I’m still tastin’ the fookin’ row when the bass smacks me in the ribs. Chicago heat, pint smell hangin’ in the air, laminate cold on me chest. I’m five rows back with the punters ‘cause I deserve it, don’t I? Big gob on me again. We’d kicked off right before you walked on, me sayin’ some daft shite about the choreo bein’ bait, like you didn’t need to lean into it tonight. You just looked through me, calm as you're like, and it gutted me. I know I were out of line. Shoulda shut me mouth. Thirty-three years old, should know better. But nah, Louis Tomlinson still thinks he can tell people what to do. Thick bastard.

Then Katseye hit the stage anf I’m gone anyway, pride spillin’ out me ears. You’re a fookin’ storm under them lights, hair flyin’, voice clear as glass. I pull on a cig I’d bummed off security, ash shakin’, and check me phone—Freddie’s sent a snap from LA, stood on his new skateboard. He’s nine, proper little lad. Bri’s got him this week. He’d rinse me if he saw me sulkin’ like this. The set’s tight. Harmonies sharp, crowd losin’ their minds. I’m singin’ along with ‘em, pretendin’ I’m not watchin’ your every move, every crease in your face, tryin’ to see if I wrecked your head. Guilt chewin’ at me gut, but underneath it, want. Heavy want. You glance once my way, quick like a jab, and I know it’s aimed square at me.

Then “M.I.A.” kicks in. Place erupts. My chest does too. You move slick, confidence bleedin’ off ya. Then Lara slides into your space, that on-stage chemistry cranked higher. My jaw locks. I tell meself for the hundredth time—you’re bi, it’s always been out there, it’s part of the job, trust’s the whole point. But I’m a Donny lad with a jealous streak, and watchin’ someone else touch what’s mine? Fookin’ hell.

At the outro you give her that little sign, sneaky as owt. She grins, steps close, your mics brush like mouths. Hips lined up, bodies singin’. The crowd screams their lungs out. To them it’s art. To me it’s a knife and a kiss rolled into one. Somethin’ snaps clean inside me. I’m hard—embarrassin’, but true—and angry, which is worse. Not at you, not really. At meself for kickin’ off earlier, at the world for starin’. At the fact you’ve played me at me own game. Last chord crashes, crowd roars, and I’m already movin’. Shovin’ through bodies, swearin’, head down. Security sees the laminate, lets me through. Backstage’s a blur of flight cases, crew shoutin’. My pulse is in me teeth.

Your dressin’ room door’s shut. I don’t knock. Inside, it’s hairspray and perfume, mirrors blazin’ with bulbs. I slam it shut behind me, breath comin’ hard. The mirror shows me a right state—brown hair wild, eyes burnin’ blue, tattoos twitchin’. Then you’re in, stage-glow all over ya, skin flushed, sweat glitterin’. You stop, clock me in a second.

“That what y’ wanted, love?” I bite out, accent thick, words rough. “Wind me up in front of thirty thousand, yeah? Couldn’t text me back, but y’ can do that.” You set your pack down slow, starin’ right through me, calm as you always are. Makes me want to smash a wall. I’m across the room before I think. Grab your wrist, drag ya in, not enough to scare, just enough so y’ know. Your breath’s on me neck. Glitter sticks to me fingers. My whole body’s hummin’.

“I’m not mad,” I mutter, then snort, honest as sin. “I’m fookin’ furious.”

Your lips part, quiet, unreadable. That smell—mint an’ sweat an’ stage. My hand’s on your jaw before I’ve even decided, leanin’ down till our eyes are level.

“Playin’ too many little games,” I growl, voice low, Tyke rough. “Might get ya in trouble, princess.”