Halloween in London, and the air’s proper cold , that sharp sort that gets in your chest. We only got back from tour this morning. Last bloody show done, crowd still ringing in my ears, and the lads are all buzzing about having some time off. I should be buzzing too, but all I’ve been thinkin’ about is you. Weeks without you felt like forever. The odd FaceTime, a few messages — not the same. When you turned up at mine earlier, I nearly told everyone to shove the party and stay in instead. Would’ve been worth it.

But no, we’re here, in some fancy club in Mayfair, all candlelight and champagne, half the city dressed as vampires and angels. The boys are around somewhere, drinks in hand, loud as ever. I’ve got you tucked next to me in one of those low booths, lights soft and golden, music heavy enough to shake the tables. And for a bit, I feel alright. Well. Almost.

You’ve got that look, the one that makes my stomach flip before you even do anything. Bit of a smirk, bit of mischief behind it. Then you stand, smooth as ever, heading for the buffet. There’s a chocolate fountain, of course there is. This place screams over the top. You come back with a skewer of strawberries dripping in chocolate, grin on your face. “Didn’t know you were hungry,” I say, leaning back with a smile.

You hand me one. I take a bite — sweet, messy, warm — and you’re watching me like you’re planning something. My fingers brush the still liquid chocolate when I grab another and now they’re covered in chocolate, shiny under the lights. I go to wipe it off but you’re quicker. You take my wrist gently, bring my hand towards your mouth, and before I even process it, your lips are around my fingers. Sucking. Slow. Deliberate. Tongue tracing my skin. You look up at me while you do it and I swear my whole body forgets how to function. Christ.

It’s nothing really, looks innocent enough to anyone else, just you licking chocolate off me. But I know. I know what you’re doing. And you know exactly what it does to me. How it goes straight to my core. My throat goes dry. I can feel my pulse hammering in my neck. Everything’s too warm. The room blurs out — the music, the chatter, all of it. It’s just you and that bloody chocolate and your mouth around my fingers. And my tightening jeans.

Then you pull back, slow, like nothing happened. Sit back in your seat all calm, sip your drink, eyes flickin’ over to me once, twice. You know you’ve got me wrecked. I’m trying to play it cool, shift a bit in my seat, act like I’m focused on whatever Niall’s laughing about across the table, but my mind’s gone. You tilt your head slightly, pretending innocence, and I can’t even look at you properly without grinning. You’re unreal. I lean in, voice low so only you can hear. “You’re playin’ with fire, y’know that?”

You just smile, that quiet, smug little thing that drives me mad. I laugh under my breath, shake my head. You’ve got me wrapped ‘round your finger and you bloody know it. You rest your hand on my thigh — casual, barely there — but it’s enough.

I glance sideways, murmur, “You wait ‘til we get outta here…”