Chapter Text
Who knew a giant steel arch could be so aesthetically appealing up close? It was so tall and—well—metal. A wonder, really, how it didn’t topple straight into the Mississippi River under its own weight.
Harry found the thought ridiculous enough that he actually stepped back, lowering his camera to eye the curve from another angle before lifting it again. He snapped shot after shot of the silver sweep rising out of the snowy ground, the sky fading to a faint pink behind it. Winter light gleamed off the metal, catching in a way that made it look unreal—too polished, too perfect, like it had been dropped here from some other world.
He checked the screen, lips quirking when he saw the frame: the Arch stretched clean against the skyline, the river winding below, tiny bundled-up figures milling at the base like ants. A tourist cliché, maybe, but Harry didn’t delete it. It felt right.
He was a tourist. A true one, for once, in the big city of St. Louis—a welcome change from the pressure of being London’s newest rising star. Not that “pressure” was bad. Harry loved the work, the stage, the crowds. But he was still a small-town lad from Cheshire at heart, and fame had turned “popping out for milk” into a potential security risk.
London was brilliant, but sometimes he missed being invisible. The quiet anonymity of home. The way people waved because they knew you, not because they’d seen you on telly.
Now, people shouted his name across streets. He still hadn’t gotten used to it. He’d never been popular growing up—just a lanky kid who wouldn’t shut up about music. His devotion paid off, sure, but lately, it was hard to remember how to just be.
He wasn’t running away. He told himself that. He just needed a pause. To breathe. To exist somewhere no one knew his name.
So that’s how he ended up in St. Louis, Missouri, the week of Christmas.
Well—sort of.
Two weeks after finishing his London and Ireland tour, his manager had confirmed three blessed months off. Before anyone could talk him out of it, he’d booked a flight across the Atlantic.
You’re probably wondering: Why St. Louis? Why not L.A. or somewhere glamorous?
Simple. The Arch. And, according to Ed Sheeran, toasted ravioli.
Harry had gotten a text from Ed at nearly midnight asking, You ever had toasted ravioli?
He hadn’t. Which prompted a FaceTime call in which Ed proudly displayed the dish like a newborn child.
“Mate, you have to try it,” Ed said, mid-bite. “Only in St. Louis.”
So naturally, Harry decided he’d go. For the ravioli. And the Arch. And maybe—to quietly steal St. Louis’s recipe and dominate the U.K. snack scene.
The plan had sounded charmingly spontaneous. Three days in, it felt more like a cry for help.
He’d already walked to Imo’s twice. The Arch had lost some of its sparkle when it was the only thing visible from his Hilton suite window.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, bored out of his mind. Spiraling, honestly. When it rang, he nearly wept with relief.
“Ed,” he said, answering mid-sigh, “what else is there to do in St. Louis besides eat cracker pizza and stare at the Arch?”
“Hello, mate. I’m great, thanks for asking. The baby’s good.”
Harry groaned. “Ed, seriously. I’m dying here. I thought taking a solo trip would be great, but I didn’t think about the alone part. Empty hotel, seven thousand kilometers from home, no one to talk to—bit of a flaw in the plan.”
“That’s the fun of it,” Ed countered. “Their pubs are great! Go out somewhere, meet people, find a hot chick—or bloke—and get laid. Enjoy yourself.”
Harry scowled at the phone. “Brilliant advice from a man with a wife and a baby.”
Ed just laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re not gonna meet anyone. Go chat up an elderly person, you’re good at that.”
Harry hung up on his laughter, still scowling. Easy for Ed to say. Ed had a family. Harry had a mini fridge with overpriced Pringles and a view of the Arch.
Still, the idea stuck. A bar. People. Noise. Anything other than the silence.
So that’s how he ended up at O’Malley’s, three blocks from the hotel, nursing a beer that tasted suspiciously like tap water and trying not to look like a British pop star hiding in Missouri.
The place was loud, warm, and packed with ugly sweaters and twinkle lights. He should leave. He was halfway to standing when a group burst in, laughing so hard they jostled his chair.
One of them—shorter, sharp jaw, laugh like he was daring the world to tell him no—headed straight toward the back.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his glass. Maybe he’d stay for one more drink.
He tried not to stare, but that laugh lingered, cutting through the noise. It was the kind of sound that cracked open a room. Sobering and intoxicating all at once.
Harry shook his head, downing the last of his beer like it might steady him. Everything felt heightened—the lights, the chatter, the clink of glasses. He needed air. Or the loo.
He shouldered through the crowd toward the hallway lined with neon signs and arrows pointing Restrooms →
And that’s where he bloody met him.
Of all places.