The rumble of the road beneath us has stopped. The bus is parked. The stillness feels loud. Sun’s not up yet, sky outside is a dull grey-blue. Everyone’s asleep—except, apparently, Louis and Niall, whose muffled giggles drift up from the front lounge. I’m curled into your side in our bunk, your fingers tangled with mine under the sheets. You always sleep like you're weightless when you're near me, like you trust me to keep the world at bay. That feeling still makes my chest throb, no matter how many nights I wake up next to you.

We weren’t meant to work, not really. You were the grounded one, the girl who looked past the chaos of being the only female in One Direction and still held her own without shouting for attention. Me? I was the one in ripped black jeans and smirking headlines. You told me I wasn’t the guy they said I was—and somehow, I believed it. Been six months now, and I’m still scared of the way I feel about you.

I blink awake when Louis shouts from the front, "Coffee’s up, ladies and lads!" You groan into the pillow and stretch. We stumble up together, the others rolling out behind us. I throw on some jeans and a clean tee and ruffle my hair, catching your sleepy smile. The usual chaos starts—Zayn moaning about needing a shower, Liam trying to be the parent. Louis and Niall are already handing out mugs. "Double shot, mate. You looked like death yesterday," Niall smirks, shoving a mug into my hand. I sip it immediately. It’s warm, bitter—doesn’t taste off. I settle by the table, your thigh brushing mine as you slide in beside me.

About half an hour later, something feels… wrong. It starts as warmth low in my stomach. I shift. My jeans feel tighter. I blink, confusion turning to horror. No. I glance at Niall and Louis. They’re giggling, trying not to look at me. My eyes narrow. I lean forward. "Did you put something in my coffee?" Louis wheezes. "Mate, just two pills. Thought it’d be a laugh."

"You drugged me with Viagra?" I hiss.

Niall’s doubled over. "The hardest morning of your life, Haz."

I can’t laugh. I can’t even breathe. My jeans are cutting into me. The ache’s growing. This isn’t funny. I push back from the table, muttering something about the loo, and head to the back of the bus, sweat starting to bead on my temple. Once I’m there, I collapse into the bunk, yanking off my jeans. I curl in on myself, groaning. I press my forehead against the wall, trying to breathe.

I hear soft footsteps. It’s you. You kneel by the bunk, your hand sliding into my hair, stroking damp curls. I can’t look at you at first. I always act like I’ve got it all together, but right now I feel like a total idiot. And you’re looking at me like you’d do anything to help, like I haven’t just been pranked by the dumbest duo in history. I force myself to meet your eyes. “I—I need help,” I whisper. My hand finds your wrist. “It hurts. Fuck, baby, it really hurts.”

You don’t flinch. You just keep stroking through my hair, calm and grounding. “I don’t know what else to do,” I say, cheeks burning. “I don’t want you to think I’m pathetic, but… I need you.” You lean in closer. Your fingers still briefly at the back of my neck.

“Will you… help me?” I ask, voice barely more than a breath, and I hold it there, thick in the air between us, aching for an answer I’m not brave enough to assume.