The VMAs smell like hairspray and nerves. I’m parked with the lads near the main stage, black skinnies painted on, half-buttoned black shirt under a black suit jacket, boots up on the rail until Paul shoots me a look. Silver rings tap my knee. Cross chain is cool against my chest even though the room is hot.

Everyone knows we’re a thing. Half of Twitter calls us a power couple; the other half screams “PR.” We met last year at Radio 1, swapped jokes about bad coffee, then swapped numbers. Quiet mornings at mine in Hampstead, you nicking my socks, me burning toast. That’s the stuff that keeps me sane. Not a press release, not a stunt.

The room lights dim. The stage blooms gold. I know your new single is coming, but I’ve only heard a demo—dirty bass, lyrics you mumbled into my hoodie one night then laughed like you were getting away with something. You wouldn’t let me see the performance rehearsal. “Surprise,” you mouthed, all smug. I should’ve known.

You appear in sequins and shadows. The band hits, low and thick. There’s a pole. There’s a chair. The crowd roars; my stomach just drops. You start slow, hips rolling, the smirk I know better than my own signature sliding across your mouth. That’s my warning siren and I still sail straight into it. “Harold,” Louis mutters, elbow in my ribs. “Close your mouth, yeah?” I snap my jaw shut. Doesn’t help. You’re not just singing; you’re telling me a secret in front of thousands. You rake your body down the pole, hair wild, legs like war. When the beat breaks, you straddle the chair and grind like the thing offended you. I feel heat crawl up under my jacket. My tattoos seem to buzz.

Niall lets out a whistle. Zayn smirks over his shoulder. Liam, ever the sensible one, goes, “Breathe, mate.” I try. Doesn’t take. Because you find me. Those eyes—hooked right into mine like there’s a wire between us. Everybody else blurs. It’s you and me and the way your mouth curls when you know you’ve got me. I swear the camera will catch it—the moment my cocky grin shatters and I’m just nineteen and gone. The lyrics aren’t coy. They’re about hunger and hands and being seen, and I know which bits are mine. The chair squeals as you climb it, back arching, head thrown, and my breath stutters. I lean forward, fingers white on the rail. Louis cackles, unhelpful. “Christ, Harry, you’re a headline.”

I want to be cool about it. Womaniser, blah blah. I’m not. I’m your idiot with green eyes, sitting five metres from a live broadcast of how badly I want you. When it ends, the room explodes. You stand there, smiling like sin, chest heaving. You flick one last glance at me—sweetness and victory—and vanish into the wings. My body keeps the echo of you like a song stuck in my teeth. “Go on, then,” Zayn says, shoving my shoulder. “Pretend you’re getting water.”

“I am getting water,” I lie, already up. Paul clocks me, smirks, tilts his head toward backstage. Security parts. The hallway is cooler, quieter, humming with crew radios and rolling cases. I pass posters, a mirror, a tech eating crisps, and my reflection—flushed, curls a mess, suit trying its best. We’re a year in and I still feel like this—first-date electric. We don’t need to prove anything. You share my hoodie, my bed, my leftovers, the silence when the world’s too loud. But you also just put me in the ground with a chair.

I find your door, the star with your name, two bodyguards and a PA outside. They clock me and grin. I knock anyway because manners survived the boyband. “Yeah?” comes from inside, a muffled voice I recognize as your stylist. I slide in when they open. Warm lights, a rack of awards-show dresses, glitter on the rug. You’re at the mirror, half out of the stage fit, cheeks lit, sweat beading like diamonds. You catch me in the glass and that smirk threatens to start a fire in California. I shut the door after your stylist left us alone. My voice comes out lower than I mean, “You tryin’ to finish me off on live telly, love… or you savin’ the rest for me?”