°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Adore You 🌵

HARRY

Walk in your rainbow paradise
Strawberry lipstick state of mind
I get so lost inside your eyes
Would you believe it?

You don't have to say you love me
You don't have to say nothing
You don't have to say you're mine

Honey
I'd walk through fire for you
Just let me adore you
Oh, honey
I'd walk through fire for you
Just let me adore you
Like it's the only thing I'll ever do

The album was finally out.

After months of long nights in the studio, endless decisions over lyrics, mixes, and visuals, after weeks of rehearsals and nerves and the kind of pressure that never fully goes away—it was here. Released. Breathing in the world. And from what I'd heard so far, people seemed to be loving it.

Which still felt surreal.

This year, just like the last, I decided to celebrate with a One Night Only performance. I loved those nights—stripped down, intimate in a way arena tours couldn't quite replicate. It was a thank-you to everyone who stuck with me, and a reminder to myself that I'd made it here, somehow. From five boys on a stage who barely knew each other, to this: my own music, my own voice, my own night.

The concert had ended hours ago, but the buzz was still humming through my veins. My ears still rang with the echo of the final applause, and even as I stood in the center of a room full of laughter, chatter, and pulsing basslines, my heart was still somewhere on that stage.

I was at the afterparty now, the one my team had been kind enough to organize. The space was a blend of low lighting, exposed brick, and velvet accents—very us, very curated. But even in all its beauty, the party blurred a little around the edges. That post-show come-down had begun to creep in. I could feel it settling into my chest, turning the elation into something slower, more reflective.

And then I saw him.

Zayn.

He was near the bar, deep in a conversation—or what passed for one at his current level of intoxication—with a girl who seemed to be propping him up as much as engaging with him. I recognized the curls from a distance, the posture, the laugh that burst from him loud and open. He looked radiant in a chaotic, tipsy way. His cheeks flushed, head thrown back, and eyes sparkling in the haze of drink and joy. It made something twist inside me. Something warm. And then—something wistful.

I hadn't gotten much of a chance to see him before the show. Just a fleeting moment backstage, where he'd found me in the hall, offered a soft smile, and said, "You're going to be great." His voice had been gentle, grounding. I'd wanted to say something more than just "Thank you," but someone had pulled me away before I could.

Now, watching him from across the room, I realized I didn't know when I'd see him again. The album was out. The visuals were done. The campaign was mostly behind us. Of course, I'd made sure he and the rest of the design team got all-access passes to any show they wanted—but that didn't guarantee anything. People drift. Lives move on. And the idea that he might quietly slip out of mine made my throat tighten.

I moved toward him before I could second-guess myself.

The closer I got, the more I realized just how drunk he was. His friend—slight, composed, with an amused but patient look on her face—was keeping him from tipping straight off the barstool. Zayn was laughing hysterically at something, probably nothing at all, and watching him laugh like that—uninhibited, unguarded—was enough to make me smile despite myself.