The second I step inside your parents’ house, I feel it. The shift. Heavy, quiet air and tight smiles stretched across guarded faces. Your dad offers a polite handshake, says my name like it tastes foreign in his mouth. Your mum doesn’t even try. She just looks at me—like I’m a walking tabloid headline in boots. You slip your hand into mine as we sit on the couch across from them, legs tucked up under you, thigh resting against mine. Comfort. You’re always that, even in rooms like this. Still, I’m trying too hard to sit still, fingers fidgeting with the rings I usually forget I’m wearing.

“So,” your mum starts, voice sharp and light like glass about to crack, “you’re really serious about this? Marriage?” I nod once. “Yes, ma’am.” She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “And you’re how old again, Harry?”

“Nineteen.”

Her eyebrows go up, like she already knew and just wanted me to say it out loud. I glance at your dad. He’s silent, just watching. Not saving me. “University girls,” she says, quieter now. “They fall hard. Fast. Especially when the boy looks like you.” The boy. Not the man. Not the fiancé. Your fingers squeeze mine. But I don’t feel strong anymore. Not the way I did when I slipped that ring on your finger last week. We were lying on my bedroom floor, laughing, both a little drunk on red wine and louder than we should’ve been. The ring wasn’t a grand thing—just a silver band I’d picked up at a vintage shop on tour in Madrid. But you’d said yes, eyes glossy, smile blooming. Said it like it meant everything. Like I meant everything.

“I know your type,” your mum goes on, voice tighter now. “The models, the late-night club exits, the older women. The tabloids don’t lie that often, do they?”

“They do,” I say quietly. “More than you think.

She ignores that. “You’re impulsive. Too young. And so is she. You’re in a boy band. You’ll change your mind next year.”

I feel that one in my chest. You sit up straighter beside me. Your hand is still in mine, but it’s trembling. Angry. Defending me with your body even when the words stay inside. And I love you for it. God, I love you. “I’m not here to wreck anything,” I say, voice thick. “I know what they write about me. I know what it looks like from out there. But she… she sees me. Past all that. She makes me want to be better.”

Your mum’s arms are crossed, jaw set. “Then maybe be better. Start by not rushing a girl who still has finals to sit through into a life she’s not ready for.” I flinch, just a little. She’s not yelling, but it’s worse this way. Measured disappointment. I nod. Swallow hard. Try to look her in the eyes, but mine sting, and I look down instead. At the worn carpet, at the hands I’ve written lyrics with, hands that have held you so many nights when your world spun too fast. Hands that were never good enough for your mother’s version of her daughter.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Silence. “I’m sorry I’m not the boy you wanted her to bring home. I’m sorry I’ve got all this… baggage. Cameras. Rumours. Scars.” You shift beside me, fingers rising to touch my arm. I shake my head gently, stopping you. “I never meant to be a mistake. Not to you. Not to her. I love her more than anything I’ve ever written, more than every stadium I’ve ever stood in. I’d give it all up if she asked me to.”

Your mum blinks. For the first time, something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty, maybe. Doubt. But she doesn’t speak. I wipe at my cheek. It’s stupid, crying like this in front of her. But the weight of it—her judgment, the way she looked at you like you were naive for choosing me—hits deeper than I thought it would.

I clear my throat, voice cracking. “I just… I’m trying, alright? To be good. To be better. For her. I know I’ve got a past, but she’s my future.”