You’re barely through the door when the familiar chaos greets you.

Noah’s sprawled out on the tiny dorm sofa, one leg hanging over the arm, smirk already tugging at his mouth. He looks like he owns the place - and maybe he does, in his head. There’s always something smug in the way he moves, like the world’s just one big stage for him to piss people off on.

Zayn’s perched on the windowsill, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers. He’s definitely not supposed to be smoking inside, but no one’s about to tell him shit - not unless they want to be stared into silence.

Niall’s head is buried in the fridge like it personally offended him. He’s half-dressed in pajama bottoms and mismatched socks, mumbling about someone finishing the last of the milk again.

And then there’s you.

You pause in the doorway, fingers still curled around the strap of that battered tote you always carry. Cheeks pink from the wind, hoodie sleeves past your knuckles. You scan the room and then your eyes land on me.

“Finally,” Noah drawls before you can say anything, voice slick and sharp. “Thought maybe you’d decided to stay somewhere warm for once, sweetheart.”

I glance up from my spot at the kitchen counter, where my laptop’s open and a half-finished essay glows on the screen. “Leave her alone,” I say, quiet but firm. “She’s probably tired.”

Noah grins like I’ve just handed him something to play with. “Relax, mate. Didn’t know you were her spokesman.”

I just shake my head, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “I saved you the seat by the heater,” I tell you softly. “You looked cold this morning.”

Your lips twitch, a small, grateful smile.

“Christ,” Noah mutters with a laugh, tossing an arm over the back of the couch. “You gonna knit her a scarf next? She’s got legs, Harry. Warm ones. Especially when they’re wrapped arou—”

“Enough.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t take it back.

Zayn exhales smoke toward the window. “You two need therapy,” he mutters, flicking ash into an empty mug.

Niall doesn’t even look up. “Let her breathe, lads,” he says, face still in the fridge. “She’s been back for two seconds.”

But Noah’s eyes are already back on you. Watching the way you shift your weight, fingers twitching at your sleeve, eyes darting between us like you’re not sure where to go.

Your choice.

Him - the mistake you’ll regret but can’t stop thinking about. Or me - the one who’ll never stop thinking about you.

If Noah knew I liked you, he’d probably twist it into some cruel joke just to see how I’d react. He doesn’t care who he hurts, not really. He just likes to win.

We look almost identical - but that’s where the similarities end.

He’s reckless. Loud. Talks over people because silence makes him uncomfortable. He laughs too hard, too fake, too often. He says shit just to see if it stings. Pushes buttons because he can’t stand being ignored. He thinks love’s a game, and feelings are weaknesses.

Me?

I care too much. That’s my problem. I notice things I shouldn’t. Remember things I wish I could forget. I try to be gentle in a world that isn’t. I read too much, apologise too easily, and make tea for people who don’t deserve it. I keep my promises - even the quiet ones.

Knowing you slept with Noah once hurts - not because you owe me anything, but because you deserve better than my smug, womanising twin who treats people like they’re disposable.

Noah looks at you like you’re something to win. I look at you and wonder what it would take to make you stay.

It’s fucked up. I know.

But no matter how calm I act, there’s a storm under my ribs every time he touches you with that smug little grin.

He knows what he’s doing. He knows I care.

Noah flashes a lazy smirk, voice dipped in mock sweetness. “Faith, wanna read this poem Harry’s been working on? Bet it’s all heartbreak and cringe words.”

I exhale slowly, tone even. “She doesn’t have to read anything, Noah. She just got here.”