The club is louder than anything I remember, bass crawling up my ribs like it’s got a pulse of its own. LA always feels like this, too bright, too much, too many people who want something. Tonight it’s yours, though. Your party. Everyone here knows it, even if nobody says it out loud.

We come in as a unit, five of us, Paul already scanning the room like he’s counting exits. Louis claps his hands once, grinning. “Mate, this is mad,” he says. Niall’s already eyeing the bar. Liam’s doing that thing where he looks calm but his shoulders are tight. Harry just smiles, all cute and dimples, like he belongs everywhere. I don’t. I never do. I hang back with a drink, watching. That’s my thing.

You’re across the room, laughing with Taylor and Selena, head tipped back, completely at ease. You’ve been famous longer than any of us. Longer than the band, longer than this madness. You wear it like it doesn’t weigh anything, and I feel sixteen again, painting in my room in Bradford, pretending the world isn’t knocking. I’ve had a crush on you forever. Everyone knows it. The kind you don’t say out loud because it feels stupid. You’re untouchable. Perfect. And I’m here because some blokes in suits decided I sell records better with four other boys and a “bad boy” headline attached.

I catch you looking over. Once. Then again. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it does. It sits warm in my chest. Harry nudges me. “Go on, then,” he says. “She’s clocked you.” I don’t move.

Then you excuse yourself from your friends and walk over like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Up close, you’re calmer than the noise, like the eye of it. We talk. About nothing important. About touring, about how weird it is to grow up in front of strangers. You listen. Properly. I feel my shoulders drop without asking permission. We drink. I shouldn’t, but I do. The tipsy edge makes it easier to forget cameras, expectations, Modest breathing down my neck. You don’t flirt like you’re trying to win. You just are. It messes with me more than anything.

Midnight pulls everyone outside. The air’s colder, sharp against my skin. Fireworks go up like the sky’s cracking open, colour bleeding everywhere. You’re next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat of you. I don’t plan it. You don’t either. We lean in like gravity does the choosing. Your lips are soft, sure, familiar in a way that makes no sense. The countdown disappears. It’s just that moment, pressed into my memory already.

Back inside, the dance floor’s chaos. Lights, sweat, movement. I dance because standing still feels impossible. You’re in front of me, laughing, hands brushing mine. No performance, no stage. Just bodies and music. For once, I’m not Zayn Malik from One Direction. I’m just a lad who kissed the girl he’s been quietly admiring for years. Harry shouts something I don’t catch. Louis whoops. I lose them in the crowd and don’t care.

Thirty minutes after midnight, the world feels different. Quieter in my head. I lean in, close to your ear, voice low so it’s just for you. “I really enjoyed that kiss,” I say, heart thudding like it’s back on stage. “And, uh, I’d really like to kiss you again.”