Just a girl in love with Louis Tomlinson. Not a Larry.
About Me:
I'm a later to the game One Direction fan. I was in Uni in the 2010s. I really fell in love with them after stumbling across Niall's Heartbreak Weather album in 2020. So I'm late to the game. If that bothers you, I'm not sure what I can do for you.
Louis is my favorite, but I am also a big fan of Niall and Harry. And Liam. I love LP1. Forever devastated about LP2.
I like all the boys writing styles for different reasons, but Louis ended up being my favorite because I like rock/pop/punk music the most. I also just in general find the emotions in his lyrics very raw and moving.
Other things I like: 5SOS (and their solo stuff), Yungblud, Noah Kahn, Waterparks, flamingos, books/reading, travel, writing, coffee, cats, cooking, being a good human being, and trying my best to live my live with minimal regrets.
In general, I just think the world would be a better place if people just tried to get out of their own heads and think about what other people's stories might be like. So yeah, treat people with kindness.
Drop me a follow if we share some interests. I hope you feel at home here.
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Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)
Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover
Work Count: 4800 - ish
POV: Reader, Second Person
Setting: London, England – June 2026
Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of Liam’s death
Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. A phone call from an old friend leads to an unexpected opportunity and the fate of your run in West End is revealed. Niall gives support and a nudge in the right direction and you start to make a big announcement to the lads.
A/N: I am not a golfer. I know nothing about golf. I apologize if it comes across in the section of this chapter. Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
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Round 2: A Robust Vanilla Diva
“We are in fact on the North America part of a big world tour. But you know us, we always have time for our One Direction mates,” Ashton Irwin’s voice replies through your air pods
The smile on your face is huge. 5SOS and One Direction lore ran deep and at times were inseparable. You were proud of what they’d accomplished both as a band and individually. They are insanely talented and grounded blokes that you respect deeply. Hell, you still considered them good friends despite it being years since seeing each other. When your bands were on tour together, you had spent a fair amount of time with them laughing and goofing around.
“I’m sure you are killing it. Everyone’s A Star is a fucking sick album. Top to bottom. I have zero doubt that the show is amazing as well. I never got tired of watching you lot on stage when we shared a tour,” you told him smiling.
“We have a lot of that thanks to you guys.”
“Mhmm, Louis’ tweet was your X Factor. You stuck around because of talent and hard work,” you assured him, “We didn’t even make it as long as you did as a band, so, I think it could be argued that you were the stronger band from the get go.”
Ashton laughed at that, “Or more insane.”
You can’t help yourself or the smile on your face before you fire back, “Well, I mean, that’s a given. But sanity has always been over rated in this business,”
You briefly think about how this is definitely the end of today’s run. You’d be just shy of 10 kilometers when you stopped to take a break before this call. The perfectionist part of your brain is annoyed at not quite getting to 10K. But, your legs and the kinder part of your brain (the one you try to embrace more often) are grateful. You’d slacked off in the time leading up to Tessa’s wedding and it had made this run more of a chore than it should have been.
You walk along the sidewalk with purpose and people walk past you. If someone recognizes you anymore while you are out, it's rare. You’ve been out of the spotlight so long, that when most people don’t recognize you it's too late. You’ve already walked on by. And you’re more than okay with that. There was a time where you never thought you’d be able to walk down a sidewalk again without a body guard
“So since you listened to the album and clearly are still a fan, the boys and I wanted to throw an idea out to you, Y/N.” Ashton said.
“Shoot, love,” you tell him as you turn down a street headed off a more main road to a side one.
“Look, we get this is a sensitive subject for you probably. No one who loves performing and music as much as you do goes on a 10 year break from the stage without a reason. And you’ve been so private in that time, so we understand if it is a straight no. But we all saw the video of the wedding on Instagram you were tagged in. And well, it got us nostalgic and we were wondering if you wanted to get on stage again. And, well, we’d be open to you joining us as a special guest at any point on our tour. Pick the date. Pick the song or songs. We’d love to perform with you again and the fans would absolutely lose their minds.”
Ashton’s voice is measured. Calm and considerate in that introspective and patient way he had. As if he understands he is walking a tightrope with you.
You nearly stop walking.
“What?” you asked. You could practically feel your brain freeze, buffer, and then freeze again. “You want me to perform with you guys? Ash, that’s mental! You guys are at the top of your game. I’m 10 years of stage rust. I’m gonna be wheezing after one little lap around your stage. I’m basically a dinosaur at this point,” you said with a laugh, trying to downplay the fact that your heart is racing.
Your palms are sweating. Your head is flooded with the memories of all the times you and the 5SOS lads would mess around on stage during sound checks and then again at concerts. It felt like a rush you couldn’t explain. Is it excitement or panic? Do you want this? Or is it nerves? It's been a long time since you had a panic attack. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second and dig your nails into your palm. The brief pain keeps your brain from spiraling down a path you don’t want it to go.
That and Ash’s voice save you from yourself.
“Please, dinosaur my ass, Y/N,” Ashton says and somehow you know he’s rolling his eyes, “You’re at the top of your game too. Every album you’ve produced has a soul to it that wouldn’t have been there if you didn’t nurture it. Your writing is as prismatic, layered, sharp, and intense as ever. All four of us in the last two years have listened to something that you're attached to that has just blown us away. If you're a dinosaur, then the rest of us are primordial ooze.” he said with a laugh.
You blink. Not sure what to say to that, so you settle on the truth, “That was unexpected. But thank you Ash, means a lot. I respect you all as musicians and writers. Wow.” you say quietly.
“Thank us by coming to a show,” he said, “Even if you don’t perform with us, we’d love to see you again,” he said, offering a happy medium as well.
You watch as a red double decker bus drives by, creating a breeze as it passes. You’re closing in on Tessa and Kenzie’s. London feels quite small for a second. Closing in on you despite it's mass and noise. You look up again at the grey sky. Your brain is so full of thoughts. Your stomach is queasy. Again, you’re unsure if it's excitement or panic.
“I’ll be in the states for Louis’ MSG show on July 8th,” you find yourself saying.
“Come to our L.A. show on the 11th then. Straight shot. Direct flight.” Ash says, sounding excited.
“I will come to the show, but I need to think about the performance part. I’ll let you know by the end of the week,” you said to him.
“Sick, mate! Looking forward to hearing from you, Y/N.”
You think of something then and then you can’t stop your mouth as the question comes out, “Hey, Ash, how did you draw the short straw to call me?” you asked, teasing a bit.
“I volunteered. It was my idea honestly to ask. Every time I think about the tours we did together, one of my highlights is how you used to sneak into our sound check and join in the set run through. There wasn’t a verse of our stuff you didn’t know. And sometimes, especially those early days, you and Louis felt like our biggest fans.”
Ashton’s voice is full of nostalgia and friendly banter. And no matter how old you all get, some part of you will always see all of these lads as the kids you all were during this period of your life.
You can’t help the stupidly happy grin as you walk up the steps to Tessa and Kenzie’s front door.
Maybe it was excitement….
“Talk soon, love,” you tell Ash.
“Talk soon,” he replied before hanging up.
You let yourself in with your key and are immediately enveloped by the scent of jasmine, vanilla, and something other floral that you can’t name. It's a super fragrant oil plug in that Kenzie is obsessed with. And it might be good if I didn't have two of them right close together.
“Bloody hell,” you mutter as you move to unplug one and set it on the entry table. You would plug it back in a few days, right before they get back. Without people here moving about to dissipate the scent, it would probably knock you on your ass and make your eyes water in a few days.
You walk into their kitchen where you’d left your purse and a change of clothes so you could leave from here to begin your errands. You take out your air pods and put them in their case. The snap of the lid sharp in the quiet of the empty house.
Your brain is swirling with 100 thoughts of Ashton’s offer. Insanity is what that was. But, the more you thought about it the more tempting it was. Those lads would create a safe space for you. One that you might desperately need to help break the nerves you already had about performing on a theater stage. That was a totally different world. Wouldn’t it make sense to start with something less new? You’d performed in stadiums to tens of thousands. Sometimes with these blokes. This should be safer. So why didn’t it feel that way?
------------------------------------------
Two days later you find yourself on a green with Niall about 20 minutes outside of London. At barely half past 8 in the morning. Being up this early and already doing something of this magnitude had to be some form of illegal. But Niall had insisted that the sun had been up for an hour and that meant you were already behind schedule on golf time. You were beginning to question his sanity as you sat in a golf cart watching him plan his next shot.
He looks at where the hole is and considers his clubs with the intensity of a surgeon trying to figure out what the best method to remove a tumor is. His fingers twitch against his thigh as he drums them thinking.
“Oi, Ni, I love you more than you love Guiness, but I swear down, you’re a proper diva about this game,” you tell him with a soft playful smile.
He raises an eyebrow, “That's rich coming from the woman who has, how many syrups on her coffee bar? Has to be at least 30. What did you say the other day when Amelia asked why you had six different vanillas?,” he said, a smirk twitching at his lips, “Oh yes, you said and I quote ‘They all taste different. Some are for the days when you need a robust vanilla and some are for when you need a mellow vanilla and one is more floral.’ If I’m a diva for this game, you're a vanilla diva. Which has to be some new level of basic girl. Honestly, what the hell is a robust vanilla?” he said as he finally picked his club and moved to the tee.
Your eyes narrow. He’s fucking doing this on purpose. Waiting to take his swing at this point so you can’t respond to his comment. You can feel your hands tighten on the wheel of the cart.
Niall takes his dear sweet time getting into his stance and preparing for his swing. Taking some tentative practice ones before finally committing.
His ball sails through the air. And you finally can respond.
“There absolutely is a difference in the flavor profiles of those vanilla syrups,” you tell him simply as you get off the cart and stand.
“Maybe inside your head there is. But to the rest of the bleedin’ world it's all vanilla,” Niall said with his cackle. His blue eyes twinkled.
“Listen, Ireland. You're on thin ice. Any thinner and I won’t tell you my good news,” you tell him as you pick a club, ball, and tee.
Niall looks at you, smirk on his lips, “Alright, let's have it then.”
You walk over and set up your tee and look to the hole to plan your shot.
“I am gonna get on stage again. This fall. I tried out for the lead in Pretty Woman: The Musical. And I got it,” you said with a smile as you got into your stance. You look out in the direction of the flag.
But you don’t get to take your shot. The sound that comes out of Niall is a sound you’ve only heard from him when he’s watching a football match. It's a raw feral sound that is somewhere between a war cry, unbridled joy, excitement, and his mind exploding. It's a sound that all men make in some fashion and you used to tease the lads about it when you all played football, FIFA, or watched matches on tour. And anytime someone from the media made comments about the sounds of the excited 1D fans, you think how easy it was to allow men to be excited about sport, but girls who were excited were always called hysterical.
