°• 𝙰𝙻𝙱𝚄𝙼 𝙰𝚁𝚃 •°[ 𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 ]

Adore You 🌵 ( pt. 2 )

HARRY

It was much later now.

The lights had dimmed even more, the music pulsed at a lower, deeper rhythm, and the crowd had thinned—some gone home, others tucked into corners nursing the afterglow of the night. I was exhausted. That bone-deep kind of tired that creeps up after a performance and lingers through the parties and praise. But this was my party, and leaving early felt wrong, almost ungrateful. So I stayed. Smiled. Laughed at the right moments. Answered questions. Hugged friends. Let the night carry me where it would.

Still, the crowd had started to close in. The attention that usually felt like oxygen was beginning to smother, and I needed air—something real.

That's what led me upstairs, away from the glittering clamor, to the quiet balcony that overlooked the city. As I stepped through the doorway, I didn't expect anyone else to be there. So when I saw him, it took the breath I'd been so desperate to find.

Zayn.

He was leaning over the balcony railing, his back to me, the city lights painting him in soft amber and blue. His posture was easy, his body swaying just slightly. Alone. I remembered seeing his friend—Naisargi—earlier, her attention slowly drawn to Niall in the corner. It was cute. She'd seemed to know what she was doing, and Zayn... well, he seemed like he'd finally drifted into that blissful quiet that only came after too many drinks and enough space.

I hesitated at the threshold for a second. Then I stepped forward, slowly, the heavy door clicking shut behind me.

"You sure you should be leaning that far out, drunk as you are?" I said lightly, a smile tugging at my lips.

He half-smiled in return, not startled in the slightest. He kept his eyes closed, as if the sound of my voice was expected. Maybe he'd heard the door, or maybe he just knew me well enough by now to sense my presence. "It feels nice," he said softly. "Nights like this make you believe that things you want really could be yours. If you just long for them hard enough."

There was a quiet gravity in the way he said it. He wasn't giddy anymore. The tipsy laughter from earlier at the bar had melted into something stiller, softer. His voice, though slurred slightly, was clearer than it had been all night—measured and thoughtful. The alcohol had stripped away the caution he usually wore like a second skin. I'd never heard him sound so unguarded. So... open.

And yet, his words hit a chord in me. That deep, aching place where all my longing lived.

I used to believe what he said—that wanting something badly enough made it yours. It had carried me through auditions, into stadiums, into a solo career. Longing had once been my fuel. But now? Now I knew better. Longing wasn't enough anymore. Wanting something didn't make it possible. Not for me. Not with the life I lived. Not with the cost of it.

Every decision I made had consequences. Every step came with scrutiny. Every person I got close to was another potential headline, another risk. I didn't just get to want things anymore. I had to weigh them.

And that included him.

Zayn turned his head slightly then, eyes finding mine beneath the glow of the city. He studied me for a moment, then asked, "What's the one thing you long for? Right now. Not career-wise, not something material. But if you weren't Harry Styles, one of the biggest artists in the world—what's one thing you'd want for yourself, in this moment?"

The way he said it—it didn't feel like a drunken question. It felt ancient. Like something he'd been carrying for a while, quietly turning over in his hands, waiting for the right moment to let go of.

And I knew my answer instantly.

He had turned to face me fully by now. Somehow, in the stillness, we had drifted closer. The sounds of the party behind us felt a mile away. All I could feel was his presence—his breath rising and falling in the cold night air, fogging slightly as it met mine. His closeness was magnetic. Dangerous.

My answer came out before I could stop it, brave only because I knew—hoped—he wouldn't remember it by morning. "You," I said, barely louder than the wind.

And then I kissed him.

I half-expected him to freeze. And for a moment, he did—still with surprise. But then, slowly, he leaned into me, arms wrapping around my neck. My hands found his waist, one slipping up to cradle his jaw. He tasted like whiskey and lime and something sweet, something that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with him.

It was dangerous. And it was perfect.

Too perfect.

It all fit too easily—his lips on mine, his fingers tangling in my curls, the way his body leaned into me like we were already familiar. This wasn't just chemistry. This was something worse—something real.

And real was dangerous.

Because I couldn't do this. Not to him. Not to someone who'd never asked to be thrust into my world. Not to someone who deserved to keep his peace and his privacy and his quiet coffee shop mornings.

But I didn't get a chance to pull away.

"Zayn!"

The voice pierced the moment like a siren. We both flinched.

The balcony door opened with a clatter, and Naisargi stepped out, Niall just behind her. I couldn't tell how much they'd seen, but judging by the guilty distance between us—and the stunned look on Zayn's face—it didn't take a genius to guess.

Niall looked mildly amused, wearing the same grin he always did when chaos was unfolding and he wasn't the one responsible. Naisargi, though—her expression was unreadable.

She walked directly to Zayn, eyes on him like she was taking mental inventory. And despite the ache in every part of me, I stepped back. Just slightly. Enough to give her room. Enough to do the right thing.

She took Zayn's hand gently, like she'd done it a thousand times. Then looked at me.

"We'll be leaving now," she said evenly. "Thank you for the party, Harry."

As she turned to go, something inside me couldn't let her leave without saying one more thing. I reached out, lightly touching her arm. "Please," I said quietly, "don't tell him about this."

Her gaze softened, and for a second she looked younger than before. Then older. Like someone who understood too much.

"He thinks whatever he's feeling is just leftover childhood obsession," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I've known him long enough to know he's in love with you."

The words hit like a stone to the chest.

She continued, eyes steady. "I don't know what this was—what it meant for you—but something about it feels like it'll hurt him. So don't worry. He won't remember any of it."

And with that, she led him inside. Niall gave me a long, unreadable look before following.

I stood there alone, the door swinging shut behind them. My lips still tingled from the kiss. My chest felt hollowed out.

He loved me.

And I couldn't do a damn thing about it.