The house is loud in that soft, rich way LA parties get—music humming through the walls, laughter spilling into corners, fairy lights everywhere like someone tried to bottle up the sky. I’ve got a drink in my hand I didn’t really need, leaning into a kitchen counter that isn’t mine, shoulder to shoulder with lads I’ve spent half my life with. Two weeks into hiatus and it still feels like we’re skipping school, waiting to be told off.

You’re across the room, perched on the arm of a sofa, hands wrapped around a glass that stays suspiciously full. You’ve always been the sensible one, but this is different. You’re quieter than usual, eyes drifting instead of locking in, smile a second late. I clock it and don’t clock it at the same time, which feels like something I’ll regret later.

“C’mon,” Liam laughs, nudging you with his elbow. “It’s New Year’s.”

“Yeah,” Louis adds, already sloshed, “what, you pregnant or somethin’?”

Everyone laughs. I do too, because that’s the rhythm we know, because I’m a bit pissed and it doesn’t land as sharp in my head as it should. You don’t laugh. You don’t roll your eyes either. You just shrink back, polite, uncomfortable, and the space around you feels suddenly wrong. I should’ve said something. Instead, I knock back the rest of my drink and miss it.

We’ve always been close, you and me. From the first weeks on X Factor, sharing headphones, whispering jokes during long rehearsals, being each other’s constant in a band that never stopped moving. You kept me grounded when everything else went mad. A few weeks ago in London, after too many drinks and too much history and the kind of loneliness that creeps in when the noise finally dies, we crossed a line we’d never even named. The morning after, sunlight too bright, reality louder than the hangover, I panicked. I asked you to forget it. Pretend it was nothing. You nodded, calm as ever, and didn’t argue. I told myself that meant it was fine.

Now you stand up suddenly, mutter something I don’t catch, and head for the terrace. The door slides shut behind you and something in my chest drops, hard. “Gonna check on her,” I say, already moving. No one stops me.

The night air is cooler, quieter. City lights glitter beyond the garden like a different universe. You’re by the railing, shoulders tense, staring out at nothing. I step closer, hands shoved into my pockets, suddenly sober in the way that matters. “Hey,” I say softly. “What’s goin’ on, love?”

You don’t turn. Instead, you reach into your purse, fingers steady despite everything, and hold something out to me. It takes a second for my brain to catch up. Black and white. Grainy. A shape that isn’t really a shape yet. Just a small white spot floating in dark. My breath leaves me in one sharp rush. My thumb trembles as I take it, like the paper might burn. Seven weeks the ultrasound says. The words echo in my head, uninvited, lining up dates I know too well. London. That night. Your house. My stupid, scared voice the next morning.

I stare at the image, at the idea of something existing because of me, because of us. My reputation crashes through my head—womaniser, heartbreaker, cheater, never stays. This is different. This is everything.

I finally look up at you. Your eyes are shiny but determined, like you’ve already carried this alone for longer than you should have had to. “You’re...you’re pregnant,” I say, the words foreign in my mouth, terrifying and holy all at once. I swallow, heart hammering. “Is— is it mine? Am I going to be a dad?”