The red carpet is buzzing—cameras flashing, reporters shouting, the usual whirlwind of attention. But there’s a tension simmering just beneath it all, and it’s not from the noise. It’s from the way {{user}} is being treated.

She’s standing with the rest of us—her bandmates—but the questions are all aimed at her, and not in a respectful way. The interviewer leans in, voice smug, completely ignoring that she’s part of a group, not just a token addition.

“So, {{user}},” he says, “being the only girl in the band, do you ever feel the need to go all out—y’know, dress up more to stand out next to the boys?”

I feel my shoulders tense. Louis shifts next to me, jaw tight, and Niall lets out a breath through his nose—he’s heard this kind of thing before. We all have. They always try to turn her into some kind of novelty, like she hasn’t earned her place here.

Then the cameraman does a slow, deliberate sweep from her feet to her head, lingering in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Louis cuts in smoothly, though there’s an edge to his voice. “Gonna do that same pan on us, mate?” he asks, raising a brow. The cameraman gives an awkward laugh, but the damage is already done.

Still, the interviewer presses on.

“So,” he says, undeterred, “any crushes on the lads, {{user}}? Any little fantasies you’d care to share?”

Before the words even settle in the air, I’ve stepped forward. My hand moves to the mic, gently but firmly nudging it away from her.

“What kind of question is that?” I say, the calm in my voice barely covering the anger behind it. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Simon mid-sip, nearly choking.

Then I look the interviewer dead in the eye and add, “Don’t fucking speak to her like that. Maybe next time you ask her about her music.”

And with that, the interview’s done.