°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Sincerity is Scary 🦋

HARRY

And why would you believe you could control how you're perceived
When at your best you're intermediately versed in your own feelings?

Harry was running late.

He hated running late—not because he was a stickler for time, but because he hated keeping people waiting, especially someone like Zayn. He'd picked 12:30, thinking it was casual enough not to feel too formal, and late enough that the cafe wouldn't be packed. It had been a decent plan, until he stepped outside his flat and realized how foolish it was to try walking anywhere without a disguise.

It was a beautiful day—blue skies, a soft breeze, that kind of golden light that made the whole city feel warm and cinematic. It had seemed like the perfect opportunity for a thoughtful walk, something to calm his nerves before what he thought might be a pivotal conversation. But within fifteen minutes, he'd been stopped four separate times for selfies, had to awkwardly dodge a cluster of fans outside a vintage record shop, and was now trailed by a couple of camera-wielding paparazzi who clearly had nothing better to do.

By the time the familiar green awning of Beachwood Café came into view, he was jogging, breath quick, pulse faster than he wanted it to be. He pulled his beanie down lower over his forehead and shoved his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, hoping they still masked enough of him to avoid drawing attention inside. The last thing he wanted was to make Zayn uncomfortable because he'd brought unwanted attention along.

The bell over the door chimed as he pushed it open, and a wave of relief washed over him as he stepped into the cool, cozy air of the café. He glanced around quickly, scanning the tables—then he saw him.

Zayn was seated by the window, half turned toward the light, a sketchbook open on the table and a pencil moving lightly across the page. His headphones were snug over his ears, curls just slightly messed, a peaceful little smile playing on his lips as he sketched. He was drawing the street outside, or maybe the people walking it—Harry couldn't tell from where he stood. Zayn's foot tapped along gently to whatever song was playing in his ears, and something about the whole image—Zayn in his own world, completely at ease—made Harry stop dead in his tracks.

It hit him harder than he expected. That clench in the chest. That ache. He'd been prepared to walk in here and do it—to finally tell Zayn what he'd been holding in for months now. After all the talks with his friends the night before, after going in circles with himself about whether this was a good idea or a terrible one, he'd decided that he wanted to try. He wanted to lay it all out there.

But now... seeing Zayn like this, so calm, so untouched by the whirlwind that was Harry's world—it made something inside Harry freeze.

He'd always known what his life meant. The fame. The press. The loss of privacy. For years, he'd tried to carve out some version of normal in that chaos, but the truth was that being close to him came with a cost. A high one. If the world even sniffed that he had feelings for Zayn, the scrutiny would be unbearable. Every aspect of Zayn's life would be picked apart. Photos would surface. Assumptions. Rumors. Lies. The cafes and quiet sketches would vanish. And all for what? For Harry's selfish hope that maybe, just maybe, Zayn could feel the same?

Zayn had taken months to really open up to him. He was careful. Private. Kind. And Harry wasn't sure he could live with himself if he were the reason Zayn lost any of that.

So, he made a choice.

He exhaled slowly, drew a practiced smile across his lips, and pushed away the ache. No confessions today. No messy declarations. Just coffee. A good conversation. A little laughter, maybe.

He could let himself have that, couldn't he? Just this one hour, one cup of coffee, one moment beside the person he was learning to let go of, slowly and painfully.

As he approached the table, Zayn finally looked up. He pulled his headphones off, surprise flitting across his face as he smiled.

"Hey," he said, voice warm, "you made it."

"Sorry I'm late," Harry replied, sliding into the seat across from him, "thought I could walk over and underestimated just how many people want to photograph someone mid-sprint."

Zayn chuckled. "You okay?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Better now."

And it was true. Even with everything swirling in his head, sitting across from Zayn felt like a breath of clean air. He watched as Zayn closed his sketchbook gently, tucking the pencil between the pages, giving Harry his full attention.

The conversation started easy—talk of their weekends, how the new design drafts were going, some minor tweaks Harry had been thinking about for one of the jackets. Zayn laughed at Harry's horror at trying to pick an album font ("You'd think it was a life-or-death decision, the way I stress about it"), and Harry felt himself relaxing, even as his chest still hummed with unspoken words.

But this moment—this quiet hour in the sunlight, with the sound of coffee machines in the background and Zayn's laugh dancing in the air—it would have to be enough.

It was all he'd let himself have.

Because Harry Styles wasn't just a man. He was a brand, a face, a public persona—and Zayn Malik, the quiet, thoughtful designer who sketched street corners in cafes and wore his heart in subtle gestures, deserved more than the noise Harry carried with him.

He deserved peace.

And Harry was determined not to take that away from him.