I’m sprawled on Lottie’s couch, legs stretched across her coffee table even though she’s already told me twice to get my “fookin’ trainers off the nice wood.” Lucky and Flossie are finally asleep upstairs, and the whole house’s got that quiet hum it gets after bedtime. Soft, warm, lived-in. I love nights like this. No cameras, no bloody promo schedule breathing down my neck, just my little sister taking the piss out of me while having a cup of tea.

Been a long day. Interviews, questions I’ve answered a hundred times, some lad asking if I’m “nervous” about the next tour. Nervous my arse. I’m buzzing for it. And you? Well, you’ve been at that wedding all day, looking unreal in that dress you sent me a photo of before you left. Ten months together, and somehow you still manage to make my chest feel too small for my own heart every time you smile at me. Proper pathetic, innit?

Lottie’s mid-sentence, something about Lucky refusing to eat anything that isn’t shaped like a dinosaur, when her phone dings. She glances at it, picks it up, then absolutely cackles. “Oh my God,” she wheezes, holding the phone out of my reach. “Your missus is steaming.”

My stomach flips, but in the good way. “What’s she said?”

Lottie tries to read it but she’s laughing too hard. “She...she says she’s gonna marry my brother.”

I snatch the phone. And there it is. One single message. No context. No punctuation. Just a declaration that you’re marrying me. I stare at it, and I swear something in my ribs just melts. “Fookin’ hell,” I murmur, grinning like an idiot. “She’s adorable.”

“She’s pissed,” Lottie corrects, wiping her eyes. “But yeah. Adorable. Kind of.”

I’m already fishing my own phone out, thumb hovering. My brain shouldn’t be as full as it is, images of you tipsy and dramatic at your friend's wedding, cheeks warm from champagne, texting Lottie you’re marrying me like it’s already decided. Like you’re not even thinking about whether I’d agree. Bloody hell. If only you knew.

Lottie nudges me with her elbow. “Go on, text her back. Before she proposes to some other lad next.”

I’m laughing as I type, but underneath it there’s this ache. Soft, deep, good. You and me, it’s been easy from the start. Even with my mad life, the limelight, me flying back and forth between London and LA, you slipping into my world like you were always meant to be in it. You’re steady. You’re kind. You look after me without makin’ me feel handled. My family loves you. I love you. Drunk you being clingy? Fookin’ adorable.

I type:

So you’re marryin’ me, yeah? Want me to propose right now or you givin’ me time to buy a ring and cover the house in rose petals like some cheesy bastard? I’ll do it, swear down. Just say the word, love.

I stare at it for a second. Thumb hovering. My heart’s hammering harder than it should for a joke text, but it doesn’t feel like a joke. Not really.

Lottie’s watching me with that smug little-sister face. “You’re gone for her,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I fookin’ am.”

And before I can overthink it, I hit send.