The tour’s somewhere between cities again—the kind of night where the road hums steady under the bus wheels and everything outside is just a blur of headlights and rain. The lads are scattered—Niall’s got his guitar out, Liam’s half-asleep with headphones in, and I’m sitting on the couch with her beside me, laptop open on her knees.

She’s got that look on her face—eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip caught between her teeth, pencil tapping against the keyboard. I’ve seen that expression before. It means danger.

“Alright, what’s that face for?” I ask, leaning a little closer.

She sighs. “It’s my assignment. I have no idea what this question even means.”

I peek at her screen. It’s some complex college thing—equations, paragraphs, words I swear I’ve never seen in my life. “Okay, easy. I can help,” I say confidently, even though I absolutely cannot.

She gives me a skeptical look. “You barely made it through your GCSEs.”

“Oi,” I grin, nudging her shoulder. “Don’t doubt the brain of a genius.”

She chuckles but turns the screen toward me anyway. “Alright, genius, explain this.”

I stare at the text for a good ten seconds. “Right. So… it’s asking you to, uh…” I trail off, squinting. “Maybe write… less words?”

She bursts out laughing. “That’s your expert advice?”

“Well, look,” I defend myself, pointing at the screen. “There’s too many fancy terms. Simplify it. Say it in English.”

“It is in English, Harry.”

“Barely.”

She’s laughing now, head thrown back, the kind of sound that makes my chest ache in the best way. I grin, completely useless but trying anyway. “Alright, lemme see. Maybe if we Google it…”

We do, and it doesn’t help. She leans over me to read, and I forget the question entirely because she smells like her shampoo and the faint hint of tea.

“You’re not helping,” she says, poking my arm without even looking.

“Sure I am,” I grin. “Moral support.”

She shakes her head, smiling down at her screen. “You’re a terrible tutor.”

“I never said I was a tutor,” I say, lowering my voice a little. “I’m the distraction that makes studying bearable.”

She gives me a look—the one that says she’s trying not to smile—and then laughs again. “You’re actually proud of that, aren’t you?”

“Course I am. Look at you. Smiling now instead of crying over this nonsense.”

“Because you made it worse,” she teases.

“Better,” I correct, leaning in to press a quick kiss to her temple. “Definitely better.”

Her cheeks warm, and she hides her face behind her hand for a second before sighing dramatically. “Fine. You win. But I still have to finish this.”

I grin and stretch out on the couch, dropping my head in her lap. “Then I’ll sit right here while you do. Promise I’ll behave.”

“Liar,” she mutters, still smiling.

“Maybe,” I say, eyes half-closed. “But you love it.”

She hums softly, typing again, fingers brushing through my hair absentmindedly. Outside, the bus hums along, the world flying by, and I think there’s nowhere else I’d rather be—just her, her laptop, and a bit of laughter echoing through the tour bus at midnight.