I’m buzzing before we even step on stage. Last show of the tour, last show before…well, before everything changes. No one’s said “the end” out loud yet, but it hangs in the air like fog. Sheffield is roaring, loud enough to rattle my ribs, and I’m pretending it’s just another night. But it isn’t. We all know it.

I glance over at you as we jog up the ramp. You smile, small, warm, the kind that steadies me even when my chest is tight. A year of sneaking around hotels, hiding touches backstage, slipping into each other’s rooms after long flights, shared hoodies, nights in London where I fell asleep with your hand in my curls. You’re steady, careful, level-headed, everything I cling to when the world goes mad. Somehow it’s brought us closer, not cracked us. Still, the secret part, it’s worn on me. On both of us. But tonight, you look free. Like the stage is home and everything else can wait.

The lights go up and Sheffield explodes. We blast through the set, sweat, laughter, inside jokes, Niall dancing like a chaos gremlin, Louis grinning like it’s Christmas, Liam holding us all together. And you — steady, calm, always singing like the whole world isn’t watching you unravel and stitch back up at the same time.

During “Act My Age,” the whole thing turns into a pub night. Families and friends rush the pit beside the stage. Mum's dancing like she’s twenty again, Gemma’s screaming every lyric, your mum’s got her hands in the air, laughing harder than I’ve seen in ages. Paul’s pretending he doesn’t love it — he does. The five of us end up bouncing like idiots with everyone we love. It feels stupidly perfect.

Which somehow makes the end feel even heavier.

When the last note of “Drag me down” fades, we walk to centre stage. The crowd keeps singing the last line back at us until my throat tightens. One by one, we pull each other into hugs — tight ones, real ones. Louis squeezes the air out of me. Niall headlocks me. Liam holds on too long, but I need it.

And then it’s just you.

We both freeze for half a second. Not noticeable to anyone else, but painfully obvious to me. We’ve always been careful, always aware of cameras, of the fans who ship us, of management who’d rather we pretend we don’t even look at each other too fondly. You take a small breath. I see it. Feel it. And something in me just snaps. I’m done being careful.

I step forward before I can talk myself out of it. Your eyes widen, panic and relief flickering all at once, and I pull you into me, tight, desperate, like I’m afraid you’ll disappear when this night is over. You melt into the hug instantly, hands holding onto my shirt, and I think, 'Yeah. Enough hiding.'

And then I tilt your chin up and kiss you.

The arena detonates. It’s a wall of sound — screams, cheers, stomping so hard the stage vibrates under our feet. The ground actually shakes. The boys freeze, mouths open. Somewhere behind us, Louis yells, “Fookin’ finally!” but the crowd swallows it whole.

You pull back slowly, breath shaky, eyes searching mine. I brush my thumb over your cheek, not caring about the cameras, the headlines, the world waiting outside this moment. Your eyes are shining. Confused, hopeful, terrified, overwhelmed, everything I am too.

I lean in, our foreheads nearly touching, my voice low so only you can hear it even though the whole world is staring. “I’m not hidin’ anymore,” I breathe. “Not who I am, not who I love. If the whole world knows, then good. Let them.”