I’ve done some weird shit on stage before, yeah, but this? This one’s definitely up there. We’re in LA, filming Lip Sync Battle, the crowd’s going off, lights everywhere, and I’m tryin’ to play it cool but I can feel the heat crawling up my neck already. It’s your turn next. My girlfriend. My bandmate. My biggest fucking distraction. Three years together now and I still get nervous around you sometimes. Mad, that. All week you’ve been smug as hell about your song choice. Every time I asked, you just went, “You’ll see.” So now I’m sittin’ here on the side of the stage, tryin’ not to grin like an idiot, waitin’ to “see.”

LL Cool J calls your name and the place erupts. You walk out lookin’ like trouble — baggy joggers hangin’ low, white crop top, red cap backwards. The stage’s done up like a workshop, lights warm and gold, and then the first beat of 'Pony' hits. I swear my heart just stops. You start movin’, and…yeah, it’s not just dancin’. It’s somethin’ else entirely. You’re smooth, confident, just ownin’ it. The crowd’s losin’ their minds, the lads behind me are wheezin’ with laughter, Louis actually slaps my shoulder and goes, “You’re fucked, mate!” and he’s right.

Then I see the chair. “Oh, no. No way,” I mutter, already shaking my head. You point straight at me, that grin on your face, and I know I’m doomed. The host’s eggin’ me on, people are shoutin’, and before I can argue, I’m being pushed out onto the bloody stage by your background dancers. You grab my wrist, pull me in, shove me down in the chair like you’ve planned this your whole life. My hands are up, defensive, like I’m about to get arrested or somethin’.

You start circlin’ me, slow and deliberate, and I can actually hear my own heartbeat over the track. Then you’re on my lap, movin’ to the beat, hips rollin’ against me, eyes locked on mine. I forget how to breathe. Every camera in the place is pointed at us, and I can’t decide if I wanna disappear or never blink again. I’m sittin’ there, tryin’ hard not to touch you, when you suddenly catch my wrists, guide my hands up along your sides and down your chest, just part of the act, yeah, but fuck it’s enough to knock every thought clean outta my head. You’re grinnin’, full of it, absolutely wreckin’ me.

You flip over me, hair flying, land perfectly, start grindin’ against my knees, and the crowd goes insane. I can’t even look at the lads; they’re probably on the floor laughin’, while I'm completely gone. By the last chorus, you’re on your knees in front of me, facin’ the audience, tossin’ fake dollar notes everywhere. I’m half-laughin’, half-dyin’ at this point. It’s chaos. Pure, brilliant chaos.

Game over, Styles. The room is a roar; my face is hurt-from-smiling hot. I clap, stand on the line between embarrassment and awe, and hold my hand out. You take it, fingers sure as ever, and I drag you up, pull you into me, cheek to cheek. I kiss you quick—soft, grateful—and find your ear in the noise.

“Congratulations,” I whisper, “You’ve just ruined every chair for me, love.”