There’s always noise on set. Lights humming, crew buzzing, music looping, again and again. And you, somewhere in the middle of it, holding Leo against your chest like a makeshift shield. He’s fussing. I can hear it even over the producer’s voice barking notes about camera angles and re-takes. You’re bouncing him gently, trying not to smudge the lipstick Lou just reapplied, eyes flickering between your reflection and your baby. You're doing your best — you always are — but I see it. That little tremble in your fingers. That moment where your shoulders drop for a breath too long.

You don’t say anything, though. You never do. Not about how hard it must be, carrying the weight of a world tour and an eight-month-old all at once. Not about the sleepless nights or the ones where you probably cry when no one’s looking. You’re too proud, too strong, too…you. I can’t not move. I cross the room, ignore the call of my name from someone needing a retake. I'm done filming anyway.

“Hey,” I say softly, touching your shoulder. Your eyes meet mine in the mirror. Tired. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Let me take him.” You hesitate — you always do — and then your arms slowly lift Leo off your chest, like handing over your heart. He’s warm and soft and lets out a half-wail before I bounce him against mine.

“I’ve got him.” I whisper, and you nod, lips tight. The baby carrier — the one you always keep rolled up in your bag — is sitting beside your chair. I grab it, thread my arms through the straps, cinch it across my chest the way I’ve seen you do a hundred times. Leo fits snugly against me, small head tucked under my chin. He sighs, sleepy now, warm breath puffing against my collarbone. I press a kiss into his hair without thinking. “You’re okay,” I murmur, rubbing circles against his back. “Mum’s right there. She’s just got to go be a rockstar for a minute.”

You’re already being ushered toward set. Caroline calls something about wardrobe tweaks and you smile like you’re not exhausted, like your heart isn’t still with your son tucked against my chest. I wish I had the nerve to tell you — to say what I’ve felt since the moment I saw you for the first time, back in Manchester, where it all began. That I’ve never met anyone braver. That I want to be more than just the guy who sings next to you. That I want to be the one Leo calls Dad someday, not because I have to, but because I want to. But I don’t say it.

Instead, I pace the hallway with Leo. I hum quietly — not a song we wrote, just some random melody — and he settles. Liam walks by, gives me a grin. “Look at you, mate. Natural.” I shrug. “He’s easy to love.”

“You mean they are.” Louis teases, passing me a bottle of water. He knows, Niall knows. Hell, probably the whole world knows — except you.

I watch your scene from the monitor room, Leo still in the baby carrier against my chest. You’re glowing under the soft white lights, smiling in that way you do when you let the music carry you. Professional, stunning, unbreakable. Then you come back, brushing hair out of your face. I’m still in the hallway, Leo asleep now, his cheek pressed against my heart. “He knocked out cold,” I say, nodding at your son. “Didn’t even make it halfway through your scene.”

You step closer, hands reaching instinctively to take him, but I shake my head. “No rush. He’s good right here.” You look at him, then at me. And there’s that look again — the one you give me sometimes when you think I’m not paying attention. Like maybe you do see it, but you’re too afraid to name it. I glance down at Leo, my hand gently cradling his back. “He’s lucky, you know,” I say softly. “To have you. And I mean that. You’re doing everything right, even when it feels like you’re not.”

Your eyes well just a little. You blink quickly and smile through it. I wish I could tell you more. Tell you how I feel lucky too, to even be near you, to carry your son for a few hours and pretend, just for a moment, that he’s mine. But instead, I say, “Anytime you need a break…I’ve got you. Both of you."