But before you can even process the sound Niall made, you’re lifted off your feet. He’s tackled you, and lifted you up off the ground, holding you by the waist. He begins swinging you in a circle while making this cry of joy that is in fact so loud that it scares a few birds out of a nearby tree. You drop your club in surprise and you’re laughing as Niall spins you around.
“Holy fucking hell, Ni! Put me down! You’re gonna blow out a knee again, or even worse, a hip! And then I’m gonna have to call Amelia and tell her I broke you!” you say between giggles.
“You fucking legend! That is incredible news. You’ll absolutely smash it, Y/N! When is the show? I will get tickets for Amelia and I! Why didn’t you send it in the group text?!” Niall’s questions come in rapid succession. His Irish accent becomes thicker in his excitement and his eyes are lit up like a Christmas tree. Warm and bright.
“Late fall. It will be all in the West End here in London. And I’ll get you tickets to any night you want, love. Provided I don’t die of stage fright before then,” you joke.
“Oh, none of that. Y/N, this is incredible! I know you have your reasons for not doing the face side of music anymore. And you know how I feel about them. But I know I speak for a lot of people when I say this, your voice, love. The world’s missed it. The world needs it. However, you want to do it. Musical theater or singing on a record on an album. This is going to set something right in the universe,” he said, smiling at you before finally putting you down and then pulling you into a tight hug.
You’re convinced Niall’s hugs could cure cancer if they could figure out what is in them. Your breath hitches a bit as you hug him back. His words hit something deep inside you. And you start to well up a bit.
“Nialler…..” you say softly when you pull back to look at him. He gently puts his hands on your shoulders, looking at you with the most tender eyes.
“I never said anything or pushed you after you told me about what management used to do that time we were drinking in L.A. It was before you’d gotten involved with the production side of things. And I told you then, management was wrong. And that I wish you’d said something to us back then. Any of us. We would have burned it all down for you. Louis especially would have told them where they could have shoved it. I thought producing music would give you the itch again. But you’ve been happy with that. But…” he said, pausing. He moved to play with his hair a bit, trying to think how he wanted to phrase the next bit.
Your heart is racing and you can feel a tightness in your throat as the lump forms. You pull in a ragged breath.
“I know you. Somewhere in you is that girl that used to command the stage easier than drawing a breath. You can’t see yourself on stage. But that's where your soul came alive. You poured every molecule of yourself up there. And it made us all better. You gracing the stage again in 2026? Well, that might be one of the top highlights of my 30s, love. Don’t doubt yourself. It’s the right choice,” he said, smiling softly.
You feel the tears fall down your cheeks and you move to wipe them away. Not trying to make them stop, but accepting the necessity of the release of some of the complicated emotions you have been holding onto for a long time.
“I didn’t text the group chat because then it would be too late to change anything,” you admit quietly, “Nothing is public yet. But I knew as soon as I said it to you or any of the lads, it would be cemented.”
“Thank god for that,” Niall said grinning, “Don’t change it. Cure and cement it. Build the side walk. You’re on the path now. I’m exhausting this metaphor but you don’t have to run towards it full speed yet. But start walking, Y/N.”
You smile as you wipe the last of your tears. “That’s not all….” you tell him.
“What other magic you got cooking in that brain of yours?” Niall asked as he moved to pick up your club and hand it to you.
“Let me take my shot. If we stand out here anymore, people are going to get annoyed because we are holding up the whole course,” you say as you take the club and move to take the shot.
You take a breath and think about how this game, like any performance, is more of a mental game than anything. That the energy you take with you onto the green determines as much how it's going to go as much as how you take the shot. Same with shows and songs.
You let all the doubt you still have go for just a second and think about how you can do this. Just like you used to. You can find that 20-year-old girl inside of you who used to think being on a stage was the only place she’d feel properly alive
And some part of you is aware that this is you accepting something that has nothing to do with golf.
You swing and hit the ball. It sails through the air and you watch it land, fairly close to the hole. Niall claps.
“Now, that’s a swing!” he said, smiling, absolutely chuffed.
You smile, as you both move to finish this hole.
As you move to the next hole, you drive the cart, and Niall makes a face.
“Stop judging my driving!”
“If you can call it driving,” he said with a laugh.
“What do you call it?” You asked, narrowing your eyes.
“A travesty,” he said, smirking.
You take one hand off the wheel to swat at him.
“Two hands, Y/N! 10 and 2 or whatever they say!” he said, an edge of panic in his voice.
“You’re so bloody dramatic,” you mutter as you get to the next starting point.
“So what's this other news?” he asked, too curious to help himself.
“Ashton Irwin called. He and the 5SOS lads want me to make a surprise guest appearance at their L.A. show,” you tell him softly.
Niall grins, “That would be fucking legendary. What’s stopping you from saying yes?”
You take a breath and adjust your hat. “I don’t know exactly. It just seems like so often when I do anything to support you lads, there is that group of people that say I’m trying to cling to my relevancy or clinging to the success of my bandmates or friends. And that gets really loud and I start thinking maybe I’m hurting more than helping. And I don’t want that. Not for them or any of you.”
“All noise. And in your own head,” Niall tells you as he selects his club, “Seriously, Y/N. You’re so worried about stepping on other people’s toes. If those lads didn’t want you there they wouldn’t have invited you. At this point, anyone who thinks you don’t deserve what you’ve done, fuck them. What do you want? Do you want to do it?”
You pause for a moment and think. You think about the feeling of the bright lights on your skin. The look of the fans’ faces. The energy and feeling you get from them singing your lyrics back to you. The look in their eyes. And the rush you get of feeling the music you worked so hard to craft flowing through you. And something hits you square in the chest.
Maybe it's because you’re here with Niall, someone who knows you to your soul, or maybe it's the fact that you haven't been able to stop thinking about doing this appearance since Ashton’s call. But you start to realize something. Maybe you do miss it. Maybe instead of thinking as you return to stage this year as a way to honor Liam because he can’t return to the stage. Maybe a part of you also wants it too. Maybe you miss it so much that you ache in a way you didn’t allow yourself to feel properly.
“I want to do it,” you find yourself saying before your brain totally understands that it's given you permission to say that.
“Then do it, Y/N. Don’t worry about what anyone else says. I know it's not that simple in your brain, but it really is that simple. You don’t have to justify it anymore,” he said, smiling at you.
You smile, “You know that's just that's like telling an anxious person to stop thinking about it,” you tell him, partially joking.
“I know, but you gave me some advice before I did my first solo performance. And I carried that with me for the whole first tour. So I’m going to give it back to you,” he told you.
You wait patiently for him to continue. Rubbing your arm, trying to shake the goosebumps he’s giving you. You get up out of the cart just for something to do. Uncomfortable with the idea of your words being that impactful.
Niall sets up his tee and ball before speaking.
“You told me that it didn’t matter how many shows we do alone. It didn’t matter if we ever got back together or not as a band. That parts of all of us and each other would always be woven into the fabrics of our individual stage presences. We learned how to perform together. Learned how to do everything together. So, we are always part of each other’s shows up there and that means we are also never really alone up there,” he said, studying you for a second before he moved to take his stance.
And you stand there and watch as he takes his shot. And for a moment you love and hate yourself equally. Love yourself because there is nothing you wouldn’t do for Niall. And knowing that something you had said brought him both confidence and comfort when he needed it, well, that made a warmth go through you that was impossible to describe properly. And, now, those very words are being used against you.
But you were correct then and he’s correct now. Getting on stage again would bring back so many memories and you know you feel the soul and the spirit of what you all had back then. And that was both exciting and heart breaking.
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Later that night, you’re back in your townhouse near Hyde Park. You’re enjoying an evening in. That meant you ordered a cheeky take away, poured yourself a couple of glasses of good white wine, and had cuddled up with a good book in your little back garden area. It was a cool summer evening, just the right temperature to be outside and enjoy yourself. Your legs are splayed out on the lounge that you’ve occupied for the last two hours. Twilight is rapidly fading away. Your time sensor garden fairy lights turn on and you raise your arms up and stretch out your back. You’ve got about 120 pages left. But you know this author. If you don't take a break here, you’ll be glued to this spot for another two hours, unable to turn the pages fast enough.
You think about Niall’s enthusiasm for you and your new opportunities earlier. And how much you’ve truly enjoyed celebrating each of the lad’s new albums, new tours, and milestones these last 11 years. You knew it was never a major competition between any one of you. Niall was right. You needed to tell them. No more fear and it was time to dull the voice inside your head that was still nagging that what you were doing was completely mental, that you didn’t deserve it, or that your own voice wasn’t strong enough to do this.
But first, you had to agree to the performance. You find Ashton in your contracts. And you type the following message:
Alright. I’m in for the special guest appearance. Call me when you guys have a minute and we’ll set up final details. My only hard date right now is Louis’ MSG show. Otherwise, I can be out to rehearse or do whatever you need of me. I’m rusty. So maybe the more rehearsal the better so I don’t make you lot look bad.
You don’t expect a response right away. But there. You’ve agreed to it. It's in the universe now.
You let out a slow breath and finish the rest of the wine in your glass. The distant hum of London can be heard if you pay attention to it. Noises of cars and voices as people are out and about on this gorgeous and tranquil summer night. Something about living in the city you’ve learned is that it's always alive. Which is comforting. You like to think about all the stories of the people that exist just on your own street. Life keeps turning in big and small ways for everyone.
Your move to find the One Direction group chat in your texts. It's never at the bottom or in your most recent messages. At one time, it would always have been in your top five recent messages. But life turned and turned and you’re all busy in different ways. The daily inside jokes had long since stopped. But someone always had the occasional random thought, memory, or announcement that keeps it alive and well in your inbox. Especially, after Liam left you all. You have separate message threads with all the lads that contain more private exchanges. But something about this being your first big piece of career news since the hiatus feels like a whole group message update.
You type several messages. Editing them. But the words don’t sound right.
So you land on your tried and true strategy of leading into something with humor first. You decide to send a selfie you had taken this morning that you’d also sent to Tessa. You’d been trading morning breakfast pictures. Hers had been of her and Kenzie with a massive breakfast spread on a stunning resort deck. Yours had been avocado toast and an iced latte in your pajamas from your kitchen.
You attach it and send the following message:
Need assistance in settling something with Nialler. Are there different vanillas? He thinks I have too many vanilla syrups in my coffee bar. I think there are different tastes between them suitable for different days.
You lock your phone and head inside and tidy up the kitchen. Once finished you turn on the dishwasher and check your agenda for tomorrow to make sure you aren't missing anything. As you are headed up the stairs the first notification of response comes in.
Louis: Are you trying to piss me off? I thought you of all people would be on my side about the fucking avocadoes.
That makes you laugh so hard you snort.
