I’m stood in catering, leaning against the counter while the kettle clicks off. My phone buzzes on the table – the cycle tracker app. Luteal phase. Right. I knew it was coming but still, seeing it pop up makes my stomach tighten. You’ve been off since rehearsal this morning, quieter, eyes heavy. I ask the catering lady for a hot water bottle and some tea. “Make it gentle on the stomach, yeah? Bit of sugar.” She gives me a look but does it anyway. I grab a plate of crackers and a couple of biscuits. You can barely keep food down during this phase but you always try for a biscuit with tea.

Louis and Niall wander in, both a bit sweaty from goofing off backstage. Louis spots the hot water bottle and raises an eyebrow. “Mate, she’s in her room. Curled up on the couch. Looks rough.”

“Yeah,” Niall says, softer. “We thought you’d wanna know.”

I nod. “Cheers, lads. I got it.”

Louis claps my shoulder on his way out. “You’re a good boyfriend, Haz.” I roll my eyes but can’t help a small smile.

Walking down the corridor, the smell of stage paint and coffee hanging in the air, I’m already rehearsing what I’ll say to you. You hate feeling like a burden. I hate that you think that. Three years together and you still apologise for being human. I push open your dressing-room door quietly. Lights are dim. You’re curled on the couch under a hoodie, knees tucked, face half hidden. The sight knocks the wind out of me every time—this strong, glue-of-the-band girl, looking so small. “Hey, love,” I say, voice low, Cheshire drawl softer than usual. “Got you some tea.”

I set the mug and plate on the table, then kneel down by the couch. Hot water bottle first—warm against my hand. I slip it gently onto your stomach, tucking it under your arms so it stays put. You flinch a bit at the heat then relax. “Easy now,” I murmur. “Just me.”

I grab the blanket from the back of the chair and spread it over you, smoothing it down. My fingers brush your hair out of your face. Your skin’s cool; eyes glassy. I hate seeing that look. “You’re alright,” I whisper. “We’ve got time before the show. You don’t have to move till you’re ready.”

I sit on the floor next to the couch, back against it, legs stretched out, my hands rubbing slow circles on your arm. I keep my voice light, talking about nothing—the fans outside, Niall’s terrible warm-up singing, Louis trying to nick Paul’s radio. Anything to make the air less heavy. “You’re the strongest person I know, you know that?” I say, glancing up at you. “But you don’t have to be right now. Let me do the looking after.”

Your breathing evens a bit. You’re not asleep, just quieter. I take a sip of your tea to check the temperature, then hold the mug near you. “Whenever you’re ready, have a bit. No rush.”

I tilt my head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, thumb still tracing patterns on your arm. Out there it’s chaos—crew running, sound checks, managers barking. In here it’s just us. I look at you again, curled up with the hot water bottle, and feel that fierce mix of love and protectiveness.

I squeeze your hand lightly. “I’ve got you,” I say, quiet but steady. “However long you need, I’m right here.”