Wembley hums like a beehive and I’m pacing in my Chelsea boots, rings clacking against my mic. Paul barks, “Two minutes!” and pats my shoulder. Niall grins, “Behave, H.” Louis goes, “Like he ever does.” I flash them that harmless-lamb smile I’ve used since X-Factor, the one that makes management sigh and Simon pinch the bridge of his nose.

It’s different now. We don’t have to pretend around cameras. You and me—finally public. The world didn’t catch fire. It just adjusted. Pap shots, a thousand headlines, some noise. But it’s worth it because I don’t have to drop your hand when a lens clicks. I can kiss your temple by the vans and it’s not some secret crime.

House lights slam off and the roar kicks my ribs from the inside. We sprint up the tunnel and I’m swallowed by the stage—screens, heat, that jet of smoke that smells like metal. Six of us snap into place, muscle memory and chaos. You’re already moving like the track is in your bones, ponytail swinging, eyes bright, steadying us like you always do. You never make a fuss about it, just hold the center, and the rest of us orbit. I know every mood you wear on stage. Tonight you’re in the golden one—warm, playful, daring me without saying a word.

We rip through the openers and it’s easy. I’m jumping, missing a step, catching it half a beat late and laughing because the crowd loves a near-fall. Zayn nudges my shoulder on his run; Liam points at a sign that says 'MARRY ME HARRY' and cackles. Between songs, I catch your eye across the risers. I lift my brows like, “You good?” You tilt your head, nod, and that’s enough.

“Rock Me” cues up, drums low and tribal, and the floor starts to shake with fifty thousand stomps. I always loved this one—simple chant, big grin, makes the shyest kid in row Z feel like a hooligan. You run through the lights, laughing without sound, fingers flicking to the beat. The cameras catch the sparkle on your cheek, and the giant screen turns you into a planet. My brain, the part that thinks of consequences, taps the brakes. Then the guitar skates into the chorus and the crowd sings the first “Rock me,” and the brakes...don’t. I jog after you. Not a sprint—just the sort of saunter I use when I’m up to something. Louis clocks it and barks a laugh into his mic. Niall’s already wheezing because he knows my tells. Liam’s doing the dad glare that says, “Moderation, Harold.” Zayn just smirks like he’s paying to watch.

You’re facing the crowd, back to me, hips loose to the beat, perfectly in your world. I time it to the echo, step into your space, and—gentle as a secret—tap your bum with a quick, cheeky slap right as we all belt the second “Rock me!”

The stadium detonates. I swear I feel the noise in my teeth. You freeze, then whirl around, eyes wide, mouth open like you’re trying not to laugh. For a heartbeat you’re stunned I actually did it, on this stage, with every phone in Britain pointed our way. The cameras grab the moment and fling it onto the screen. I can feel Paul aging in the wings. I lift my hands in a helpless shrug: 'What, me?' The grin happens on its own—dumb, guilty, proud. Everything I am—cocky idiot, soft bloke who can’t stop looking at you—coexists right there under the lights.

I turn away before I can push my luck, stride down the thrust like it never happened, hair in my face, throat open on the next line. “I want you to rock me!” The crowd screams it back. Niall howls, “OI, Harold!” into his mic between laughs. Louis says, “Get a room,” and the crowd thinks that’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. I face forward, give the camera a little wink, and carry on like I didn’t just set our mentions on fire.