All dividers are from the fantastic @treatpeoplewithgraphics!
Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash | Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash
Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)
Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover
POV: Reader, Second Person
Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, mentions of Liam’s death, and a cliff hanger ending
Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. She reflects on her time in 1D, her life since the hiatus began, and plots her return to public life. The reader will eventually end up with Harry, but all the boys will make an appearance and have time with the main character.
A/N: Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash | Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash
Masterlist | Taglist
Carousel
Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)
Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover
Work Count: 4800 - ish
POV: Reader, Second Person
Setting: London, England – June 2026
Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of Liam’s death
Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. A phone call from an old friend leads to an unexpected opportunity and the fate of your run in West End is revealed. Niall gives support and a nudge in the right direction and you start to make a big announcement to the lads.
A/N: I am not a golfer. I know nothing about golf. I apologize if it comes across in the section of this chapter. Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
--------------------------------------------
Round 2: A Robust Vanilla Diva
“We are in fact on the North America part of a big world tour. But you know us, we always have time for our One Direction mates,” Ashton Irwin’s voice replies through your air pods
The smile on your face is huge. 5SOS and One Direction lore ran deep and at times were inseparable. You were proud of what they’d accomplished both as a band and individually. They are insanely talented and grounded blokes that you respect deeply. Hell, you still considered them good friends despite it being years since seeing each other. When your bands were on tour together, you had spent a fair amount of time with them laughing and goofing around.
“I’m sure you are killing it. Everyone’s A Star is a fucking sick album. Top to bottom. I have zero doubt that the show is amazing as well. I never got tired of watching you lot on stage when we shared a tour,” you told him smiling.
“We have a lot of that thanks to you guys.”
“Mhmm, Louis’ tweet was your X Factor. You stuck around because of talent and hard work,” you assured him, “We didn’t even make it as long as you did as a band, so, I think it could be argued that you were the stronger band from the get go.”
Ashton laughed at that, “Or more insane.”
You can’t help yourself or the smile on your face before you fire back, “Well, I mean, that’s a given. But sanity has always been over rated in this business,”
You briefly think about how this is definitely the end of today’s run. You’d be just shy of 10 kilometers when you stopped to take a break before this call. The perfectionist part of your brain is annoyed at not quite getting to 10K. But, your legs and the kinder part of your brain (the one you try to embrace more often) are grateful. You’d slacked off in the time leading up to Tessa’s wedding and it had made this run more of a chore than it should have been.
You walk along the sidewalk with purpose and people walk past you. If someone recognizes you anymore while you are out, it's rare. You’ve been out of the spotlight so long, that when most people don’t recognize you it's too late. You’ve already walked on by. And you’re more than okay with that. There was a time where you never thought you’d be able to walk down a sidewalk again without a body guard
“So since you listened to the album and clearly are still a fan, the boys and I wanted to throw an idea out to you, Y/N.” Ashton said.
“Shoot, love,” you tell him as you turn down a street headed off a more main road to a side one.
“Look, we get this is a sensitive subject for you probably. No one who loves performing and music as much as you do goes on a 10 year break from the stage without a reason. And you’ve been so private in that time, so we understand if it is a straight no. But we all saw the video of the wedding on Instagram you were tagged in. And well, it got us nostalgic and we were wondering if you wanted to get on stage again. And, well, we’d be open to you joining us as a special guest at any point on our tour. Pick the date. Pick the song or songs. We’d love to perform with you again and the fans would absolutely lose their minds.”
Ashton’s voice is measured. Calm and considerate in that introspective and patient way he had. As if he understands he is walking a tightrope with you.
You nearly stop walking.
“What?” you asked. You could practically feel your brain freeze, buffer, and then freeze again. “You want me to perform with you guys? Ash, that’s mental! You guys are at the top of your game. I’m 10 years of stage rust. I’m gonna be wheezing after one little lap around your stage. I’m basically a dinosaur at this point,” you said with a laugh, trying to downplay the fact that your heart is racing.
Your palms are sweating. Your head is flooded with the memories of all the times you and the 5SOS lads would mess around on stage during sound checks and then again at concerts. It felt like a rush you couldn’t explain. Is it excitement or panic? Do you want this? Or is it nerves? It's been a long time since you had a panic attack. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second and dig your nails into your palm. The brief pain keeps your brain from spiraling down a path you don’t want it to go.
That and Ash’s voice save you from yourself.
“Please, dinosaur my ass, Y/N,” Ashton says and somehow you know he’s rolling his eyes, “You’re at the top of your game too. Every album you’ve produced has a soul to it that wouldn’t have been there if you didn’t nurture it. Your writing is as prismatic, layered, sharp, and intense as ever. All four of us in the last two years have listened to something that you're attached to that has just blown us away. If you're a dinosaur, then the rest of us are primordial ooze.” he said with a laugh.
You blink. Not sure what to say to that, so you settle on the truth, “That was unexpected. But thank you Ash, means a lot. I respect you all as musicians and writers. Wow.” you say quietly.
“Thank us by coming to a show,” he said, “Even if you don’t perform with us, we’d love to see you again,” he said, offering a happy medium as well.
You watch as a red double decker bus drives by, creating a breeze as it passes. You’re closing in on Tessa and Kenzie’s. London feels quite small for a second. Closing in on you despite it's mass and noise. You look up again at the grey sky. Your brain is so full of thoughts. Your stomach is queasy. Again, you’re unsure if it's excitement or panic.
“I’ll be in the states for Louis’ MSG show on July 8th,” you find yourself saying.
“Come to our L.A. show on the 11th then. Straight shot. Direct flight.” Ash says, sounding excited.
“I will come to the show, but I need to think about the performance part. I’ll let you know by the end of the week,” you said to him.
“Sick, mate! Looking forward to hearing from you, Y/N.”
You think of something then and then you can’t stop your mouth as the question comes out, “Hey, Ash, how did you draw the short straw to call me?” you asked, teasing a bit.
“I volunteered. It was my idea honestly to ask. Every time I think about the tours we did together, one of my highlights is how you used to sneak into our sound check and join in the set run through. There wasn’t a verse of our stuff you didn’t know. And sometimes, especially those early days, you and Louis felt like our biggest fans.”
Ashton’s voice is full of nostalgia and friendly banter. And no matter how old you all get, some part of you will always see all of these lads as the kids you all were during this period of your life.
You can’t help the stupidly happy grin as you walk up the steps to Tessa and Kenzie’s front door.
Maybe it was excitement….
“Talk soon, love,” you tell Ash.
“Talk soon,” he replied before hanging up.
You let yourself in with your key and are immediately enveloped by the scent of jasmine, vanilla, and something other floral that you can’t name. It's a super fragrant oil plug in that Kenzie is obsessed with. And it might be good if I didn't have two of them right close together.
“Bloody hell,” you mutter as you move to unplug one and set it on the entry table. You would plug it back in a few days, right before they get back. Without people here moving about to dissipate the scent, it would probably knock you on your ass and make your eyes water in a few days.
You walk into their kitchen where you’d left your purse and a change of clothes so you could leave from here to begin your errands. You take out your air pods and put them in their case. The snap of the lid sharp in the quiet of the empty house.
Your brain is swirling with 100 thoughts of Ashton’s offer. Insanity is what that was. But, the more you thought about it the more tempting it was. Those lads would create a safe space for you. One that you might desperately need to help break the nerves you already had about performing on a theater stage. That was a totally different world. Wouldn’t it make sense to start with something less new? You’d performed in stadiums to tens of thousands. Sometimes with these blokes. This should be safer. So why didn’t it feel that way?
------------------------------------------
Two days later you find yourself on a green with Niall about 20 minutes outside of London. At barely half past 8 in the morning. Being up this early and already doing something of this magnitude had to be some form of illegal. But Niall had insisted that the sun had been up for an hour and that meant you were already behind schedule on golf time. You were beginning to question his sanity as you sat in a golf cart watching him plan his next shot.
He looks at where the hole is and considers his clubs with the intensity of a surgeon trying to figure out what the best method to remove a tumor is. His fingers twitch against his thigh as he drums them thinking.
“Oi, Ni, I love you more than you love Guiness, but I swear down, you’re a proper diva about this game,” you tell him with a soft playful smile.
He raises an eyebrow, “That's rich coming from the woman who has, how many syrups on her coffee bar? Has to be at least 30. What did you say the other day when Amelia asked why you had six different vanillas?,” he said, a smirk twitching at his lips, “Oh yes, you said and I quote ‘They all taste different. Some are for the days when you need a robust vanilla and some are for when you need a mellow vanilla and one is more floral.’ If I’m a diva for this game, you're a vanilla diva. Which has to be some new level of basic girl. Honestly, what the hell is a robust vanilla?” he said as he finally picked his club and moved to the tee.
Your eyes narrow. He’s fucking doing this on purpose. Waiting to take his swing at this point so you can’t respond to his comment. You can feel your hands tighten on the wheel of the cart.
Niall takes his dear sweet time getting into his stance and preparing for his swing. Taking some tentative practice ones before finally committing.
His ball sails through the air. And you finally can respond.
“There absolutely is a difference in the flavor profiles of those vanilla syrups,” you tell him simply as you get off the cart and stand.
“Maybe inside your head there is. But to the rest of the bleedin’ world it's all vanilla,” Niall said with his cackle. His blue eyes twinkled.
“Listen, Ireland. You're on thin ice. Any thinner and I won’t tell you my good news,” you tell him as you pick a club, ball, and tee.
Niall looks at you, smirk on his lips, “Alright, let's have it then.”
You walk over and set up your tee and look to the hole to plan your shot.
“I am gonna get on stage again. This fall. I tried out for the lead in Pretty Woman: The Musical. And I got it,” you said with a smile as you got into your stance. You look out in the direction of the flag.
But you don’t get to take your shot. The sound that comes out of Niall is a sound you’ve only heard from him when he’s watching a football match. It's a raw feral sound that is somewhere between a war cry, unbridled joy, excitement, and his mind exploding. It's a sound that all men make in some fashion and you used to tease the lads about it when you all played football, FIFA, or watched matches on tour. And anytime someone from the media made comments about the sounds of the excited 1D fans, you think how easy it was to allow men to be excited about sport, but girls who were excited were always called hysterical.
But before you can even process the sound Niall made, you’re lifted off your feet. He’s tackled you, and lifted you up off the ground, holding you by the waist. He begins swinging you in a circle while making this cry of joy that is in fact so loud that it scares a few birds out of a nearby tree. You drop your club in surprise and you’re laughing as Niall spins you around.
“Holy fucking hell, Ni! Put me down! You’re gonna blow out a knee again, or even worse, a hip! And then I’m gonna have to call Amelia and tell her I broke you!” you say between giggles.
