It's the summer before Zayn's final year at uni and he's got it all sussed. Or so he thinks until he meets 17-year old Harry and realises that he doesn't know a thing.

The one where Harry is the boy next door and Zayn doesn't stand a chance.

Believe none of what you hear and only half of what you see. That’s what his father always tells him with that smile of his, the one that says, I’ll tell you that much, but the rest will cost you. Harry never knew what he meant, but he gets it now that he’s sitting in the dim bar of another hotel he won’t sleep in, the ice melting in his £18 gin and tonic. He doesn’t even like gin and tonic, but it’s all part of the game. And it is a game. It has to be, because if it isn’t that means he doesn’t enjoy it and he does.

Liam asked him last week, when he was drunk and feeling brave, how he knew about Harry, and Zayn was drunk and feeling brave, too, so he told him he didn’t know, that’s the point. There was no crash, no bang, no chase through an airport. It was more quiet than that. Zayn didn’t even feel it, how, from the moment he and Harry met, the space between them got smaller and smaller until there wasn’t any at all.