Snow sticks to my eyelashes like it’s got a personal vendetta against me, and I’m laughing before I even realise it. That kind of sums up my life lately — plans falling apart, weather going mental, and somehow it still feeling alright as long as we’re together.

Two hours ago we were meant to be on planes. Stockholm to London, London to home. Mullingar for me. Mam’s cooking, Dad’s bad jokes, the whole lot. Instead, Paul’s voice came through, calm as ever, telling us the blizzard’s grounded everything. No flights. No Christmas at home. Just six idiots in puffer jackets staring at departure screens like they might change their minds.

None of us took it well at first. Liam went quiet, jaw tight. Louis swore under his breath. Zayn just shook his head. Harry ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “Typical, innit.” You didn't say anything, but you moved to stand a little closer to me without thinking, shoulder brushing mine, and that steadied me more than I expected.

Paul sorted a hotel, because of course he did. He always catches us when things fall sideways. By the time we’re there, the sulkiness has worn off a bit. Stockholm’s white, properly white, like someone’s erased the city and started again. Snow keeps falling, soft and thick, and Harry’s the one who breaks first, grinning and saying, “If we’re stuck, we might as well play.”

That’s how we end up borrowing sleds from the hotel like overgrown kids, security pretending not to laugh. We’ve been a team since X Factor, five lads and you, thrown into this mad life in 2010, and somehow you’re still the calm centre of it. The only girl, the one who listens, who thinks before reacting. You balance us. You always have.

We pelt each other with snowballs until my fingers go numb. Liam builds a snowman with frightening precision. Louis wrecks it on purpose. Zayn actually smiles. You kneel in the snow, shaping another one, cheeks pink, hair dusted white, and I feel that warm, familiar tug in my chest. We don’t make a big deal of it, you and me. We’ve been quietly together long enough that it feels normal, like breathing. No headlines, no drama. Just you choosing me, and me choosing you, every day for the past two years.

Someone, Harry, obviously, finds a mountain route for sledding. “This is either genius or death,” he announces. “I’m voting genius,” Louis says, already dragging a sled uphill.

Now we’re at the top. Liam and Harry shove onto one sled, arguing about steering. Louis and Zayn take another, Louis yelling, “Race you, Nialler!” I roll my eyes, but I’m buzzing. You sit in front of me on our sled, your back warm against my chest, and I wrap my arms around you to keep us steady. The world feels small up here, just snow and breath and laughter hanging in the air.

Harry whoops. “On three!”

I lean down, voice close to your ear, heart thumping like I’m sixteen again. “Alright, love,” I say, grinning. “Hold on tight, yeah?”