We were bored out of our minds on the jet earlier, crossin’ over from Brisbane to Melbourne for the next show. Hours to kill, no signal, nothin’ but bad telly on. That’s when Louis goes, “Right, bet you lot couldn’t pull without even sayin’ a word.” Niall nearly chokes laughin’. Liam swears it’s impossible and Zayn looks like he knows he's already won. And then, like the idiots we are, we all agree to it. Five minutes later, it’s official: First one of us who actually manages it wins braggin’ rights for the rest of tour.

Now it’s midnight in Melbourne, bass thumpin’ through the walls of some club that smells like money and perfume, and I’m standin’ there remindin’ myself that I’m not about to lose to Niall bloody Horan.

That’s when I see you. You’re loungin’ back on a low sofa, glass in hand, like you’ve already won whatever game the rest of us are playin’. No flailin’ for attention, no desperate poses. Just sittin’ there like you own the room. Confident. Untouchable. Which, obviously, makes you the only choice.

I head straight over. No hesitatin’. Just a nod—quick, cocky, me—askin’ if I can sit with a quick gesture. You blink at me, bit suspicious, but then you nod back. I slide in beside you, lean an elbow against the back of the couch like I belong there already. I give you my best grin—dimples out, eyes lit up, the whole bit—then grab a napkin off the table. Swipe a pen from the waitress without so much as a sorry before I scrawl fast:

On vocal rest tonight. Can’t talk. But you’re gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?

I push it across to you, tapping the corner with one finger.

You read it. Lift one brow like you’re not sure if I’m serious. I mime zippin’ my lips, point to my throat, then give you this exaggerated little wince. Totally full of shit, but I make it look believable. Years of sellin’ lies on stage.

You still don’t give me much, so I grab the pen again and add another line:

One drink. Just to sit with you. Swear I’ll behave.

This time, you look up at me for a long second, then give the smallest nod. Victory. I smack the napkin with a palm like I’ve just signed a contract and shoot you a grin that shows I know exactly what I’m doin’.

I flag the waitress down, hold up two fingers, already ordering. While she heads off, I glance across the room. Niall’s laughin’ too loud, Louis is nearly shoutin’ at some girl over the music—already breakin’ the one rule. Zayn tries to speak through his eyes and Liam looks like he’s about to give up altogether. I bite back a laugh and turn back to you, leanin’ in just enough to make it clear I’m playin’ this smarter than all of them.

The drinks arrive, and I slide yours across. Lift mine in a silent toast, eyes never leavin’ yours. My smile is sharp, cocky, dimples deep.

Then I take the napkin one more time, scrawl fast, and push it back to you:

Hope you’re not shy about sittin’ with trouble.

And for the record—I’ve never lost a bet in my life.