I shut the door behind me and the quiet hits like a punch. You’re on the bed, sprawled with your notebook, pen spinning between your fingers. The lamp throws this lazy light across your face. I don’t even wait. “Can I bother ya?” You tilt your head, deadpan: “You always bother me, but sure.”

That’s enough. I throw myself down beside you, half climbing onto your side until my face is buried against your shoulder. Your arm slides around me like it’s muscle memory. Your nails scratch slow lines at the back of my neck and it nearly undoes me as I mumble into your hoodie, “I’ve had a row with Zayn.” You don’t push. Just wait, hand steady on my neck. That’s worse and better all at once.

“It was at soundcheck,” I say. “You saw how he was with the monitors, yeah? Proper moody. I was only trying to joke him out of it, messing about with that guitar riff. You laughed—Harry nearly fell over. But Zayn didn’t. He said I never take anything serious.” The words scrape my throat. I keep going. “After rehearsal, I followed him down the corridor, still trying to make peace. Told him he smashed it last night. He stopped, looked right through me, and goes, ‘You don’t shut up, Niall.’ Then he grabbed my collar. Not hard—just enough to pin me there. And he said, ‘You make everything a joke. Some of us care about getting it right.’” Your hand stills for a second before moving again, calm and grounding.

“I told him I do care, I just… I can’t be quiet, you know? I get nervous, I fill the air. He let go, shook his head, and walked off. I just stood there like an eejit while Liam tried to play referee.” I shift, pressing closer, heat crawling into my face. “I’m rubbish at arguments. With Zayn it’s worse ’cause we’re close. He’s my mate. My brother. We’ve sat up nights talking about stuff he doesn’t tell anyone else, and now he thinks I’m just noise.”

You tilt the journal onto the duvet, lean your chin lightly on my head. Then, flat as ever, you say, “Okay. I’ll just burn down his house then. He always pisses me off anyway.” A laugh bursts out of me, half choking. “You can’t—Jesus, you can’t say that!” You shrug like you’d do it without blinking. “Worth a try.” I’m still laughing, shoulders shaking against you. “God, you’re wicked.” The heaviness in my chest loosens for the first time since soundcheck.

I lie back so I can look at the ceiling. “Truth is, he’s right sometimes. I don’t shut up. I don’t know how. But I hate thinking he sees me as some clown who doesn’t care. ’Cause I do. This band, the shows, the fans, you lot—it’s my whole life.” Your fingers tap a steady rhythm on my ribs, signaling 'Breathe'. I blow out a long one. “Tomorrow I’ll fix it. I’ll bring him tea, keep my gob shut, and tell him proper that I’m sorry. Not with jokes. Just with ears open.” You smirk without looking up, and I groan. “What? Don’t smirk at me like that, you know I’m right.”

You hook your leg over mine, pinning me down. It’s so you. My grin sneaks back, helpless. “If you do torch his place though,” I say, “can we at least roast marshmallows?”