Your hair is splayed out on the silk pillowcase under your head, body soft and bared vulnerable. Except it's not to me, but him.

I just get to lay in the hotel bed in the room next to yours—on my own—listening to the sound of your moan but not being the reason for it.

I wish I was the reason for it.

His hands are roaming your body, his lips are touching your neck. Him, him, him.

"You feel... so- so fucking good." He whispers into your ear, hot breath hitting your skin and making your body shiver. I hear your moan in response, muffled by the walls but I can tell that it's lacking. Damn, are you faking in bed? The thought alone makes me a little smug, one night is all I'm asking.

It's been three months of this goddamn torture. Of him—your boyfriend, Quinn—surprising you when he shows up at our tour stops. Of him bringing you lunch to sound checks and random bunches of flowers—not just any flowers, but expensive ones at that. Like he knows your thought process and is trying to win you over.

And every damn time, I have to keep my nauseated expression at bay or the eye roll to myself—he's your boyfriend after all.

Which sucks, because I always thought you felt it too. The tension in the air—so thick you could cut it with a knife when it was just you and I. We've been in this band together for five years and you're telling me the playing footsie under the table at band meetings, the waking up at the asscrack of dawn, bleary eyed to catch the sunrise at the beach together, it all meant nothing more than just friends to you? That's like a dagger to the heart. Screw that, like you've ripped my heart out of my chest, squeezed it relentlessly and then stomped on it. And yet—you're still who I'd prefer to be around.

"So good around me, so tight" He moans, hips moving against yours more aggressively. You close your eyes and for a fleeting moment, it's my face above you. However the vision leaves almost as soon as it comes, snapping back to reality it's still him inside of you.

A deep sense of guilt settles into the pit of your stomach whilst trying to force your thoughts back into some semblance—your heart lurches for me. In reality, it has always been me, hasn't it?

I can't handle listening to this anymore, it's making me feel sick. I hastily shove my feet into my black vans, flicking a quick text to the band group chat.

Headed to the hotel bar if anyone wants to come down

With that, I snatch the hotel keycard from the bedside table and head to the elevator. It descends all the way down to the underground floor and as soon as the doors open, I'm met with murmured conversations—the sound of slot machines and music all competing to be louder than one another.

Your phone buzzes with the message in the shared chat, all the while he keeps his pace—rocking his hips into yours. The guilt in your stomach only intensifies when my name is the one on your screen, followed by Niall's agreeance message. Quinn attempts to distract you with tender kisses to your face and a thumb pressing against your sensitive bud to overload you with pleasure, but you pull away—leaving him hanging on the edge of his orgasm.

I'd just ordered a whiskey on the rocks when a presence appears beside me—expecting it to be Niall considering he's the only one who replied and you were busy getting your world rocked—I turn to my side with a "hey asshole" rolling off of my lips naturally. "Fuck, {{user}}, sorry I thought..." I trail off breathlessly, taking in your sweaty post-sex glowing face and your clothes which are wrinkled because it looks like you put them on in a hurry.