talked about intimacy, transformation, stillness, softness—but also contrast, edge, rawness. Words like "lush," "private," and "celestial" were tossed around, and I nodded fervently at every one of them, trying not to lose myself in the sound of his voice.

He spoke with so much thoughtfulness—casual, but focused—like someone who knew exactly what he wanted to say but still left room for you to meet him halfway. He wasn't dictating the art direction; he was inviting it. I tried to match that openness with my own input—color palettes, possible typefaces, visual motifs, tone references from art history and fashion—anything to prove that I could do this. That I deserved to be here.

And somehow, I think I managed. No one threw me out of the room. No one told me I was delusional. I even saw a few approving nods from the creative director and the merch team when I sketched out a rough mock-up of a tour graphic right there in my notebook.

By the end of it, it was clear: this was no small project.

We were talking album cover, sure—but also full tour merch: T-shirts, oversized jumpers, water bottles, mugs, vinyl inserts, even a behind-the-scenes booklet chronicling the visual evolution of the record. The amount of design work would be intense—layered, conceptual, and very, very visible. But I wasn't panicking about that part.

I had a solid team behind me. Creatives I trusted. People who knew how to move fast and move well.

No, the panic was entirely reserved for the man at the center of it all.

Harry Styles.

The meeting slowly wrapped up, people filtering out one by one, shuffling papers, exchanging contact info, already moving on to their next big thing. I stayed behind for a minute, collecting my notebook and organizing my mess of Post-its, basking in the brief moment of stillness after the whirlwind of first impressions.

I thought I was alone.

That was my first mistake.

Because just as I was about to sling my backpack over my shoulder and head out, the conference hall door creaked open again—and in walked him.

Harry. Bloody. Styles.

Alone.

There were very few things my body was physically prepared for at that moment and Harry Styles walking back in the room alone was not one of them.

He walked toward me with that easy, unhurried grace that made it seem like the world naturally adjusted itself to accommodate his pace. His presence filled the space without trying to. Like oxygen. Like moonlight. He gave me a small smile, the kind that felt... private.

And then he said, "Hey, I noticed you've got some of my lyrics tattooed on your hand."

My entire soul left my body.

I blinked. Words? Tattooed?

Oh god.

Oh god.

I looked down and, sure enough, there it was: "You flower, you feast," etched in fine-line script down the side of my wrist. A lyric from Woman. One of my all-time favorites. I'd gotten it inked a couple of years ago during a particularly messy chapter of life—a reminder of growth, vulnerability, and softness. The words had always made me feel seen. Safe.

But he had seen it. And he knew it was his.

People didn't usually notice that tattoo. I had a lot of ink—visible pieces, bold pieces—so this one often got lost among the chaos. But of course he would notice. If you see your own words inked on someone's skin, they probably jump out at you.

I tried to respond.

"I— I um—well, you see— I—"

Come on, Zayn. Speak English. Form a sentence. You're not seventeen at a fan meet-and-greet. You're a grown adult. You have a PhD in progress. You pay taxes.

But Harry, either merciful or entertained (or both), let out a soft chuckle. A smirk danced at the corner of his mouth—yes, that was definitely a smirk—and he raised one brow like he'd seen this kind of reaction before and didn't mind it one bit.

"Hey," he said, casually, kindly. "Don't worry about it, man. I'm glad you liked my lyrics enough to get them tattooed."

Then he smiled again—gentle, real—and without waiting for a reply, turned and walked out of the room.

Leaving me standing there, jaw slightly ajar, mind doing somersaults, internally screaming loud enough to shatter glass.

Fuck.