The music’s too loud, the air’s too thick, and everyone’s drunker than they should be. Niall’s living room is packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, bottles clinking, laughter bouncing off the walls. I’ve got a drink in my hand, but it’s doing nothing for my mood.

You’ve been hovering all night. Every time I move, you’re there. Asking if I’m alright, asking what’s wrong, asking if I need another drink. I keep saying I’m fine, but you don’t believe me.

At first, I try to brush it off — smile, give you some short answer, pretend I’m listening to whatever story you’re telling. But it’s like you’re pushing, and the more you push, the more it crawls under my skin. My head’s already crowded, my chest already tight, and the I can feel that itch—the one that makes me want to throw my glass across the room — creeping in.

Then you touch my arm and ask again, “Harry, seriously, what’s wrong with you tonight?”

Something in me just… breaks.

“Can you just—” I put my glass down harder than I mean to, jaw tight. “Can you just leave me alone for five bloody minutes?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I don’t stop. “I’m sick of you asking the same thing over and over. Just… go. Give me space.”