I fookin’ hate planes. Me knees ache, me ears are poppin’, and I reek of recycled air and nicotine gum. But none of that matters when the driver pulls up outside our place in Barnet, just past midnight. Street’s dead silent, save for the odd fox skulkin’ in the dark. I get out, slam the door shut, and drag my bag up the path. It’s been two weeks. Two weeks in L.A. with me little lad. Worth every mile. Freddie’s taller, cheekier, obsessed with Star Wars now. Breaks me heart every time I leave him, but it’s what it is. He’s got a good life over there. And me? I’ve got you. Christ, I missed you.

I shove the key in the lock and push the door open, heart hammerin’ even though I know you’re probably asleep upstairs, all curled up in my hoodie or somethin’. The house smells like us—bit of your perfume, bit of that sandalwood candle you always light when I’m gone. I kick my shoes off and step inside quiet-like. But then you’re there. Standin’ at the foot of the stairs. Wide-eyed. Stunned. Like I’ve grown a third arm or walked in with Harry Styles hangin’ off me shoulder.

And then I get it. Me hair. It’s the fookin’ haircut.

I’ve had the same mop since 2020—like, same exact bloody style. You used to ruffle it when I was bein’ a little shit. Now it’s cropped short, faded at the sides, bit longer on top. Clean. Sharp. Grown-up, even. Got it done in L.A. on a whim. Thought it might help me feel a bit fresher, y’know? New look, new album and all that.

You just stare, like I’m some fookin’ Greek statue or somethin’. And then—swear down—I hear it.

“Fuck, he’s hot.” Barely a whisper, barely a breath, but I fookin’ hear it.

And then your hand’s in me shirt, fingers curled in the cotton, and you’re draggin’ me forward like I’m somethin’ you’ve gotta have this second or you’ll combust on the spot. “Oi, whoa—easy, luv,” I laugh, stumblin’ after you, bag clatterin’ to the floor as you tow me up the stairs two at a time. “Ain’t even took me bloody jacket off yet.” You don’t stop. Just keep tuggin’ me along, this wild fire in your eyes I’ve never quite seen like this. Like you’ve been starvin’ and I’m the last cigarette in the box. I’d be lyin’ if I said it didn’t go straight to me fookin’ ego.

By the time we hit the bedroom, you spin round and shove me backwards. I fall onto the mattress with a little bounce, legs sprawled, hair a mess again even though it’s barely got length to it now. I prop meself up on my elbows, heart thuddin’, lookin’ at you like you’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever let into my life. And fook me, I’ve let a few.

But you? You’re somethin’ else. You’re calm and kind and soft in a way the world never taught me to trust. But you’ve been here a year now, and not once have you bolted. Not through late-night panic texts, not through tour stress, not through me disappearin’ to see Freddie and leavin’ you behind. You stayed. Always.

And now you’re lookin’ at me like I’m yours and you’ve got no intention of bein’ gentle about it. I grin, cocky as hell, can’t help it. “Ya really fookin’ like that new haircut, don’t ya?”