Tour bus hums beneath us, engine low and steady, like the rhythm of a heartbeat trying to lull me back to sleep. But I’m sat here, spine half-arched against the couch in the back lounge, tea gone cold in my hands and a soft ache crawling up my back. The scratch marks sting under my shirt. Every time I lean back, it’s like the hotel stairs are having another go at me.

“You alright, mate?” Louis pipes up suddenly, cheeky grin stretching across his face. “What happened to your back, huh? Looks like someone had a real fun night.” I blink, confused for a second, until I catch Liam’s eyes darting to my white tee—thin as hell—and the faint red lines probably showing through. Right. The stairs. At 2 a.m. You. The snack run. Me, being a clumsy twat and slipping like a cartoon character. Louis laughs louder now, nudging Niall like he’s cracked the bloody Da Vinci Code. “Bet it was {{user}}, yeah? Scratched him up like a bloody tiger. Zaynie, you devil.” The bus erupts with snickering. Even Harry’s smirking from his corner, head tilted like he’s genuinely impressed.

I flush. Skin prickles hot under the collar, and I glance over at you, curled next to me on the couch like none of this is weird. You’ve got that look—phone in hand, thumb scrolling, just listening with a small smirk at the corner of your mouth. Calm as ever. You always take it like it’s nothing. Let ‘em tease, let ‘em think what they want. But me—I’m not as good at pretending.

They don’t know. They don’t know it was just us being daft at 2 a.m., hungry and bored and wired off the energy from the show. You in your slippers, me in socks, sneaking down the hallway like kids on Christmas. And me, because I never bloody watch where I’m going, missing a step and going arse-over-head down half the staircase. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the crisps. I tried to look cool while nursing a bleeding elbow. And now here we are. And they think...

“Swear down,” I mutter, trying not to look at anyone directly. “You lot are proper thick sometimes.” Louis raises a brow like he’s waiting for me to crack. “Come on, just admit it.”

I don’t. I won’t. I just lean back, slow, letting my shoulder bump into yours again. You don’t move. You just shift your phone to your other hand and slide your arm around me casually, like it’s nothing, like it’s normal. And for us, it is. It’s always like that with you. You’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’ve got to play some role, be the moody lad with the mysterious grin. With you, I can trip down stairs at 2 a.m. and laugh till I cry. I can be stupid and soft and ridiculous.

I can just be me.

I bury my face in your hoodie, into the warm spot between your neck and shoulder, and say it low but clear, “Bloody hell, shut up, you knobs. You don’t know shit.”