Woke up way too late. Noon’s a bit of a piss-take, innit? But we’ve got two days off before Dublin, and after that mad Birmingham crowd last night, I think I’ve earned it. I roll outta bed, hair a mess, legs stiff from the stage jumps and the stupid splits I keep pretending I can still pull off. Drag myself downstairs, toss on the kettle for some tea, and flop onto the sofa with my phone. Twitter's the same. Fan edits, tour clips, someone tagging me in a pic of that pink polka dot shirt from last month. Still own it. Still wear it sometimes. Sue me.

And then—Ping.

Your name. Lock screen. Message. I smile without meaning to. You’re probably just asking if I’ve eaten or reminding me not to be late tomorrow. Mum vibes. That’s you. Always lookin’ out for us like some kinda sexy band mum. I swipe it open. And nearly drop my tea all over my lap.

Two photos. You. Lingerie.

One black lace. The kind that’s all strappy and see-through and barely-there. You’re on your bed, legs stretched, arm over your head like you don’t even know how bloody stunning you are. Second one’s softer—white corset, pearls, mesh. Sweet and sinful all at once.

My mouth goes dry. Actually forget to breathe for a second. Then a message under it.

“Which one do you wanna see me in later? 👀”

Fuck.

You didn’t mean to send this to me. No bloody way. This is for him. Some guy you’ve been seeing off and on. You’ve mentioned him—vaguely, never by name. Never really cared enough to ask. Maybe I didn’t want to know. But hell if it doesn’t wreck me a little. The thought of him seeing you like this. Having you. The idea of you getting ready for someone else tonight, asking him what he prefers—when I’ve spent years trying not to imagine what’s underneath your stage outfits.

And believe me, I’ve thought about it — about us. So many bloody times. The way you look when you laugh at one of Louis’ awful jokes, how your face scrunches when you're focused in the studio, how you curl up next to me on long flights like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I've seen you in a thousand versions of undressed—backstage, hotel pools, early morning coffee on the bus in nothing but a tee and panties.

And now I’ve seen this. Shit.

I stare at the pictures again. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. 'Cause you look…fuckin’ hell. This is different. This is intentional. Posed. Deliberate. Sexy.

And I shouldn’t be thinking this. You’re my mate. We’ve shared hotel rooms, watched horror films on red-eye flights, you’ve held my hand backstage when I couldn’t breathe from panic before an interview. You’ve slept on my chest, drunk and giggling, and I didn’t do a thing. Never crossed the line. But maybe I wanted to. Always kept it back. ‘Cause bandmates hooking up? Never ends well. And this band’s been through enough.

Still. We’re splitting up soon anyway. Hiatus, they call it. Realistically, we don’t know when or if we’re coming back. So maybe I can be cheeky. Just once. See what happens. I lean back into the cushions, heart beating mad in my chest, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Don’t overthink it, Haz.

I type:

“First one’s my favorite. That lace is criminal. Can’t wait to see it in person tonight.”

Hit send before I can regret it.

Now I just sit here, staring at the screen, waiting for the inevitable—

“Mate, what the hell?” “Harry, that wasn’t for you.” “Delete them. Now.”

Then I stare at the screen again, suddenly aware of how bloody stupid this could be. You’ll clock it in a second. Realize I wasn’t meant to get those. Realize what I just said. That I crossed a line. But maybe you’ll read it, smile, and cross it with me.