“You fucking legend! That is incredible news. You’ll absolutely smash it, Y/N! When is the show? I will get tickets for Amelia and I! Why didn’t you send it in the group text?!” Niall’s questions come in rapid succession. His Irish accent becomes thicker in his excitement and his eyes are lit up like a Christmas tree. Warm and bright.
“Late fall. It will be all in the West End here in London. And I’ll get you tickets to any night you want, love. Provided I don’t die of stage fright before then,” you joke.
“Oh, none of that. Y/N, this is incredible! I know you have your reasons for not doing the face side of music anymore. And you know how I feel about them. But I know I speak for a lot of people when I say this, your voice, love. The world’s missed it. The world needs it. However, you want to do it. Musical theater or singing on a record on an album. This is going to set something right in the universe,” he said, smiling at you before finally putting you down and then pulling you into a tight hug.
You’re convinced Niall’s hugs could cure cancer if they could figure out what is in them. Your breath hitches a bit as you hug him back. His words hit something deep inside you. And you start to well up a bit.
“Nialler…..” you say softly when you pull back to look at him. He gently puts his hands on your shoulders, looking at you with the most tender eyes.
“I never said anything or pushed you after you told me about what management used to do that time we were drinking in L.A. It was before you’d gotten involved with the production side of things. And I told you then, management was wrong. And that I wish you’d said something to us back then. Any of us. We would have burned it all down for you. Louis especially would have told them where they could have shoved it. I thought producing music would give you the itch again. But you’ve been happy with that. But…” he said, pausing. He moved to play with his hair a bit, trying to think how he wanted to phrase the next bit.
Your heart is racing and you can feel a tightness in your throat as the lump forms. You pull in a ragged breath.
“I know you. Somewhere in you is that girl that used to command the stage easier than drawing a breath. You can’t see yourself on stage. But that's where your soul came alive. You poured every molecule of yourself up there. And it made us all better. You gracing the stage again in 2026? Well, that might be one of the top highlights of my 30s, love. Don’t doubt yourself. It’s the right choice,” he said, smiling softly.
You feel the tears fall down your cheeks and you move to wipe them away. Not trying to make them stop, but accepting the necessity of the release of some of the complicated emotions you have been holding onto for a long time.
“I didn’t text the group chat because then it would be too late to change anything,” you admit quietly, “Nothing is public yet. But I knew as soon as I said it to you or any of the lads, it would be cemented.”
“Thank god for that,” Niall said grinning, “Don’t change it. Cure and cement it. Build the side walk. You’re on the path now. I’m exhausting this metaphor but you don’t have to run towards it full speed yet. But start walking, Y/N.”
You smile as you wipe the last of your tears. “That’s not all….” you tell him.
“What other magic you got cooking in that brain of yours?” Niall asked as he moved to pick up your club and hand it to you.
“Let me take my shot. If we stand out here anymore, people are going to get annoyed because we are holding up the whole course,” you say as you take the club and move to take the shot.
You take a breath and think about how this game, like any performance, is more of a mental game than anything. That the energy you take with you onto the green determines as much how it's going to go as much as how you take the shot. Same with shows and songs.
You let all the doubt you still have go for just a second and think about how you can do this. Just like you used to. You can find that 20-year-old girl inside of you who used to think being on a stage was the only place she’d feel properly alive
And some part of you is aware that this is you accepting something that has nothing to do with golf.
You swing and hit the ball. It sails through the air and you watch it land, fairly close to the hole. Niall claps.
“Now, that’s a swing!” he said, smiling, absolutely chuffed.
You smile, as you both move to finish this hole.
As you move to the next hole, you drive the cart, and Niall makes a face.
“Stop judging my driving!”
“If you can call it driving,” he said with a laugh.
“What do you call it?” You asked, narrowing your eyes.
“A travesty,” he said, smirking.
You take one hand off the wheel to swat at him.
“Two hands, Y/N! 10 and 2 or whatever they say!” he said, an edge of panic in his voice.
“You’re so bloody dramatic,” you mutter as you get to the next starting point.
“So what's this other news?” he asked, too curious to help himself.
“Ashton Irwin called. He and the 5SOS lads want me to make a surprise guest appearance at their L.A. show,” you tell him softly.
Niall grins, “That would be fucking legendary. What’s stopping you from saying yes?”
You take a breath and adjust your hat. “I don’t know exactly. It just seems like so often when I do anything to support you lads, there is that group of people that say I’m trying to cling to my relevancy or clinging to the success of my bandmates or friends. And that gets really loud and I start thinking maybe I’m hurting more than helping. And I don’t want that. Not for them or any of you.”
“All noise. And in your own head,” Niall tells you as he selects his club, “Seriously, Y/N. You’re so worried about stepping on other people’s toes. If those lads didn’t want you there they wouldn’t have invited you. At this point, anyone who thinks you don’t deserve what you’ve done, fuck them. What do you want? Do you want to do it?”
You pause for a moment and think. You think about the feeling of the bright lights on your skin. The look of the fans’ faces. The energy and feeling you get from them singing your lyrics back to you. The look in their eyes. And the rush you get of feeling the music you worked so hard to craft flowing through you. And something hits you square in the chest.
Maybe it's because you’re here with Niall, someone who knows you to your soul, or maybe it's the fact that you haven't been able to stop thinking about doing this appearance since Ashton’s call. But you start to realize something. Maybe you do miss it. Maybe instead of thinking as you return to stage this year as a way to honor Liam because he can’t return to the stage. Maybe a part of you also wants it too. Maybe you miss it so much that you ache in a way you didn’t allow yourself to feel properly.
“I want to do it,” you find yourself saying before your brain totally understands that it's given you permission to say that.
“Then do it, Y/N. Don’t worry about what anyone else says. I know it's not that simple in your brain, but it really is that simple. You don’t have to justify it anymore,” he said, smiling at you.
You smile, “You know that's just that's like telling an anxious person to stop thinking about it,” you tell him, partially joking.
“I know, but you gave me some advice before I did my first solo performance. And I carried that with me for the whole first tour. So I’m going to give it back to you,” he told you.
You wait patiently for him to continue. Rubbing your arm, trying to shake the goosebumps he’s giving you. You get up out of the cart just for something to do. Uncomfortable with the idea of your words being that impactful.
Niall sets up his tee and ball before speaking.
“You told me that it didn’t matter how many shows we do alone. It didn’t matter if we ever got back together or not as a band. That parts of all of us and each other would always be woven into the fabrics of our individual stage presences. We learned how to perform together. Learned how to do everything together. So, we are always part of each other’s shows up there and that means we are also never really alone up there,” he said, studying you for a second before he moved to take his stance.
And you stand there and watch as he takes his shot. And for a moment you love and hate yourself equally. Love yourself because there is nothing you wouldn’t do for Niall. And knowing that something you had said brought him both confidence and comfort when he needed it, well, that made a warmth go through you that was impossible to describe properly. And, now, those very words are being used against you.
But you were correct then and he’s correct now. Getting on stage again would bring back so many memories and you know you feel the soul and the spirit of what you all had back then. And that was both exciting and heart breaking.
---------------------------------------
Later that night, you’re back in your townhouse near Hyde Park. You’re enjoying an evening in. That meant you ordered a cheeky take away, poured yourself a couple of glasses of good white wine, and had cuddled up with a good book in your little back garden area. It was a cool summer evening, just the right temperature to be outside and enjoy yourself. Your legs are splayed out on the lounge that you’ve occupied for the last two hours. Twilight is rapidly fading away. Your time sensor garden fairy lights turn on and you raise your arms up and stretch out your back. You’ve got about 120 pages left. But you know this author. If you don't take a break here, you’ll be glued to this spot for another two hours, unable to turn the pages fast enough.
You think about Niall’s enthusiasm for you and your new opportunities earlier. And how much you’ve truly enjoyed celebrating each of the lad’s new albums, new tours, and milestones these last 11 years. You knew it was never a major competition between any one of you. Niall was right. You needed to tell them. No more fear and it was time to dull the voice inside your head that was still nagging that what you were doing was completely mental, that you didn’t deserve it, or that your own voice wasn’t strong enough to do this.
But first, you had to agree to the performance. You find Ashton in your contracts. And you type the following message:
Alright. I’m in for the special guest appearance. Call me when you guys have a minute and we’ll set up final details. My only hard date right now is Louis’ MSG show. Otherwise, I can be out to rehearse or do whatever you need of me. I’m rusty. So maybe the more rehearsal the better so I don’t make you lot look bad.
You don’t expect a response right away. But there. You’ve agreed to it. It's in the universe now.
You let out a slow breath and finish the rest of the wine in your glass. The distant hum of London can be heard if you pay attention to it. Noises of cars and voices as people are out and about on this gorgeous and tranquil summer night. Something about living in the city you’ve learned is that it's always alive. Which is comforting. You like to think about all the stories of the people that exist just on your own street. Life keeps turning in big and small ways for everyone.
Your move to find the One Direction group chat in your texts. It's never at the bottom or in your most recent messages. At one time, it would always have been in your top five recent messages. But life turned and turned and you’re all busy in different ways. The daily inside jokes had long since stopped. But someone always had the occasional random thought, memory, or announcement that keeps it alive and well in your inbox. Especially, after Liam left you all. You have separate message threads with all the lads that contain more private exchanges. But something about this being your first big piece of career news since the hiatus feels like a whole group message update.
You type several messages. Editing them. But the words don’t sound right.
So you land on your tried and true strategy of leading into something with humor first. You decide to send a selfie you had taken this morning that you’d also sent to Tessa. You’d been trading morning breakfast pictures. Hers had been of her and Kenzie with a massive breakfast spread on a stunning resort deck. Yours had been avocado toast and an iced latte in your pajamas from your kitchen.
You attach it and send the following message:
Need assistance in settling something with Nialler. Are there different vanillas? He thinks I have too many vanilla syrups in my coffee bar. I think there are different tastes between them suitable for different days.
You lock your phone and head inside and tidy up the kitchen. Once finished you turn on the dishwasher and check your agenda for tomorrow to make sure you aren't missing anything. As you are headed up the stairs the first notification of response comes in.
Louis: Are you trying to piss me off? I thought you of all people would be on my side about the fucking avocadoes.
That makes you laugh so hard you snort.
All dividers are from the fantastic @treatpeoplewithgraphics!
Today is a bit heavy for it being the 15th anniversary and our first without Liam. But I was thinking for a bit of fun today I wanted to write about what my favorite song was from each album and why.
Obviously, this is my opinion and we all have our own favorites. I am sure this ranking will change at some point. Music and songs grow and evolve with us. So I am okay if these change.
I am hoping to create a discussion with this post and to share happiness, positivity, and good vibes about music we love. The world doesn't need more negativity.
