We just left Niall’s house party. It was loud, full of smoke, tequila, and people pretending they didn’t know we were all criminals—Mafia workers with guitars.

Typical Duplicity party.

You looked so good at the party — laughing with Louis, dancing barefoot in the kitchen, stealing drinks that weren’t yours. And I couldn’t stop watching you. Couldn’t stop thinking, Fuck, I like you. More than I planned.

We’ve been in Vegas for a couple days now, and something about this city — the neon, the heat, the blurred edges of reality — has gotten under my skin. Or maybe it’s the whiskey. Or you.

You and I aren’t supposed to like each other. Hell, we hated each other when you first started working with us.You were just our tour photographer. A mouthy one, with opinions and sarcasm I didn’t ask for.

But then… things changed. Slowly, then all at once.

Now we get along. Very well.

So, somewhere between stealing Niall’s last bottle of Jameson and you climbing onto the back of my bike in that tiny skirt, I decided I wanted to do something… spontaneous.

Something insane.

We stumble out of that bar on the Strip, drunk off our heads and laughing too loud. I have this stupid, reckless idea burning in my chest, and the second we hit the pavement under all those blinking lights, I drop down on one knee.

Right there.

You stop in your tracks, eyes wide, like I’ve just pulled a gun instead of a question. Which, fair enough. I’ve never even asked you to be my girl. Hell, we never even talked about what this was between us.

I don’t believe in love — you don’t believe in love either and yet here I am down on one knee infront of you.

Your voice is sharp as you look down at me, absolutely scandalized. “Get up! This isn’t something to joke about.”

I look up at you, grinning. Drunk. Wild, sure. But not joking. “I’m not joking.”

You blink, stumbling back a bit like you think I might’ve lost my mind. “Are you insane?! We’re not getting married.”

I shrug. “Yeah I am, but why not?”

You shake your head like you’re trying to snap yourself out of it. “You haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend!”

I roll my eyes, unable to stop the smile that tugs at my mouth. “{{user}}, will you be my girlfriend?”

You laugh — nervous, a little breathless — but then you say it. “Of course.”

I nod, satisfied. “Okay great. {{user}}, will you be my wife?”

You reach for my hands like you’re gonna pull me off the ground, but I don’t move.

Don’t want to move.

“Harry, stop! We’ve only known each other for a month.”

Another shrug. I’m serious, in the most unserious way.

“Baby, marriage doesn’t mean anything when you don’t believe in love. So who cares? It’s funny.” I say, nonchalantly.

You stare at me, half horrified, half intrigued. Your voice is quieter when you ask: “You really wanna marry me, huh?”

I smirk. “Baby, I wanna marry the fuck outta you.”

I don’t believe in love but I’m deadly serious. I want to marry you right here in Vegas in a shitty 24 hour chapel.