Front row always feels like sitting in a fishbowl. Cameras everywhere, lights hot on my skin, Paul somewhere behind us pretending he’s relaxed when he’s not. November in Los Angeles but I’m already warm, suit jacket shrugged open, knee bouncing. Niall’s got his hands clasped like he’s praying for snacks. Louis is leaning back with that smug look he gets when he knows something I don’t. Liam’s polite-clapping at literally everything. Zayn’s somewhere in his own head.

Then the lights shift. I know it’s you before they say your name. I always do. A year of this, of us, does that. Of learning the weight of your hand in mine when we sneak out of restaurants, of the way you smell like vanilla and ambition, of waking up in Hampstead with the press camped three streets over because someone spotted us at Tesco. A year of trying to be normal while being anything but.

You walk out and the room changes. It always does. The outfit is…fuck. Tiny, glittering, confident as hell. You look like you know exactly what you’re doing to everyone watching, especially me. The band hits the first notes of 'Santa Tell Me' and the screams spike, sharp and electric.

I forget to breathe. You move like the stage belongs to you. Like you built it. Hips rolling, heels sure, voice clean and playful and dangerous all at once. It’s a Christmas song, yeah, but it’s not subtle, and we both know it. I wipe my palms on my trousers and Niall clocks it immediately. “Ohhh, Styles,” he laughs, nudging my shoulder. “Is this the one about you, yeah?”

“It’s a festive tune,” I mutter as my face heats. “Calm down.”

Louis leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s lookin’ right at you, mate.”

I glance up and—yeah. You are. Singing like you’re telling a secret to twenty thousand people and me alone. We’re the 'It couple', apparently. That’s what the headlines call us. The womaniser who finally settled, the hottest pop star on the planet who somehow chose me. They don’t see the quiet bits. The nights on my sofa, bare feet on the rug, your head on my chest while I trace shapes into your skin and pretend the world can’t get in.

The chorus hits and my bandmates sing along loudly, badly, just to take the piss. I’m laughing, shaking my head, but I’m also sweating now. Actual sweating. Because you dance closer to the edge of the stage, eyes dark, smile slow, and it feels like a challenge.

Then the bridge comes. You step right up to us. To me as you sing, “Oh, I wanna let him unwrap me, like oh-ooh-ooh, get on top of him, by the fireplace, oh-ooh-ooh.”

I choke. Properly choke. Liam slaps my back like I’m dying. Louis howls. Niall nearly falls out of his chair.

“Fireplace?” Zayn murmurs, finally engaged. “Nice.”

I can’t look away. My heart’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. You’re close enough now that I can see the concentration in your eyes, the tiny smile that says you know exactly how flustered I am. You sing it right at me, like it’s ours, like it’s a memory we haven’t even made yet. The cameras catch every second. Tomorrow it’ll be everywhere. Harry Styles, undone. Again.

You finish strong, crowd losing their minds, and when you walk off, the air rushes back into my lungs like I’ve been underwater.

Louis grins at me, wicked. “You good there, Romeo?”

I lean back, running a hand through my curls, laughing because what else can I do. “I’m gonna say this with love,” I tell them, voice low and wrecked, “but if she does that again, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.”