TPWK
So onto my favorites (for now):
Up All Night - "One Thing"
I personally think this is better than "What Makes You Beautiful" (probably an unpopular opinion) because I like that it focuses on everyone being unique and embracing the parts of yourself that make you unique. You get to decide whatever your one thing is. :)
Take Me Home - "Magic"
It's cute and bubbly. It puts me in a good mood instantly. That all I have to say. 🤣
Midnight Memories - "Through the Dark"
I am hyper independent and am currently dealing with the worst case of burn out I have had in my life the last handful of months. As I self heal, this song let's me know it's going to be alright.
FOUR - "Fool's Gold"
I love how they talk about the concept of unrequited love and that isn't always toxic. It also has beautiful imagery. I think it also shows some of their best growth as writers before their solo careers.
Made in the AM - "What a Feeling"
Might be my favorite 1D song of all time. 🤔 The song is just a whole vibe. I think, again, it shows their growth as writers. I also think it captures the magic of falling in love and being present with your partner.
Adding to the Niall love. He is also hilarious and so so kind. We love a man who can make us laugh and remind us everything is gonna be okay with a little joke and a smile.
To paraphrase Louis. It's easy to be a Niall fan. 💕
Hiii babes!!! He is so funny and sarcastic like really I just love him!!! Seeing him Sunday I was just like damn I’ve missed his dad jokes and random stories 😂 Louis is so right it is very easy to be a Niall fan😂🥹💖
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In 2012, you tweeted that you couldn’t believe you were even saying “MSG.”
Back then, it was One Direction’s Madison Square Garden debut. It was the five of you standing inside something bigger than any of you could possibly understand yet. You were kids, still growing into your own voice while the whole world was deciding what it wanted you to be before you’d had a proper chance to decide for yourself.
And now it’s 2026.
Tonight, it’s your Madison Square Garden debut.
Your name. Your voice. Your band. Your songs. Your fans. Your fight.
I don’t know if there are words big enough for what that means, but I hope you feel it. I hope you really let yourself feel it. Not just as another show, not just as another room to win over, not just as another thing to prove. But as the kind of moment that reaches backwards and touches every version of you who had to keep going.
The boy with no solos.
The boy who learned to write because he had something to prove.
The man who kept choosing his fans even when the industry didn’t choose him loudly enough.
The man who rebuilt, and rebuilt, and rebuilt.
The man who turned survival into songs people could scream back at him.
There are people who have been here long enough to remember what it felt like when MSG was a miracle sentence. We remember the old tweets. The old interviews. The way you hid behind jokes. The way you carried more than people gave you credit for. The way you always tried to make everything about the fans because it was safer, because it was generous, because it was you.
But tonight, I hope you know we’re not just proud because you sold out the room.
We’re proud because you got here as yourself.
Not untouched. Not unhurt. Not without compromise. Not without having to fight through things most people will never understand. But still yourself. Still funny. Still stubborn. Still sharp. Still sentimental. Still looking at a crowd like you can’t believe they showed up for you, even though they always will.
And if you sing Side By Side tonight, I hope you hear us sing it back with all the weight it deserves.
For the fans, yes.
For the years, yes.
For everyone who grew up with you, yes.
For every quiet loyalty, every unseen sacrifice.
There since you were eighteen.
Still here.
Still growing up side by side.
Tonight shouldn’t have to be about proving anything to anyone. You’ve already proved it. You proved it in the writing. In the touring. In the rooms that got bigger and louder. In the people who stayed. In the fact that Madison Square Garden gets to hear your songs tonight and know exactly who carried them there.
So I hope you cry if you need to.
I hope you laugh when you try not to.
I hope you look out at that room and let it hit you: this didn’t happen by accident. You built this. You earned this. You made it here.
Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash | Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash
Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)
Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover
POV: Reader, Second Person
Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, mentions of Liam’s death, and a cliff hanger ending
Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. She reflects on her time in 1D, her life since the hiatus began, and plots her return to public life. The reader will eventually end up with Harry, but all the boys will make an appearance and have time with the main character.
A/N: Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
Photo by Ethan Hoover on Unsplash | Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash
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Pairing: Harry Styles X Fem!reader (All the boys will make an appearance and get a chapter – eventually)
Tropes: Second Chance and Friends to Lover
Work Count: Just shy of 4,200.
POV: Reader, Second Person
Setting: London, England – June 2026
Warnings: Angst, mentions of past trauma, mentions of death, mentions of Liam’s death, and a cliff hanger ending
Summary: Reader is the sixth member of One Direction. After waking up to an interesting embarrassing video of her being posted online, she reflects on her time in 1D, her life since the hiatus began, and plots her return to public life.
A/N: This is the first chapter where the reader will eventually end up with Harry, but all the boys will make an appearance and have time with the main character. Also, this is my first fiction. So, please. be nice. Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)
----------------------------------------------
Round 1: Monochromatic Nightmares
There were many things that changed when you turned 30. One of which was the hangovers. They truly are on a whole new level. You feel it before you even open your eyes. An aching throb in your head, nausea, and your mouth and throat felt like you had swallowed a ball of cotton that was now stuck there. You reach one arm from your blanket fortress and reach around for your phone on the bedside table and drag it into your cocoon. And then back out for your emotional support water bottle.
The liquid hits harder than whatever you drank last night. Though, this suffering is worth it.
Your oldest mate, Tessa, got married last night to the partner of her dreams. It was literally a fairy tale. And you celebrated. Properly. Which meant more than a few drinks, and if you were being honest, you never could quite handle your liquor.
More than once the lads had taken the piss watching you becoming a giggling mess after two drinks. A wave of nostalgia hits you, thinking about a night somewhere on tour, where after two drinks, Harry and Liam had to remind you (more than once) that the ducks in a nearby park, didn’t, in fact, want to meet you as much as you wanted to meet them.
As you unlock your phone, you see a text from Niall.
Niall: Fair play to you! Maybe I should imitate your dancing skills one night on tour. Cheers, for that! I know you don’t check the socials often but Twitter and Instagram are exploding.
What in the bleeding hell was he wagging his chin about?
You open up Instagram and immediately are overwhelmed by a flood of comments.
I didn’t have Y/N fangirling over Niall’s Monochromatic on my 2026 BINGO card!
She’s so back!
I love this for her! And for Niall!
Look at her! Proper legend!
Get it Queen!
You hit play on the video that is circulating now. There you are. Drunk, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, a dress that made you forget the things you didn’t always like about your body, and happy.
When was the last time you looked that happy in a picture?
Your nightmare resumes as you realize you are standing on the very expensively decorated table at Tessa’s wedding. Barefoot. Singing loudly and leading the wedding guests in a sing along to Niall’s “Monochromatic” from his new album. The album is only a week old at this point. The phone that clearly belongs to one of the guests at the wedding, pans over to Tessa and her wife of all of a few hours, Kenzie, (who is a massive Niall Horan fan), dancing and singing along too.
You groan in horrified embarrassment, wishing the covers would swallow you alive.
“You fucking twat,” you mutter to yourself.
The dull ache is increasing in your head now. You make note about needing to send the happy couple a gift when they return from their honeymoon. They didn’t deserve to have you turn their wedding reception into a sodding karaoke night. Even though neither of them is probably mad, an appreciation gift never hurt anyone.
You type back to Niall:
Listen, old man! You’d break a knee and/or a hip imitating my dance moves. You’re welcome for the second shout out in less than a week! I’m going back to my death bed now. When I'm gone, tell people I was brave.
The anxiety of embarrassment is sinking into your bones when a new comment comes into view. And your blood runs cold.
Wait?! WAIT? IS THIS REAL? This is the first time she’s sung PUBLICLY since their last concert!!!
You suck in a long breath. Because it’s true. You haven’t sung for anyone outside of a studio since that night in Sheffield.
The hiatus for One Direction had been the hiatus of your performance career. You had just turned 23 at the time the band ended. You’d been just three months shy of being seventeen when it started. And it was the craziest ride you’d ever been on. Full of highs that were nothing short of mind blowing, to lows that were cataclysmic to your self-esteem and self-worth. Yes, you had everything in your life now thanks to One Direction and music had always been your dream. There had never been anything else, really. But it was still a pressure cooker. All of you struggled at times and were forever grateful you had each other. Even when you argued due to tight proximity, endless travel, little sleep, the general run down of tour life, and work schedules that felt like breaks had to be earned.
But the pressures of being the only girl were insane. Management learned quickly the best way to motivate you was psychological warfare. Never directly in front of the lads. But they would make comments that reminded you nothing about your place in the band was permanent. They regularly hinted that you could be replaced and that the band would function financially and talent wise just fine without you. You were left sheets of fan polls, data, and occasionally written reports of your performance in your hotel rooms. To this day, you were never sure if that data was actually accurate or something they just fabricated to get you to keep working harder. Not that it mattered anymore because it had the desired effect. You worked harder. Did everything to prove them wrong. Nothing was good enough for you or for management. It always could be and had to be better. But not without chipping away little pieces of your soul regularly.
And then there were the fans. Though in general, they were truly amazing. But, there were factions that regularly shipped you with one of the lads. Then, those same fans turned around and hated you when it even looked like you may have had a strong connection with any one of them specifically. And the media tried to sexualize every chance they got. All of that accompanied with a time in your life when you didn’t know how to love yourself or be comfortable in your own skin was like living in a hurricane. Every. Damned. Day.
And your family was no help. None at all. The lads all had great relationships with their families. They got transformative moments of paying off debts, buying houses, and cars for their loved ones. Your parents had just taken from you. Milked what they could get out of your fame and literally stole from you. By the time you realized what was happening, they had managed to syphon nearly 2 million pounds from you into accounts and investments that were beneficial only to them. And they rarely came to anything after X-Factor. Despite your calling and begging them more than once to come.
In This is Us, your gran had been the one to do an interview. But she passed before the movie had come out. She had been the only one you were close to, but she wasn’t well enough to come to shows.
Two of the five Christmases were spent alone in your flat in London because your parents and brother went on a holiday cruise. Well, mostly alone, both times you had gone quietly to children’s hospitals and played games with the patients unable to be home at Christmas either. Until Liam somehow figured it out and conspired with Louis to get you to join the Tomlinson family circus for the final two years of the band.
Management had been helpful then. Helpful for you to get a formal legal separation from your family. Helpful in protecting the rest of your money and financial future. But it took a long time for the anxiety and fear to dissipate after that. You were almost one of those childhood stars that has nothing to show for the years of blood, sweat, and tears. And trust still doesn’t come easily for you now.
The factor that made the chaos of it all worth it, other than getting to sing your heart out every day, were the relationships you formed with the lads.
Zayne had been your companion in silence. Sometimes you and he would just sit and not say anything. He’d just quietly draw and you would read. Understanding each other at a level deeper than words. You often talked about art and books. He had been the only one of the lads that had done much reading during the days of the band, and you often traded books back and forth.
