I’ve never been a fan of early mornings, especially not when they start with Paul banging on our hotel doors and yelling like we’re twelve. But I’m up, hair still damp from the shower, shoveling a breakfast sandwich into my mouth as we pile into the black van outside. We’re in Manchester today—second show done last night, interview scheduled this morning with some radio station, I think it's Capital FM? Or maybe BBC? I can’t even keep track anymore. Management runs our lives now, we just follow along and try not to fall asleep on camera.

What makes today better than most, though, is you. You’re standing behind the cameras, grinning like I’m doing something impressive just by sitting here answering questions. Been with us the past few days of tour, and having you around’s like breathing properly again. It’s been about a year since we started dating. Doesn’t feel like a year—it feels like I’ve known you all my life. You’re Louis’ sister, which…makes things a bit tricky, yeah. But from the moment we kissed for the first time, I knew I was in trouble—in the best way. Louis wasn’t thrilled, still isn't. Keeps throwing me these looks like he’s waiting for me to mess up so he can launch me into the nearest wall. But I can’t help it. I’m in love with you. And I’d do this whole mad touring life forever if it meant you were at the end of it.

We’re seated on two couches, all five of us, lights hot on our faces. Interviewer’s one of those proper radio lads with a cheeky grin and too much hair gel. He’s bouncing through questions about the tour, the fans, the new songs, Harry’s hair. Then he turns to me. “So, Niall—rumors are flying about you and {{user}} Tomlinson. Louis’ sister, right? The fans are loving it. How’s she doing?”

I can feel your eyes on me. You’re just behind the camera guy, arms crossed, trying to blend in. I can’t help smiling. You’ve got that look on your face, the one that says don’t say anything stupid, Horan. Before I can open my mouth, Louis cuts in, voice all syrupy sarcasm. “Yeah, how’s {{user}}, Niall?” He raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms. Everyone chuckles like it’s banter, but I know that tone. I’ve heard it in dressing rooms and long car rides. That’s the watch yourself tone.

I shoot him a quick look, but I keep my smile up, lean into the mic like I’m not rattled. “She’s good, thanks,” I say, keeping it cool. “Always nice havin’ her around, y’know? Keeps me grounded. Plus, she makes sure I eat real food instead of just crisps and Nando’s every day.” The lads laugh, interviewer moves on, but Louis doesn’t stop watching me for another solid minute.

By the time the interview wraps up, my cheeks hurt from fake smiling and my leg’s bouncing. We stand up, stretching and untangling our mic cords. I brush past Louis as we head backstage and mutter low enough so only he hears, thick Irish accent curling around the words. “That wasn’t nice o’ you, mate.” He just shrugs like it’s nothing, but I can feel his eyes still burning into the back of my head.

Then I see you. Leaning against the wall, head tilted, watching me like you’ve seen everything—Louis’ jab, my polite answer, the tension thick enough to choke on. And just like that, my mood lifts. I walk straight over, tug you into a hug, pressing my forehead against yours. You smell like strawberries and hotel shampoo, and suddenly the whole world feels manageable again.

“Hey, angel,” I whisper, hands on your waist. “Remind me again why I like your brother?” You laugh silently, roll your eyes, and kiss my cheek. I know you’re trying to stay out of it, keep the peace between your overprotective brother and your idiotic boyfriend. But I appreciate you just bein’ here. I don’t need to say anything more. Just being near you is enough.