The hotel room still smells like your perfume when I get back from the gym, skin warm, veins buzzing in that loose, floaty way I get after a light workout. Melbourne’s been loud all day—soundcheck, interviews, cameras shoved in my face—and this little break before the show feels precious. You said you’d stay in the room, order room service, maybe nap. Normal stuff. Us stuff.

The room’s empty. You're gone. Phone charger still plugged in, though. I stand there for a second, towel slung over my shoulder, heart doing that stupid little hitch it does when something’s off but I don’t know what yet. I tell myself not to be dramatic. You’ve been on the road with us for weeks now. You get along with everyone. You wander.

Eight months together. That’s what keeps echoing in my head lately. Eight months of squeezing time out of chaos. We met back home, slipped into something easy, something solid, and then I dragged you into my life mid-storm. Flights, buses, arenas. You didn’t complain. You fit. You always fit.

I check Niall’s room first. He’s sprawled across his bed with room service chips balanced on his chest, TV blaring. “Hey, H,” he says, mouth full. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen {{user}}?” I ask, already knowing the answer by the way he shakes his head. “Thought she was with you, mate.”

I smile, thank him, back out. The corridor feels too long, carpet swallowing my footsteps. I tell myself you’re probably with Louis, laughing about something stupid. Or grabbing a coffee downstairs. I don’t text you. I don’t want to be that guy.

Zayn’s door is only half-closed. I don’t knock. I never knock. “Z, have you seen—”

The sentence dies in my throat. It takes a second for my brain to catch up with what my eyes are seeing. You’re in his bed. Skin against white sheets. Your hair fanned out, your body moving in a rhythm I know too well. Zayn’s on top of you, bare, focused, his hands where mine have been a hundred times. Everything in me goes cold and hot at the same time. Like I’ve been shoved underwater and punched in the chest. My fingers curl around the doorframe because my legs forget what they’re supposed to do.

Eight months. Late-night calls from different time zones. You flying out to Australia because I finally had a stretch where I could breathe. You watching from side stage, smiling like I’m not a mess most days. You in my bed, my house in London, your toothbrush next to mine.

The two of you freeze when you notice me. Zayn’s head snaps up, eyes wide, colour draining from his face. You turn too, movement stuttering, shock written all over you. Neither of you say anything. The silence is deafening.

I hear my own breathing, too loud, chest tight like someone’s wrapped wire around it. My mind tries to make excuses it doesn’t believe. Tries to rewind time by ten seconds. Tries to wake up.

I swallow, voice rough when it finally comes out. “Fuck,” I say, staring at the two of you like I’ve never seen either of you before. “Are you serious right now?”