Liam had been your northern star. Always letting you know when you hit true north. Providing you with little nudges one way or another when needed. He was the one you always let have the final seal of approval on your vocals or your writing. If he gave his seal of approval, you could let it be done. You and he worked out a lot together on tour. He had been the consistency you craved in the chaos.
Niall was and still is the brother you always wished you had. Patient with you. Kind. Always keeping you safe, laughing, and making sure you never lose sight of the fun. You and he still go sometimes and though you're an average golfer at best, he has never made it a competition with you. He also taught you how to play guitar and was your designated airplane nap buddy. There are dozens of pictures of the two of you over the years curled up together.
Louis had been your partner in crime and in writing. He and you were responsible for so many of the pranks and the chaos together. Paul often said it was a natural disaster when you two met. One the world would never recover from. When you two wrote together, both with and without Liam, the hours melted away. You shared notebooks, late night secrets, and more than one football game that turned into a wrestling match. Skateboards, Red Bull cans, and hoodies were interchangeable between you two. And he was the one you went to first for advice. His judgement was sound and he made you feel like you could do anything.
Harry and you had an emotional bond that sometimes felt like it went to a cellular level. There were times where you and he could nearly feel what the other one was feeling. When either of you were overwhelmed, one of you could pull the other into a hug, take a hand, or give the simplest touch and it could make the other’s anxieties ease by full levels. You and he enjoyed an easy and playful relationship. Nothing ever felt serious or difficult, but each of you always knew what the other was carrying. Harry was intuitive enough to tell you that you were beautiful at just the right moments, so didn’t lose your mind on the internet’s comments. And that night you found out about your family’s betrayal, he laid with you on the floor of that hotel room. He helped you breathe through your sobs and held you tight enough that your chest didn't crack open like it felt it might. He didn’t tell you it would be okay. He just kept saying over and over that he was sorry. Something you haven’t heard often in your life.
When the hiatus came, you didn’t feel the need to be on social media a lot. You slipped into not having every move of your life documented, the way someone might slip into their favorite pajamas after the longest day of their life.
No one wants to hear celebrities complain about their lives, because on some levels they do have it easier than the average person. And you were grateful for that. And you were aware that your problems were not more tragic than others, simply different. But you also can feel more than one thing at a time. You could be grateful for success, love your work, and be overwhelmed by the feeling that you live in a fishbowl.
At 23, you slipped into a sort of temporary retirement. You traveled quietly, avoided red carpets, parties, and didn’t start a solo career. You just wanted quiet after 5 years of constant noise. And you never post on social media, except when one of the lads dropped an album. You would always create a video message reviewing and hyping up their album. The only other things on your social media were when people tagged you. Questions, nudges, pokes, DMs all went unanswered. When you went to a show for the lads or someone else, you would let them post you in their content, but otherwise, you didn’t feel the need to interact that way anymore. The people who really wanted to get a hold of you had your number or email address.
Your sole mission was to heal and to learn how to stand still. You still see each of the lads at least once a year in person and text them regularly for big and small reasons.
Starting in early 2018, you dated a producer that you had met through Liam quietly for over three years. And after not touching anything with music since that final concert, you surprised him and his team with lunch at the studio he was working at. You stayed and watched for a bit.
Something in your soul ached and came alive again.
And the next morning over breakfast, you had asked if he might see if you could try helping with something.
“You want to collaborate with one of my artists?” he asked carefully over breakfast. Chewing his toast thoughtfully.
“No. Well, kind of. Not singing. No vocals. Only writing and maybe a little production consultation,” you had said quietly.
You know a lot about production. He knew you did. You were fascinated by writing like Louis and Liam. Having the second most writing credits after Louis in the band. But even more fascinated with the work Julian and Ryan had done. How they made the sound of One Direction. When they included you in the details of that, it made your whole week. You were a sponge and soaked up everything.
Your boyfriend had nodded, “Stop by tomorrow morning around 10 am. I’ll have something for you…” he said softly. Then he had smiled, “If I can even be a small part of getting you and music back together, I’m going to try it. Your managers were always wrong, Y/N, you’re ready to come back…” he added.
You weren’t sure they were wrong though. If they had been wrong, you would have had longer solos. You always had the smallest vocal parts in every song. Even after Zayne made his exit. But you did show up. And early because you hate being late. You had an iced coffee, a fresh new notebook, and had no sleep the night before. Despite your doubts, you were excited again. And you had decided to let yourself be excited and show up.
And that had begun your new chapter in music. Writer and producer. Now, you helped produce nearly 20 different albums. You were approaching your 13th number one song and your 8th top ten charting album. You were helping mentor some really incredible musicians.
The fact that you didn’t need to do this financially and that you had been part of such a successful machine gave you a different perspective that helped a lot. You could focus on the art of music. You could put in time to help an artist establish themselves and shape their sound. You weren’t chasing hits. If they came, great. If they didn’t, if your artist was happy, you were. But you, yourself only sang in the shower or in demo work with the artists in the studio.
You ended it with the producer in early 2021. You had started to drift apart the third year of your romance. Your relationship had started to feel a bit like you were each a task to be planned in the calendar. Not something either of you looked forward to or were excited about. It took a lot of fighting and hurt feelings to realize that, but in the end, the breakup had been good for both of you. You had been on some dates since then, but nothing serious had stuck. And you were comfortable being single. You were in your early 30s. You had time.
----------------------------------------------
You let out a low breath. Guilt for what you did to Tessa and Kenzie coiling in your gut. You toss off the duvet and get up slowly. The hangover was still there, swirling through your body along with the haze of the good, bad, and complicated memories clouding your brain.
You pad to your kitchen and start to fiddle with your espresso maker. A latte was needed urgently. And some pain killers.
You had just swallowed a few when your phone began to ring.
Tessa’s name appears, wanting to video call from her honeymoon.
You answer it immediately.
“Please tell me you are calling because you are having the best time and want to rub my face in it and not because there are still more duties I need to do as your maid of honor,” you say with a smile.
“Why can’t it be both?” Tessa asks smiling, “Look at this fucking view, be jealous,” she said as she turns her phone. She is on a private deck on one of those ocean villas in the Maldives. Clear water endlessly spread over a clear horizon. You swear a fucking dolphin jumped in the background. It is breathtaking. You grin as your friend continues, “Kenzie is getting changed. We just got in. But I wanted to call you. Tell you we made it safe and see your stupid face,” she adds, flipping the camera back to her.
“Fucking hell, that’s a view. And because you’re a newlywed, I will let you have that rude comment. Okay, what do I need to do?”
“Just reminding you to go to our place in Kensington a few times to water the plants and check the mail. Maybe turn a few lights on here and there,” she said as she studies your face now, “You, okay? In your head about your little sing-along last night?”
You groan. “Oh god. I’m so so sorry Tessy, that was….wow,” you tell her frowning.
“Why are you sorry, love?”
“Because it was very….pick me girl and attention-grabbing spotlight energy. The vibe was very much washed-up singer trying to be relevant by using her former bandmate. It has tacky written all over it. Tacky and-
“Okay, bitch, stop talking about my best friend like that,” Tessa cuts your apology off, “Listen, Y/N, you were happy. And having fun. You let loose. That doesn’t happen as much as it should. And really, it’s a banger of a song. So, it’s honestly, Niall’s fault. You tell him I said he is a terrible person for writing it. Really, I’m suffering because Kenzie has his new album on repeat,” She teased.
You snort. It had been a long time since you pretended to blame Niall for anything. It makes your heart a bit lighter and heavier at the same time.
“Don’t think any more about it, Y/N,” Tessa said smiling, “You’re ready for what is coming next. Despite what that incredibly beautiful, complicated, brilliant, and self-punishing brain of yours lets you believe.”
“Okay, okay,” you reply. Something in your shoulders is loosening. “Thanks, Tessy. Go be Wifey now…”
“It’s a role I was born to play. Well that and being a lawyer, but I’m on vacation. For the next 7 days I’m just wifey,” Tessa said grinning before blowing you a kiss, “Bye, love, be good. Nurse the hangover!”
“Not likely, but I at least won’t get arrested until you're back in the U.K.,” you tell her before the call ends.
You smiled and hope she’s right. As ready as you may feel, there is still a small voice that makes you think you’re not.
---------------------------------------------
A few days later you were on a morning run through Kensington. You had driven over to Tessa and Kenzie’s. After checking their place over and watering and routing all her plants you left for a run in the park. If Tessa asked, yes, you rotated each plant exactly 45 degrees, and yes, you measured. But you definitely didn’t measure.
Plants were more resilient than people gave them credit for. But you did talk to them as she requested. Though you felt ridiculous doing so. Really, what does one say to a plant? You had settled on telling it how green it looked today and that it was a very good and proper plant.
Now on your run, you thought about how today you’d hear either way about your audition. And how fucking nervous you were, but how badly you had wanted this. Liam’s death had given you a new perspective on things once the fog of grief had dissipated. But the thing that still haunted you more than anything else was that Liam couldn’t do many of the things he always wanted to do. He’d died too young. And some parts of you now felt responsible to live your life with the idea that you were living for him too. Not in ways that went against what you wanted , but in ways that meant you didn’t become complacent and that you kept challenging yourself and not hiding because you were scared. Not anymore at least. Life was too short.
Coming back to singing publically wasn’t an instant snap decision. You had thought about it off and on. But now almost two years after Liam’s death, you decided to get on stage again. But in a different way.
You had quietly, with the help of your new management team, tried out for the role of Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman: The Musical. The audition had gone well. Really well. You had gone back for second and third readings with the actor selected to play Edward. It will be a production in West End in the fall into the end of 2026. Nothing massive like a solo album drop and a tour, but it would be a start. A return. And something you’d always wanted to do. You were doing it all again in your own way.
Your feet hit the sidewalk in a well-established rhythm. Your muscles lose some of their tension as you run, using the nerves you felt to fuel your run. You felt your body reset because it was just you, your breathing, and the music in your ears. Your thoughts could come and go and you force yourself to be present in your body.
You think back to what Tessa said.
You’re ready for what is coming next.
Were you though? Only time would tell you.
You stopped after you took your third lap around the park. You saw a few people looking your way, curious, trying to figure out if they knew you from somewhere. You ignore them and stretch your legs a bit and check your fitness watch. That might be what you have for today. You still had to run back to the house and get your vehicle. And you needed a shower, to run some errands, and get a decent meal. Then you’d sit down to listen to some voice memos from the artist you were working with in a studio tomorrow…..
Your phone rings in your air pods. If this is the call from the director, they have impeccable timing. You answer it without looking at the name.
“Hello?” you say, trying to control your breathing.
“Y/N?” came a voice that you’d recognize anywhere, no matter how long it had been since you talked, “Do you always answer your phone out of breath or am I just a lucky bloke?”
