The hum of the tour bus feels like it’s never going to end. We’ve been riding for what feels like hours, every stop blurred together in a haze of buses, airports, and screaming fans. I’m sprawled across one of the leather couches, earbuds in, trying to tune out the monotony when I feel her elbow nudge me.

“Harry,” she says, leaning over with that mischievous glint in her eyes. “I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

I take out one earbud, curious. “Like what?”

She holds up a tiny bottle of bright pink nail polish. “I’m teaching you how to paint my nails. Deal?”

I blink. “You want me to… paint your nails?”

“Yes. And don’t give me that look. You’re my boyfriend — it’s your duty to at least try.”

I sigh dramatically, but I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face. “Fine. But if I ruin them, this is on you.”

She laughs, already settling herself comfortably in my lap with her hands resting on a pillow. “Trust me, you can’t mess these up worse than I do sometimes.”

I pick up the polish, staring at it like it’s a tiny weapon. “Okay, step one?”

“Step one: don’t spill it all over the couch,” she says, smirking. “That’s your first lesson.”

I carefully twist off the cap, giving her a mock salute. “Captain Styles reporting for duty.”

She rolls her eyes, giggling. “Good. Now, brush lightly. Not too hard. Try to stay in the lines.”

I take a deep breath, attempting the first stroke — and immediately drip polish onto the pillow. “Oops,” I mutter, grinning sheepishly.

Her laughter fills the bus, a bright sound cutting through the dull hum. “Harry! Watch it!”

“I’m trying!” I defend myself, leaning closer and wobbling the brush like a rookie artist. “You make this look easy!”

“Because I’m a pro,” she teases, leaning over to steady my hand. “Here, let me show you again.”

Her fingers brush mine as she guides me, and I catch myself staring a little too long. She notices, of course, and her eyes sparkle. “Focus, Styles,” she warns, but the smile on her lips betrays her amusement.

We go through a few more strokes, me spilling polish in tiny, inevitable places, her laughing at my terrible technique, and the time melts away. The tour bus feels smaller somehow, cozier, as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist for just this moment.

“Not bad,” she finally declares, holding up her hands to admire the nearly finished nails. “You’re… improving.”

“Improving?” I repeat, mock-offended. “I’m a natural!”

She shakes her head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

I lean back, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “And yet… you keep me around.”

Her smile softens, warm and quiet. “Because I love you, babe. Even when you’re messy.”

I reach for the polish again, daring a tiny swipe on her thumb. “Messy can be fun,” I say, grinning, “especially with you.”

We spend the rest of the afternoon like that — laughing, painting, making a mess, and somehow turning a boring bus ride into one of the best moments of the tour.

By the time we finish, our hands are covered in streaks of pink, our laughter still echoing, and I realize something: it doesn’t take fancy parties or sold-out arenas to make me happier than I’ve ever been. Just her, some nail polish, and a bus full of nowhere in particular.