The bass from inside thumps through the stone under my boots, like a second pulse. London’s cold cuts sharp across the terrace, but I barely feel it. I’m too aware of you and how close you are, how familiar and somehow new at the same time.

Two minutes to midnight. Someone’s already started a countdown inside, too early and too drunk. Typical. I’ve got my hands light on you, resting like they don’t want to spook you. I keep telling myself to relax. I’m not bad at this stuff. I’ve kissed plenty of people, got a whole reputation built on it, apparently, headlines and eye-rolls and the lads taking the piss. But this isn’t that. This is you. Five years of you.

I still remember the X Factor house, all six of us crammed in like puppies, thinking this was just a mad little detour before real life. Then suddenly it was real life. Tours, albums, screaming crowds, airports blurring into each other. Zayn leaving earlier this year knocked the wind out of us more than we ever admitted. Now the hiatus—official, planned, sensible—and it still feels like someone’s quietly packed my childhood into boxes. You’ve been there for all of it. Late-night hotel room chats when sleep wouldn’t come. Soundchecks where we caught each other’s eye and grinned because yeah, this was still ridiculous. You were the calm one when the rest of us spun out. Level head, warm heart. Always professional. Always steady. Always kind.

You and I though, we never crossed the line. Not because I didn’t think about it, I did, but because bands like us don’t need extra fractures. Dating inside the group felt like tempting fate. Breakups don’t just break hearts, they break schedules, chemistry, everything. So we stayed friends. Best friends, really. The safe kind.

Earlier tonight we were all piled around that stupidly expensive table, laughing too loud. Liam with Sophia tucked into his side, Louis and Eleanor doing their thing, Niall rocking up with Selena Gomez like it’s the most normal surprise in the world. When Niall clocked that you and I were the only ones flying solo, he laughed and said, “Looks like you two are sorted for midnight then.”

You joked back, something light, half-serious, and I played along, because that’s what I do. “Wouldn’t mind that,” I said, grinning, pretending my chest didn’t tighten.

Now here we are. Joke turned real. The clock inside hits ten seconds and the noise swells. I can see fireworks starting over the city, flashes of white and gold reflected in your eyes. My heart’s doing something stupid and fast. I lean in just a fraction, then stop myself. Because tradition’s a flimsy excuse. Because I never want to be the guy you kiss out of obligation, out of symmetry, out of convenience. Because if this happens, it won’t fit neatly back into the box we kept it in for years.

I search your face for any sign you want out. You don’t pull away. You don’t lean in either. You’re just here. With me. Like always. I lower my forehead to yours, voice quiet so it’s just for us, and ask, Hey,” I say, searching your face. “We don’t have to do this just ‘cause it’s midnight, yeah? I only wanna kiss you if it’s actually what you want. Are you really okay with this right now?”