You laugh. Your lips curl into an easy smile. It’s not the director, but someone equally as surprising.
“Just on a run. What are you doing calling me, love? I thought you were on some world tour.” you asked, genuinely wondering what prompted this call.
You start to walk back the way you came. Looking up at the sky, it was truly a monochromatic blend of grey. Typical of dull overcast London. But something in your gut told you that this wasn’t going to be anything typical about this call.
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hii i feel like it’s so rare to meet another louie who isn’t a larry lol!
I know!! I just feel like people got too carried away about their friendship. Louis is just naturally protective (oldest brother vibes always) and Harry was the youngest in the band. And honestly if they had that kind of relationship at one point, who cares? Harassing them both for years and making some of the claims they have about Freddie is not okay.
Summary: After Wembley N2, Harry wakes up at 3 am to find you missing from bed and causing chaos in the kitchen with a very questionable midnight craving.
London, N2 — 13 June 2026
Harry wakes up because something clatters. At first, he doesn't think much of it. It sounds distant enough to belong elsewhere, maybe outside on the street, maybe from a neighbour’s house, maybe from the strange world that exists at night while sensible people are asleep. London is never properly quiet, not even in Hampstead, not even with the house tucked into a softer corner of the city. There's always some car passing too late, some fox screaming like it has personal issues, some bin lid moving in the wind.
So Harry simply frowns into the pillow, half-asleep, and reaches for you without opening his eyes. It's a completely instinctive movement, one arm sliding over the mattress to find the familiar warmth of your body, because if he wakes during the night and you're near him, the answer to most problems is to pull you closer. He is tactile even on normal days, but after a show it becomes nearly absurd. His body comes down from two hours of noise and movement and adrenaline, and once he's home, once he has showered and dragged himself into bed, he wants contact. Your hand in his, his face near your neck, one leg tangled with yours until neither of you can move properly. Except now his hand lands on empty sheets. He pats the mattress once, then twice, slower the second time as his mind catches up: nothing.
At that, his eyes open reluctantly. The bedroom is dark, softened only by the faint wash of London night coming through the curtains and the open window. The duvet is warm where his body has been under it, but your side of the bed is empty, the sheets pushed back messily as if you left in a hurry or without much thought. He pouts, a genuine, sleepy little frown that no one is there to see. “Love?” he mumbles, but there's no answer coming from you.
He turns heavily onto his back and squints towards the nightstand. The clock glows at him with merciless clarity — 3:12 am. He stares at it for a moment, almost offended, then he looks towards the ensuite bathroom door. There's no light beneath it, no sound of running water, no little movements that would explain your absence. Still, he tries again, voice rough with sleep. “Y/n?”
But again, nothing.
Another clatter comes from somewhere downstairs then, and this time, it's followed by a faint metallic scrape, then what sounds suspiciously like a spoon hitting a countertop. Harry blinks, that is not outside, that is very much inside his house. He groans, because the only thing worse than waking up at 3:12 am after playing Wembley is discovering that his girlfriend has somehow escaped the bed and started a mysterious midnight project without him. He throws the duvet back and immediately regrets it. Cool air from the open window slips over his bare skin, and he shivers, looking down at himself with a sleepy sort of betrayal. Boxers, nothing else, excellent preparation for a household investigation.
He sits on the edge of the bed for a second, head bowed, trying to convince his body that standing up is a reasonable request, but his body disagrees. He stands anyway, the floor cool beneath his feet as he shuffles out of the bedroom, one hand running through his messy hair. He’s not fully awake, and every step downstairs feels as if it belongs to someone else. The house is dark in the hallway, quiet apart from the now unmistakable sounds coming from the kitchen; another clatter, a cupboard closing, something being stirred with great determination.
Halfway down the stairs, he smells food. Not a snack, or toast, no, actual food. Warm potato, melted cheese, something savoury, something sharp, and, strangely, something minty enough to make his nose question the entire situation. Harry pauses at the bottom of the stairs, brows drawing together. “What the hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He crosses the open-plan ground floor, following the smell and the noise towards the kitchen. A soft light is on over the counters, warm and domestic, turning the dark glass of the garden doors into a mirror. When he reaches the corner and looks into the kitchen, he has to stop, then rub his eyes, then look again. The kitchen is a disaster. A very specific, highly organised disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. There are bowls on the island, two pans on the hob, a cutting board covered in chopped jalapeños, an open tin of sweetcorn, another of tuna, a small mountain of grated cheddar, potato skins, spoons, knives, spices, a bottle of mayo, salt, pepper, and a jar of mint sauce sitting proudly in the middle of the chaos like it has been invited to a party it shouldn't be attending.
And in the centre of it all is you.
Bare legs, feet planted on the kitchen floor, body swallowed in one of Harry’s old shirts that hangs loose over your thighs. Your hair is messy from sleep, your face is bare, your expression is focused to the point of comedy, brows furrowed as you move between the counter and the hob like you're running the pass in a restaurant that might lose a Michelin star if the garnish is wrong. Harry leans against the edge of the wall, crosses his arms over his bare chest, and watches with so much fondness he forgets to be annoyed about being awake.
You're muttering to yourself under your breath. “Needs more pepper. No, not too much. Where’s the fork? Fork, fork, fork. Cheese first? No, tuna first. Obviously tuna first.”
Harry’s mouth starts to curve, while you still don't notice him at all. You lift a bowl, stir something vigorously, taste it from a spoon, pause, then nod as if you have made a crucial professional decision. “Correct,” you whisper.
Harry presses his lips together to keep from laughing. There are many things he expects after a Wembley show. Exhaustion, aching legs, a voice that feels slightly used, the strange echo of a massive crowd still living somewhere in his head. But he doesn't expect to wake up at 3:12 am and find you in his kitchen building a jacket potato with the seriousness of a surgeon.
You reach for the spoon again, but your fingers knock it off the counter and it hits the floor with a loud, sharp clatter. You jump, one hand flying to your heart. “Jesus Christ,” you hiss at the spoon, then bend to pick it up. “Why would you do that?”
Harry loses it immediately. The laugh comes out sudden and loud, entirely unrestrained and you gasp and jump again, nearly dropping the spoon a second time as you whip around towards him. Your eyes go wide, then narrow immediately when you see him standing there, barefoot and sleep-warm and far too amused.
“Harry!”
He's still laughing. “Sorry.”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You were just standing there like some half-naked Victorian ghost?”
That makes him laugh harder. “Victorian?”
“Yes. Looming in doorways at ungodly hours.”
“I live here.”
“So do I, and I wasn't prepared for a haunting.”
He pushes away from the wall and walks over to you, still smiling, his eyes moving over the counter. “I heard clattering.”
“I’m cooking.”
“Obviously.”
“You could've announced yourself.”
“I was busy watching Gordon Ramsay in my kitchen.”
You huff, turning back to your creation. “Do not mock the process.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” He steps beside you, scanning the island with growing amusement. “Good thing I bought the house with the big counters.”
You pause. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what was that?”
He clears his throat, face too innocent. “I said it’s a good thing we’ve got room.”
“For my culinary vision?”
“For whatever this is, yes.”
You point the spoon at him. “This is dinner.”
“It’s quarter past three in the morning.”
“Then it’s breakfast.”
“Looks like it’s expecting guests.”
“Of course it’s not expecting guests. It’s the middle of the night.”
“You’ve used six bowls.”
“They were necessary.”
“One of them has three pieces of cucumber in it.”
“That one is emotional support.”
He looks at the cucumber bowl, then back at you. “Right.”
You turn away with dignity and return to the potato waiting on a plate. It's already split open, steaming faintly, butter melting into the soft middle. You spoon tuna mayo over it, then add sweetcorn, jalapeños, a generous handful of cheddar and a sprinkle of pepper. The whole thing is messy, excessive, and clearly exactly what you want. Harry opens his mouth, likely to make a joke, but then you reach for the mint sauce and he goes still.
You shake the bottle once, open it, and pour it over the top with complete confidence. Harry’s entire face changes. He tries to control it, because he loves you, but he can't. He inhales through his nose, slow and careful, as if preparing himself for bad news. He's not generally a picky eater. He likes trying food, he respects strange combinations, regional habits, tour catering experiments, whatever someone’s aunt makes at Christmas and insists is traditional. But tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce on a potato at 3:17 am sends a visible shudder over him.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face said enough.”
“My face is processing.”
“My food is none of your business.”
“It’s happening in my kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
“Our kitchen has rights, too.”
You place the mint sauce down and look proudly at the plate. “Perfect.”
Harry steps closer, unable to help himself, sleepiness makes him softer, clumsier with affection, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin near your shoulder. His skin is warm against the back of your shirt, his bare chest pressing lightly into you, and despite his obvious horror at the meal, he kisses your neck once. “Are you seriously eating that?” he asks, voice low and rough from sleep.
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“After making it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Just checking.”
You lean back into him for half a second, amused. “I’ve been craving it all night.”
“You were asleep all night.”
“No, I was thinking about it in my sleep.”
“That’s worrying.”
“It’s impressive.”
“It’s called dreaming, love.”
You laugh and reach for a fork. “Do you want one?”
Harry answers too quickly. “No.”
You turn your head. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I thought very quickly.”
“I could make you one.”
“I love you, but absolutely not.”
“You’re missing out.”
“I’ll live with that.”
“You sure?”
“I’m thrilled for you and your potato, but I don’t want to come between you.”
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling, and Harry kisses your cheek before reluctantly letting go. “Come on then, little jacket potato gremlin.”
Your mouth falls open. “What did you just call me?”
“Affectionately.”
“You called me a gremlin.”
“A beloved gremlin.”
“You’re on thin ice, popstar, very thin ice.”
“At least I’m not eating mint tuna.”
You glare at him, but he only takes the plate from your hand before you can protest, then nods towards the garden doors. “It’s warm out. Eat outside before you destroy another part of the house.”
You grab a fork and follow him out, the night air soft when Harry slides the door open, the garden dimly lit by the outdoor lamps along the patio and the faint wash of the city beyond the trees. It's warm enough to sit outside comfortably, though the stone beneath your feet still carries a night-time coolness. The large sunbed near the edge of the patio is piled with cushions from earlier in the week, and Harry places your plate on the small table beside it before lowering himself down with the heavy grace of someone who has just realised he's still exhausted. You settle next to him, pulling one leg beneath you and keeping the plate balanced in your lap.
Harry yawns so widely his eyes water, and guilt flickers through you. “You can go back to bed.”
He shakes his head once and sinks further into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t want to.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m eating.”
“I can see that.”
“You don’t have to stay awake for my potato.”
“I don’t want to be alone in bed,” he says simply, and the sentence is so soft, so completely Harry in the middle of the night, that teasing him would feel unfair, so you only smile.
