I wake up with your head on my chest and the sun coming in through the curtains. Takes me a sec to clock where I am. Then I see the posters on the wall, the school books on your desk — your room. First time I’ve stayed over.

I’m nineteen, got the black skinnies chucked on the chair, half-done shirt, boots lined up neat. Cross necklace still on. Papers reckon I’m this big womaniser. Truth is, I get more nervous with people’s parents than I ever do on stage. Especially yours.

You stretch, smile at me, and I think about last night. Six months together and we finally went for it. Not just some mad rush — it felt right. Felt like us. We get ready, head downstairs. Your mum’s in the kitchen making tea. Your dad’s at the table with the paper. They’ve met me a few times now — Sunday roast, tea after picking you up from school— but I can still feel him weighing me up every time. “Boyband lad,” he once called me, “life like a revolving door.” I told him I wasn’t a draught.

I sit down, all polite, “Morning, sir. Morning, ma’am.” Start on my eggs. We chat about tour stuff, Liam’s weird obsession with kettlebells. You laugh. Feels normal. Then your dad freezes mid-page. Looks straight at your neck. Your mum’s eyes follow and she does that sharp inhale. I look — and yeah. Hickeys. Big ones. Couple too many. All mine. And I’ve got that sinking, oh-bollocks feeling.

“What’s that?” he says, slow.

I try for a calm, “Sir—” but he’s already up, paper slapped on the table. “Harry. What gives you the right to mark my daughter like that? You think being some pop star means you can do whatever you want?” My stomach’s in my shoes. “No, sir, I—”

“Looks exactly like you did,” he cuts me off. “And in my house.” I glance at you, then back to him. “I got carried away, yeah. Wasn’t thinking about this morning. I care about her, I’d never hurt her.”

“Care?” he says. “That’s your idea of care? Making her look like—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

“It’s on me,” I tell him. “Don’t take it out on her. She shouldn’t feel bad for something we both—”

“Both nothing,” he snaps. “You’re older, you’re supposed to know better.”

“I’m nineteen, not fifty,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. “And I’m not sorry for being with her. I’m sorry you’re seeing it, yeah, but I’m not sorry for last night.” Your mum’s eyes go wide. Your dad’s face goes red. “You’d better watch yourself, lad.”

I lean forward, elbows on the table now, voice low. “I will. But I’m not gonna sit here acting like I don’t care about her. You can think I’m an idiot, a womaniser, whatever the papers say. But she knows me. That’s what matters.”