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Zayn: What the hell are you talking about?

Zayn: I love you, but you’re a dead fucking man.

Nick: It’s not like I wanted things to happen like that.

Nick: I told you I can’t talk to any of you about that fucking night. And I hate it, because I need to speak to someone.

Nick: But you all had to be her brothers or the guys who see her as a sister, didn’t you?

Nick: I’m angry and bitter at her for the things she assumed about me. For what she did five months ago.

Nick: And last Friday… I went too far. I crossed a line.

Nick: How the hell am I supposed to explain to you what I did?

Liam: You’re talking about my fucking sister. What the hell did you do to her?

Nick: …

Zayn: That’s it. I’m going to fucking kill.

Nick: …

Liam: Do something, Nickolas.

My thumbs hover over the screen, chest tightening with each passing second. My mouth feels dry and I suddenly feel physically sick.

I lean back against the couch, eyes burning, the silence in my apartment suffocating. I can still hear her voice, still feel the tremble in her breath when she whispered, “I’m sorry, Nick.”

And I can still feel the exact moment I ruined everything.

Two hour later, I’m sitting at a VIP table in the loudest, most pretentious club in London, surrounded by neon lights, half-naked women, overpriced whiskey, and the kind of attention I usually don't mind.

Tonight, it’s hell.

Paparazzi crowd the entrance, flashes going off every two seconds. The whole damn club knows who we are. And every girl wants to get close.

I’ve had at least six hands on me since we got here—hips, chest, thigh, even my neck. Like I’m a toy they want to win.

But I don’t want anyone. I can’t even see them. All I see is her face, all I hear is her voice. And every second I’m not with her feels like it’s slicing deeper.

I’m sitting here with two fingers of whiskey burning down my throat, and the only reason I haven’t snapped is because Aiden and Chase haven’t left my side.

“Nick, we love you. But this is getting out of hand,” Chase says, leaning in over the music.

“Yeah. So either you do something, or we do,” Aiden adds.

I grunt and take another sip, teeth clenched. “What the hell does that mean?”

Chase shrugs. “It means we’re about to sign you up for therapy. Or drag you into a strip club. Or both.”

Aiden smirks. “Or call Sierra ourselves and beg her to fix your sorry ass.”

“It’s obvious you’re never getting over her, so we don’t know why you keep pretending like…„

But I’m not listening anymore. Because in that exact moment, something shifts.

My gaze lifts, and ten meters across the club, through the swirling lights and half-drunk chaos…