He shifts closer, slipping one hand beneath the back of your shirt, his palm warm against your skin. His fingers begin tracing slow, aimless patterns over your back, gentle enough to be half-asleep already and a shiver runs through you before you can stop it.
Harry’s mouth curves. “Cold?”
“No.”
“Ticklish?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
You take your first bite, and Harry watches very carefully. He's absolutely convinced your face will change, it has to. There is no possible way that combination tastes good. He waits for the regret, the pause, the brave little swallow, the admission that perhaps the mint sauce was too far. But instead, your eyes close and a deeply satisfied hum leaves you. Harry stares in disbelief as you chew with complete contentment, shoulders relaxing, the entire strange mission of the night apparently fulfilled in one bite. You look more peaceful with a forkful of chaotic jacket potato than you did in bed, and Harry, against all sense and reason, is suddenly overwhelmed by how adorable you are. His little weirdo, sitting in his garden after an exhausting day of work, cheeks full of food, bare knees tucked beside you, looking like the happiest person on earth because your stomach apparently requested the strangest meal in Britain and you obeyed without question. He cannot believe he gets to love you.
You notice him staring and turn your head, still chewing. “What?” you mumble around the food.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Nothing.”
You squint. “You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m admiring.”
“Admiring what?”
“My girlfriend and her questionable life choices.”
You huff, chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “It’s good.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“You sound traumatised.”
“I’m adjusting.”
He keeps his hand moving on your back while you eat, slow strokes up and down, occasionally circling his thumb near your spine. The night around you is quiet in the way only late hours can be, when even London seems to pause for breath. Somewhere beyond the garden, a car passes, leaves rustle lightly. Inside, the kitchen remains a disaster, but neither of you is thinking about that yet.
You're halfway through another bite when a little trail of sauce escapes down your chin, a pale mixture of tuna mayo and mint sauce that makes Harry’s stomach question his loyalty. He reaches up with his thumb and catches it. “You’re adorable,” he says.
You pause, eyes lifting to his. “Hmm?”
“I said you’re adorable.”
Then, because he's not thinking clearly and because his thumb is already there, he licks the sauce off. His regret is immediate, his face folds into a grimace so dramatic that you almost choke on your food. He swallows like a brave little boy forced to take the worst medicine of his life, eyes squeezed shut for half a second and you burst out laughing with your mouth still half-full, clapping one hand over it to avoid disaster.
Harry points at you weakly. “Don’t.”
You keep laughing.
“That,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is vile.”
“It’s not.”
“It assaulted me.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“It tasted like a salad got lost in a fish market.”
You laugh harder, nearly dropping your fork while Harry recovers slowly, looking betrayed by both you and the condiment. “How are you enjoying that?”
You shrug, still grinning. “I don’t know. My body told me exactly what it wanted, and apparently it was right.”
“Your body needs supervision.”
“My body is satisfied.”
“My taste buds are filing a complaint.”
“You chose to lick your thumb.”
“I was being romantic.”
“You were being nosy.”
“I was caring for you.”
“You were judging my potato.”
“I’m still judging your potato.”
You point your fork at him. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Because I love you more than I fear mint sauce.”
You soften for half a second, then ruin it on purpose. “That’s beautiful, put it in a song.”
“I will not.”
“Too vulnerable?”
“Too disturbing.”
You smile and keep eating.
The silence that follows is warm. Harry stays beside you, one hand under your shirt, fingers still tracing over your back. His eyes grow heavier as the minutes pass, but he doesn't stop touching you. You finish the potato slowly, savouring the last few bites with a seriousness that makes him shake his head more than once.
Eventually, he blinks himself a little more awake and asks, “Have you checked Twitter?”
You pause with the fork halfway to your mouth, then turn to him. “Twitter?”
“Yeah.”
You stare.
“What?”
“You mean X.”
He groans immediately. “No.”
“It’s called X.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It has been called X for almost three years.”
“Not in this house.”
You laugh. “That’s not how apps work.”
“It’s Twitter.”
“Twitter is dead.”
“Twitter’s not dead. It’s just wearing a stupid hat.”
You set the empty plate down on the small table and look at him with deep amusement. “That might be the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’m not old.”
“You just refused to acknowledge a social media rebrand like a pensioner refusing contactless payment.”
“The rebrand didn’t make the app better, so why should I reward it?”
“That’s actually a fair point.”
“Thank you.”
“Still old.”
Harry nudges your thigh with his knee. “Did you check it or not?”
“I checked Instagram, X, and TikTok.”
“Twitter.”
“X.”
“Twitter.”
“Fine, Twitter.” You lean back against the cushions. “Yes, I checked.”
“And?”
“They loved the show.”
Harry’s face changes in the dim patio light, not into ego, not exactly. More relief than pride, though both are there in gentle amounts. He's chronically offline, but immediate feedback after a show still matters if it's taken carefully. It tells him what reached people, what made them lose their minds, what moments travelled beyond the stadium. He doesn't live there, but he knows enough to look sometimes, or ask you to look for him. “They did?” he asks.
“They really did.”
“What were they saying?”
You bite back a smile.
Harry notices. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What were they saying?”
“They were very complimentary.”
“About the show?”
“Partly.”
“About the songs?”
“Somewhat.”
“About what, then?”
You turn your head towards him with wicked calm. “Your top.”
“My top?”
“Mhm.”
“The cropped one?”
“The cropped one.”
Harry laughs softly. “They liked it?”
“They were feral.”
“Feral?”
“Truly, deeply, historically feral.”
He looks pleased now. “Because it was cropped?”
“Because it was cropped and because it accentuated the hitties.”
Harry goes completely still, confusion written all over his face. “The what?”
You smile slowly. “The hitties.”
“The hitties?”
“Yes.”
He blinks at you. “What are hitties?”
“You don’t know?”
“Obviously not.”
“You really are offline.”
“Explain.”
You tuck your legs beneath you and face him properly, delighted by the opportunity. “It’s a fan word.”
“I gathered.”
“The H stands for Harry.”
“Right.”
“And it replaces the T in titties.”
Harry stares at you, processes slowly, then he bursts out laughing. A proper, bright, delighted laugh that breaks through the quiet garden and sends his head tipping back against the cushion. “Hitties?” he says again, still laughing.
“Yes.”
“They call my chest hitties?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredible.”
You laugh, watching him laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”
“I’m honoured.”
“You’re honoured that your fans named your tits?”
Harry points at you. “Hitties.”
“Sorry. Your hitties.”
“Thank you.”
You stretch your arms above your head, yawning deeply now that the food has done its job. “Anyway, they want the hitties out again.”
Harry’s grin remains shameless. “Is that all I am to them? A handsome face and a sexy body?”
You lower your arms and blink at him sleepily. “That sounded incredibly self-absorbed.”
“I’m allowed. I work hard for the face and the body.”
You give him a look.
“I do Pilates,” he says. “I run. I’ve started washing and moisturising my face properly.”
“With my face wash.”
“With our face wash.”
“My moisturiser.”
“Our moisturiser.”
“You use the expensive one.”
“I have delicate skin.”
“You also force me to run and do Pilates at hours no decent person should be awake.”
“I don't force you.”
“You wake me up by kissing my face until I open my eyes, then you say, ‘Come on, love, it’ll be good for us,’ which is manipulation.”
“It’s gentle encouragement.”
“It’s emotional blackmail with dimples.”
Harry smiles slowly. “Effective, though.”
“Shut up.”
You settle back into the pillows again, sleep creeping back over you now that the craving has disappeared and your body has realised it is still the middle of the night. Harry watches you with soft amusement, still awake mostly because of how much he likes looking at you like this, unguarded and sleepy and ridiculous.
“So,” you mumble, eyes half-closed, “no hitties out on this tour?”
Harry suddenly sits up, but you sense the movement too late. “What are you doing?”
He gets to his feet and stretches once, then bends down before you can even react, one arm sliding behind your back and the other beneath your knees. “Harry—” He scoops you up, and you yelp, arms flying around his neck. “What the hell!”
“You’re done eating.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re half-asleep.”
“Am not.”
“You asked me about the hitties with your eyes closed.”
“That’s called multitasking.”
He carries you towards the open garden doors, steady and annoyingly pleased with himself. You hold onto him, your bare legs hanging over one of his arms, his skin warm against yours. “As for the tour,” he says, stepping inside, “maybe I’ll bring the hitties out and play Kiwi on the same night.”
You lift your head at once. “Whoa.”
“What?”
“Calm down.”
“I thought that’s what the people wanted.”
“The people want to survive, Harry.”
He laughs, walking through the kitchen and carefully avoiding the evidence of your midnight cooking. “You don’t think they could handle it?”
“The hitties out and Kiwi in one show? Absolutely not. Mass hysteria, medical tents overwhelmed, social media breakdown.”
Harry laughs harder as he carries you through the dark ground floor towards the stairs. “Good to know.”
“You have to use your power responsibly, y'know.”
“My hitties have power now?”
“Apparently.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
He carries you upstairs with more ease than someone who performed at Wembley hours ago should reasonably have. You tuck your face closer to his neck, finally letting the sleepiness win properly now that you're warm and held and no longer responsible for operating a fork.
By the time he reaches the bedroom, your voice has gone softer. “Kitchen’s a mess.”
“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“You hate mess.”
“I love sleep more.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He lowers you gently onto the bed, then climbs in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before the cool air can steal too much warmth. You immediately curl into him, and he looks deeply satisfied about having you back where he wanted you in the first place. His arm wraps around you, you rest your cheek against his bare chest and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks.
“You smell like tuna,” he then murmurs.
You make an offended sleepy sound into his neck. “And you smell like sweat and expensive moisturiser.”
He just laughs and kisses the side of your head, lingering there as your body relaxes fully against his. The day has been long, the show huge, the hour ridiculous, and somewhere downstairs his kitchen looks like a small potato-based crime scene. But you’re finally in his arms again, warm and full and half-asleep, and he can't find a single part of himself that cares about anything else. His hand moves slowly along your back again, the same soothing pattern as outside, gentler now beneath the duvet. Your breathing deepens, your fingers loosening against his side as he watches you for a moment in the dark, still smiling to himself.
His life is huge in ways that sometimes feel impossible. Stadiums, lights, noise, people screaming his name until it stops sounding like a name at all. But then there is this, too. His kitchen destroyed at night because you woke up craving a jacket potato with tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce. Your sleepy arguments about social media names and fan slang, your body tucked into his like that is the only stage that ever really matters once the lights go down.
He kisses your hair. “My gorgeous little weirdo,” he whispers.
You're almost asleep, but not quite. “I heard that.”
“Good.”
He closes his eyes, presses one last kiss to your head, and finally lets himself drift back to sleep.
