I still taste the fake frosting in the back of my throat.

It’s 3:47 a.m. and Louis hasn’t come home yet.

The club was hot, packed, full of rainbow lights and pounding bass, and honestly—for a few moments—I forgot about all the cameras. The rules. The branding. I forgot about Simon and what he’d say when he saw the footage. Because Louis looked like he belonged there. Like he was finally free. The way he moved through the crowd, eyes alight, unburdened, was intoxicating. He didn’t care. He was in his element. And in that moment, I couldn’t blame him.

But then he looked at me. Right after licking the icing off his fingers like that, with that look in his eyes. That look that said everything and nothing all at once. The kind of look you give someone when you want them to understand, but you know they can’t possibly. And in that second, everything shifted.

Fans saw it. We weren’t as careful as we thought we were being. Twitter’s been on fire for hours. “Larry is real!” “Did you see the way Harry looked at Louis when Liam caked him?” And yeah—I looked. I always look. Even when I shouldn’t. Every second, every smile, every accidental brush of his hand against mine, I couldn’t help myself. But now? Now I’m wishing I could go back. Wishing I could just play it cool, stay neutral, keep my distance.

But that’s never been us, has it?

And apparently, Simon saw it too. He called Louis in earlier tonight. Not both of us. Just him. Said something about “optics” and “reputation management” and “you’re 19, Louis, you should know better.” Like knowing better would change anything. Like it would fix this feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s telling me this—whatever this is between us—isn’t something that can be buried under layers of PR and good intentions.

Know better than what, exactly? Than existing? Than being touched by sunlight? Than feeling something that’s just too damn real for anyone to understand?

I don’t know what they said in that office. I don’t even know if I want to. Because the truth is, I don’t need to hear it from Simon. I can already feel it—Louis is slipping away from me. And I can’t stop it. No matter how much I want to.

He hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Not even a stupid voice note of him laughing about how his hair still smells like cake. He usually does that. It’s the little things, you know? Those things that make the silence between us feel like waiting. But not tonight. Tonight, the silence is deafening.

I think about the way he looked right before going in for that last verse tonight—like he was daring the world to catch him. Like he was daring me.

Maybe they did.

Maybe I’ll lose him before I ever really get to have him.

I’m sitting on the couch now, a bottle of water in my hand, staring at the screen, but nothing’s really registering. My mind keeps replaying that moment over and over—the look in his eyes, the way he smiled at me like he was too much for me to handle, but also like he wanted me to prove I could. But he doesn’t know, does he? How badly I want to reach across this space between us and grab him—hold him like I’ve been wanting to for years, even if it means everything will fall apart in the process.

I close my eyes and try to block out the thoughts.

I try to ignore the way my chest tightens at the thought of him not walking through that door.