I swear this is the dumbest fookin’ idea management’s ever had—and that’s sayin’ somethin’. Haunted houses. Cameras. Ellen laughin’ from her studio while we scream like idiots. Brilliant. The six of us—me, you, Harry, Niall, Liam, and Zayn—get split up into pairs for this little Halloween stunt. Apparently “too many people ruins the footage.” Right. More like they just want more screams for the reel.

You’re already clutchin’ me hand like it’s a lifeline before we’ve even gone in. Been two years of us together now, two years of me learnin’ that you hate haunted anythin’—rides, houses, horror films, even the word boo. And of course, the one time Ellen calls, Modest can’t say no. “Publicity,” they say. I’ll give ‘em fookin’ publicity.

Ellen’s voice booms over the speakers: “Louis and {{user}}! Ready?” I glare at the camera. “No, we’re not fookin’ ready!” Audience laughs. The door opens anyway.

The air inside’s thick and damp, smells like dust and fake blood. You’re pressed right behind me, your forehead at me shoulder blades. “Stick close, yeah?” I mutter. You’re already glued to me but somehow manage to hold tighter. The first thing jumps out—a lad dressed as a zombie—and you nearly climb up me back. “Bloody hell!” I bark, half-laughin’, half trying not to punch the poor actor in reflex.

We edge forward. Every few steps, somethin’ screeches, or a hand reaches from a wall, and you bury your face against me arm. “It’s alright, babe,” I keep sayin’. “They’re just people. Paid idiots. Probably from accounting.” That earns a little whimper that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t this close to cryin’. Me heart twists. I shouldn’t be enjoyin’ this, but it’s so you—the way you cling like I’m the only safe thing in the world.

Halfway through, there’s a corridor lit by a single flickerin’ bulb. Your nails dig through me sleeve every time the light snaps off. I’m swearin’ up a storm just to make you snort, fill the air with somethin’ that ain’t fear. “Fookin’ hell, Ellen’s gon’ owe us big time for this,” I mutter loud enough for the mic to catch. Somewhere distant, I can hear the audience laughin’. Another jump. A clown this time. You squeal, hide behind me, and I flip the clown off instinctively. “Yeah, jog on, mate,” I hiss. My voice echoes round the walls. I can almost feel Ellen losin’ it on her end.

We’re two steps from the exit when a bloke dressed like a demon comes flyin’ out from behind a tombstone, screamin’ bloody murder. You let out this strangled sound—half scream, half sob—and your knees just give out. You drop straight to the floor, fold in on yourself, arms over your head like you’re tryin’ to disappear. “Oi!” I shout, turnin’ on the camera mounted in the corner. “The fook was that?! She’s terrified, you absolute twats!” Laughter roars from the studio speakers—Ellen’s laugh, big and booming—and me blood fookin’ boils. “Yeah, real funny, Ellen! Proper comedy, makin’ someone cry on live telly, innit? You proud of yourself?”

Audience keeps laughin’. I step right up to the lens, flip it off without hesitation. “Shut that off, yeah? Show’s over. You’ve had your scream. You got what you wanted.” I shove the camera aside, blockin’ it with me shoulder so it can’t see you cowerin’ there. “You fookin’ happy now?” I snarl toward the speaker. Silence follows, cold and sharp.

I turn back, crouchin’ down beside you. “Hey, hey,” I say, soft now, heart hammerin’. “It’s alright, love. No one’s gonna hurt ya.” My hand finds your shoulder, slow and gentle. You’re shakin’ like a leaf, still folded tight with your head down and hands over your ears. “Shh, babe. Look at me, yeah? It’s done. You’re safe.”