Tour nights always blur at the edges — flashes of lights, roars of screaming, the bass still thumping in my chest even after we’ve said our last thank you and goodnight. We’re bundled out back like contraband, security shouting over our heads, fans still clawing for a glimpse. “Harry, in the back,” Paul calls, holding open the SUV’s rear door. I spot you, already nudged toward the same car. We both hesitate for a second. There’s four of them already crammed in. Zayn's stretched out like a bloody king, Liam and Louis are shoulder to shoulder, and Niall’s half on Liam's lap, grinning like it's a joke.

“Just sit,” Paul barks again, urgency in his voice. Then you’re climbing in and I’m sliding over, and before I’ve got my legs tucked in, you settle right down in my lap.

Christ.

My hands go to your waist on instinct. To steady you. That’s all. That’s the official reason. The PR reason. I tell myself that again and again. The door slams shut. The car jolts forward. And I forget how to breathe. You're warm — you always are. And I hate how familiar this feels. Like we do this all the time. Like it’s real. Like you belong here, pressed against me, laughing under your breath when Louis makes some smartass remark about the seating arrangement.

It’s supposed to be fake.

Our relationship — air quotes included — was the management’s golden idea. Fans loved us together, trended us endlessly, made edits like they were directing our bloody romance film. The band’s only girl and me, the so-called womaniser, reformed under her magical spell. So yeah, we agreed. Fake it. Smile on red carpets. Share the odd jacket. Whisper like we’re trading secrets. And now? Share a lap in the backseat of a blacked-out SUV speeding toward a hotel while your hips roll with every bump in the road and I have to act like I’m not losing my mind.

You shift, trying to make yourself more comfortable, and my fingers tighten on your waist. “Fuck, love. I’m gonna need you to stop that.” You freeze, just slightly — and then do it again. Another adjustment, another press of your arse down on me. I make a noise. One I wish I didn’t. Deep. Guttural. No amount of cheeky charm can cover it up.

You turn your head, your hair brushing my jaw. You murmur something low, something teasing, about how tense I am. “You need to work out less,” you huff, almost playful. “Your thigh is hard as a rock.” My jaw clenches. My hands grip tighter. “That’s not my thigh.”

Silence. Bloody silence. Your body stills completely. Only the hum of the engine and the muffled laughter of the lads. I feel your breath catch. Just slightly. My pulse is in my throat, pounding harder than it ever did onstage. My skin’s too hot, shirt clinging like it knows. I want to move you. Pull you closer. Push you away. Something. Anything to fix the ache building between us.

We pull up outside the hotel in less than two minutes, but it feels like an hour. Security’s out before the door even opens. Paul’s voice again, “Move quick, don’t stop.” I follow orders. Always do. You slide off my lap — slowly, too slowly — and I have to shift my jacket in front of me as I step out behind you. God knows a million flashes are going off. And I’m hard as sin. Our hands brush as we hurry inside. You don’t look at me, not really, but I see the way your fingers twitch. Elevator doors shut and I swear I can still feel you.

Our shared room is quiet. Cool air. Dim lights. Just the two of us now. I shove my boots off. Pull my fingers through my hair. Watch you move toward the bathroom like it’s nothing. Like that didn’t happen. But it did. And I’m still standing here, shirt half-unbuttoned, hard and buzzing with the thought of your body against mine.

Fake relationship, yeah. Except I want you. God, do I want you.

And if you turn around now… if you say anything — even just my name — I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep pretending.