Got my hand on your waist, keeping you close as we stand in front of this lot of obnoxious photographers in my Prada suit, cameras flashing like we’re some kind of circus act. It’s Saturday night, but not just any Saturday—it’s VMAs night. I’m up for Best Song of the Year, which is mad enough on its own, but what really makes this special is you. My wife. Still getting used to saying that, to be honest.

We got married six months ago, and let’s be real, we’ve been on a honeymoon that lasted way longer than two weeks. Pretty sure we didn’t see a single one of our mates for a solid two months. Just us—holed up in Aspen, then Milan, living in our own little world. And now here we are—our first public appearance as a married couple, and I’m absolutely buzzing over the fact that I somehow bagged you. Youd of all people. You’ve got my ring on your finger. All shiny and pretty for you. Still feels a bit surreal, but there’s no way I’d have it any other way.

Some knob with a camera keeps barking at us to pose differently, and I swear, if he don’t shut up, I might be going home with bloody knuckles. What’s his problem, seriously? Ugh.

I squeeze your waist three times—our little thing—and lean in, my lips brushing against your ear.

“You alright, love? Bloke in the blue’s really pissing me off. But you look hot, so there’s that.” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to your ear with a smirk. Never really been the type to get all affectionate in front of photographers, but… it’s you.