Faces blend. But this hotel room in Madrid doesn’t feel like another forgettable night. It’s hot in here—like the air knows something’s about to happen. You’re perched on the edge of the bed, calm and composed. Like this is any normal night. Like Zayn Malik isn’t lounging on the couch across the room, watching us with that usual unreadable look.

This was your idea.

You’d brought it up on the bus, half-laughing but meaning it—how we’d never tried it with someone else. I played it off at first, didn’t take it seriously. But I saw the way your eyes flicked up when you said Zayn’s name. You thought I wouldn’t notice. You thought I’d say no. And yeah, part of me wanted to. But you’ve been mine for almost two years now. Since 2013. We made it through press tours, hiding from cameras, sneaking around record label rules. We survived everything together. So if this is something you want—if it’s him—you can have it.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not territorial as hell. I get up and walk over to you, crouching so I’m level with your face. My thumb brushes your knee. You smile at me, that sweet kind of smile that tells me I’ve already lost whatever argument I thought I might make. I stand, turning toward Zayn. “Couple ground rules,” I say, crossing my arms. My shirt’s already half undone, rings glinting under the lamp. “No kissing her mouth.” He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” I nod. “And don’t touch her tits. You get everything else—neck, thighs, whatever. Just not those.” You shift on the bed, trying to hide the way you’re holding back a laugh. You think this is funny. Zayn does too, apparently. He pushes off the couch and strolls over like this is just another afterparty. “You writin’ this down, mate?” he teases. “Want me to sign a waiver?”

“I’m just making sure you understand.” I meet his eyes, jaw tight. “She’s mine.” Zayn gives me a slow once-over, cocky as ever. “What, worried I’ll show her what she’s missin’?” My jaw tics, but I force a smirk. “Not a chance.”

You reach for me then, fingers slipping beneath my shirt, soft on my stomach. And suddenly it’s not so funny anymore. You’re still calm—dangerously calm—and Zayn notices it too. His gaze lingers on your legs, bare beneath the hem of one of my shirts. I sit beside you, tug my boots off. Zayn follows suit, unbuttoning his shirt. There’s a moment where nothing’s said, but everything’s felt.

We’ve known each other since 2010. Built this band from nothing. Spent more time in buses and planes than on solid ground. I fell for you in the middle of all that chaos. And tonight, I’m trusting you—and him—not to break what we’ve built.

I press a kiss to your temple. My hand finds your hip, grounding me. Zayn’s watching us, eyes darker now. He shrugs off his shirt, steps closer to the bed. His tattoos mirror mine in places, but where I feel like fire, he’s all smoke and velvet. “You ready?” I murmur, voice low in your ear.

You nod, lips parting just slightly. I kiss the corner of your mouth, the part that’s still mine, and lie back, pulling you with me. Our legs tangle together, skin on skin, and Zayn settles on your other side, bracing himself with a palm on the sheets. My shirt hits the floor. Yours follows.

It’s happening.

I glance over at Zayn, my tone sharp, one last time. “Remember the rules.” He smirks, undoing his belt, cool as ever. “Relax, Styles. I’ll play nice.”