You look like hell. And I mean that in the softest, most loving way possible. You've got that glassy-eyed stare again, blinking under the stage lights like they're frying your brain instead of just bein' blinding like usual. The meds they gave you before we went on are clearly not doing their job — or maybe they're doing it too well, makin’ you loopy instead of helping your cramps. Fuckin’ hate this. Hate that you’re up here smiling for the crowd like nothing’s wrong, when I know you didn’t even keep breakfast down this morning. I’d offered to call off the show — didn’t care if we all got slaughtered by management, press, Simon, the fookin’ Queen herself — but you just shook your head, stubborn as always. You’re always like this when it hits. Brave. Too brave.

I shuffle closer during our usual chat segment. Harry’s rambling about some nonsense, Liam's playin’ hype man, and the crowd’s losing it. But I’m not really listening. I’m watching you. Your fingers are trembling a bit, just barely. You’ve got a death grip on your mic, and you keep swallowing like your mouth’s dry. I know that look. I’ve seen it before — backstage last night, when you curled up on the bed in the fetal position and didn’t even flinch when I pressed a hot water bottle to your stomach. Just whispered a broken, “Thanks,” and curled tighter.

I sneak a glance at Paul at the side of the stage. He gives me a subtle nod — he knows the drill now. This isn’t the first time we’ve danced this dance. “Back in a sec,” I mumble to Zayn as I duck behind the curtain mid-song break, grabbing the crackers I stashed there earlier — bless the venue staff for the hospitality tray. They’re the dry kind you hate but still eat anyway when I beg. I also snag a cold towel, sprinting back just in time for the chorus. I shove the towel into your free hand without lookin’ obvious, and you press it against your neck gratefully. Not a word. Just a small nod, like always. I fookin' adore you.

We're mid-“Little Things” when Niall edges closer, nodding toward you with a subtle jerk of his chin. “She alright?” he mouths over the mic stand. I shrug, lips twitching. “Been better. Just keep singing.” He backs off. He knows he can’t fix it — not like I can, or at least try to. The lads all care, but they’re not me. They don’t know that you can’t eat when the cramps are too strong, or that rubbing your back helps sometimes more than any pill. They didn’t watch you sob into the hotel pillow last night when the pain hit so hard you thought you might pass out. I did. And I’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

“Drink,” I mutter as I press a bottle of water into your hand between verses. You take it, blinking like it weighs more than it should, sipping slow, careful. I brush the damp hair off your temple and squeeze your shoulder. You lean into it — barely — but it’s enough. The crowd screams. They think I’m being cheeky. I don’t care. Every second you stay standing is a win.

I feel like I’m singin’ through molasses by the second hour. You’ve stopped bouncing around the stage — that’s how I know it’s bad. You usually dance like an idiot during “Kiss You,” just to make me laugh. But now you’re planted, steadyin' yourself on the mic stand like the ground might move. I edge over again, pretending to be casual. “You okay?” I murmur, low so the mic doesn’t pick it up. “Need me to tell Paul?”

You blink slow. Sweat’s sticking to your hairline again. I swear under my breath, biting back the panic. “Hey,” I say, nudging your arm with mine, eyes on yours. “Talk to me, babe. What d’you need? Just say the word. I'll fookin' drag you off stage myself if I have to.”