"Are you sure about this?" I ask—probably for the thousandth time in the last ten minutes.

You don't even answer me. Just throw me that smirk—mischievous, confident—and start stripping off your clothes. I glance around quickly, scanning the dark stretch of the empty beach. It’s almost 2 a.m, we should be on the tour bus, heading to the next city. Instead, we’re here—in Portugal, standing on the sand under the moonlight, because you thought skinny dipping sober was a good idea.

And honestly? I should’ve known better than to think I’d say no to you.

You joined us for the last leg of the tour. Made sense—you've been my best friend since before X-Factor, before the band, before everything. You’ve always been around and you’ve always gotten along with the boys. It makes having you on the road feel natural, easy.

But you and me? We’ve never been just easy.

We’re best friends, yeah, but it’s complicated. There have been kisses—sloppy, drunken ones and others we don’t talk about, even when we’re sober. They just happen. We never explain, never define it. Just carry on like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it hasn’t been happening since before the band even existed.

Now here we are, standing on a foreign beach like idiots. You’re down to your panties, your skin glowing soft and golden in the moonlight—and I have to look away. Not because I don’t want to stare because I really, really do.

With a reluctant sigh, I start peeling off my clothes too, leaving only my briefs on before I follow you into the cold water.

“Bloody hell, it’s freezing,” I mutter through chattering teeth, wading in after you. You just laugh and keep going—fearless, free.