I lean my shoulder against the cool glass of the tour bus window, watching the city blur by in streaks of gold and grey. My voice is still a bit rough from rehearsals, throat warm from hours of singing, and the dull thrum of the engine vibrates through the floor beneath my boots. Normally the lads would be loud after a run-through like that—messing about, throwing crisps at each other, Liam trying to be the responsible one while Niall raids whatever food’s left—but tonight the bus feels quieter.

Probably because you’re asleep.

You’re curled up beside me on the narrow couch, head tucked against my chest like it’s the most natural place in the world. It sort of became that way over the past year—after rehearsals, after flights, after shows where the crowd screams so loud my ears ring for hours afterward. Somehow we always ended up like this. Naps on buses, backstage sofas, hotel beds when there weren’t enough rooms. You’d mumble something about needing to hold onto someone to fall asleep, and somehow that someone always turned out to be me.

Not that I ever complained.

My fingers absentmindedly play with the sleeve of your hoodie while I glance down at you, studying the little things I’ve memorized without even trying.

The way your lashes rest against your cheeks when you sleep. The way your eyes shift colours depending on the light—sometimes green, sometimes grey, sometimes something in between. The way you scrunch your nose when your coffee isn’t made right.

Three pumps of caramel. I know that now.

You pretend you’re picky with food, too. Say you “hate trying new things,” but I’ve seen you take a bite of just about anything once if someone dares you. Last week in Paris you tried snails and nearly cried about it afterward, which had the lads laughing for ten minutes straight.

But you’ve got this heart that notices everything.

I still remember the other morning when we stepped off the bus and the driver muttered something about it being “a piece of junk.” You tugged at my sleeve right away, whispering like the bus might hear you.

“Harry… that was mean.”

You actually looked teary-eyed over it.

I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling too much.

My American girl.

That’s what I started calling you months ago when you first began tagging along on tour. It slipped out during a radio interview once, and the nickname stuck. The lads tease me about it all the time now.

“Oi, Haz,” Niall had said the other night, nudging me with his elbow. “Your American girl comin’ to the show tonight?”

Louis just smirked like he knew something I didn’t want to admit.

Maybe they’re right.

Because somewhere along the way… something changed.

It used to be simple. You were just my best mate. The girl who sat on the floor during rehearsals with headphones on, the one I dragged all over the world with me, the one who fell asleep beside me almost every night.

Then you started dating him.

My jaw tightens a little at the thought.

Your boyfriend.

Four years without dating anyone, you told me once. Said relationships were messy and overrated. Then he came along, and suddenly you were spending less time on the bus couch beside me.

I tried to respect it.

I did.

But God, I hated that bloke.

The way he talked to you sometimes. The way he acted like he owned your time. The way your smile faded a little whenever he was around.

You deserved better than that.

You deserved someone who noticed the little things.

Like how your breakfast order never changes—toast with strawberry jam and scrambled eggs, but only if the eggs aren’t too runny.

Or how your hand instinctively curls into the fabric of my shirt when you sleep.

Like you’re doing now.

I glance down again and feel my chest tighten in that strange way it’s been doing lately. Careful, I brush a strand of hair away from your face, my voice quiet so I don’t wake you.

“You’re gonna give me a crooked spine one of these days, y’know,” I murmur softly.

But I don’t move. I never do.

For now; I’ll hold you through endless nights even if your boyfriend hates every inch of me.