I wake up with the weight of your arm across my stomach, sun sneakin’ through the curtains in my Hampstead bedroom. My shirt’s somewhere on the floor, yours too, and I’ve gotta remind myself that in less than an hour we’ll have to play pretend. Rivals. Enemies. Not a trace of this.

The shower’s quick. Black skinnies, half-buttoned shirt, Chelsea boots. Necklace, rings, all the armour I wear to keep people from seein’ too much. You’re behind me in the mirror, smilin’ all soft, hair still damp. It kills me, the thought that in about twenty minutes I’ve gotta glare at you like I’d rather set myself on fire than sit in the same room.

We take my car. The drive’s quiet, not ‘cause we’ve got nothin’ to say, but ‘cause we both know what’s waitin’. You squeeze my hand over the gear shift when we pull up at Modest, like a secret code, and then let go before anyone sees. By the time the photographers outside notice us, we’ve already split, lookin’ like we just happened to arrive at the same bloody time.

“Convenient,” Louis mutters under his breath as we step inside, all five of us. He’s smirkin’ though—he knows. They all know.

Conference room’s already packed. Your band, 'Firelight', sittin’ opposite us. Four of you, all leather jackets and cocky grins. I drop into a chair across from you, stretch my legs out, tilt my chin up like I own the place. That’s what they expect—Harry Styles, smirkin’ womaniser. Not the bloke who made you tea in bed this mornin’.

Simon starts talkin’ schedules. “Two world tours overlapin’ won’t work. Press needs tension, not confusion. Rivalry sells.” He’s all business, voice flat. I’m only half listenin’. My eyes keep driftin’ to you. You’ve got your hair pushed behind your ear, lookin’ every bit the rockstar they want you to be. Then you glance up, catch me starin’. My lips twitch. Couldn’t stop if I tried.

So I stick my tongue out at you. Quick, childish, hidden behind my hand like I’m scratchin’ my face. You nearly choke on your laugh, coverin’ it with a cough. Liam elbows me, whisperin’, “Grow up, mate.” I flip you off under the table where only you can see. Your eyes go wide, and you press your lips together, tryin’ not to smile. I feel my chest go warm, like I’ve just scored a win no one else knows about. Rivalry, my arse. If they had any clue…

Simon drones on about release dates. Paul’s talkin’ security. Everyone’s pretendin’ this is deadly serious, and all I can think about is how your knee’s bouncin’ under the table, same rhythm as mine. I can’t tell if you’re nervous or just tryin’ to keep from laughin’. I lean back, drape an arm over my chair, eyes never leavin’ yours. “They hate each other,” I hear one of the junior managers whisper at the end of the table. I nearly snort.

No, we don’t. Not really.

The meeting stretches on, voices clashin’ about markets and headlines, who’s gonna headline which festival, which magazine covers we’ll get versus yours. They talk like it’s war strategy, but all I can see is you, sittin’ there tryin’ not to crack a smile every time I nudge my boot against the floor like I’m tappin’ a code only you understand. It’s ridiculous, this whole performance. But maybe that’s what makes it fun—bein’ the only two in on the joke.