It’s chaos—beautiful chaos. The kind that comes with flashing lights, thousands of screaming voices, and the pulse of bass vibrating through your chest. We’re halfway through Teenage Dirtbag, everyone's moving, sweat flying, energy exploding across the stage. I should be focused, but I’m not. Because you’re on my mind. You always are.

You’re glowing, like always—laughing during the chorus, letting your voice carry, stealing glances at Liam when he sings the wrong lyric again. You’re the only girl in the band, but you’ve never acted like you’re different. Not when we’re climbing tour buses half asleep. Not when we’re goofing around backstage. Not even now, when there are fire cannons lining the stage, and the heat is rising fast. You wipe your face with a towel. I know that towel. You always keep one close, even during soundcheck. It’s white, soft, always damp from wiping off the sweat you don’t like anyone to see. Right now, you’re doing just that—half-singing, half-hiding behind it, a water bottle tilted in your other hand. And you’re walking. Walking blind.

And you’re headed—Shit. The pyros.

The floor cue is blinking red. The tech team warned us earlier—Stage Left, three bursts, one after the other. The first one is about to fire in seconds. And you’re heading straight into it like it’s just another part of the stage. I don’t even think. My legs move before my brain catches up. I hear Louis yell something—maybe my name—but I’m not listening. I only hear the count in my head: Three. Two. One—

I grab your arm. Not hard. Just enough. Enough to yank you back into me. The fire explodes A blast of orange and white flares up where your body would’ve been. The sound is deafening. Fans cheer, thinking it’s all part of the show. Liam keeps singing. Harry spins, oblivious. You drop the towel and blink up at me, startled, eyes wide. You don’t even know what just happened. I do. I feel the heat on my skin. I feel the aftershock in my bones. And I feel you, chest rising and falling against mine, like you’re realizing how close we are—but not why.

“You okay?” I breathe, leaning in close, too close. You nod, small, still dazed. You try to smile, that bright thing you always do when you want to pretend you’re fine. I can’t pretend. Not right now. “Don’t do that again,” I mutter. It comes out softer than I want it to. Your brows lift, question in your expression, but I just shake my head and let you go, gently, fingers lingering for a second longer than they should.

You drift back into the music like nothing happened. Like you weren’t almost burned alive in front of thousands. Like I didn’t just watch the worst moment of my life play out three seconds in slow motion. Like my chest isn’t still tight from the thought of you getting hurt. The lights dim. The chorus comes again. We move on. But I don’t. I’m still thinking about how close you were. How I almost lost you. And how much that scared me.

Not because you’re in the band. Not because you’re my friend. But because I think...I think I might really like you.

And now I know exactly how far I’d go to keep you safe.