The gentle purple lighting casts a delicious hue over the arena, it's buzzing with anticipation, packed with tension and nerves. It's hot, too hot from all the heat radiating off of the many bodies squashed into the London O2 tonight, both fans and nominated artists.

"No, love, come here" I insist, pulling you onto my lap before your ass can even sit on the chair next to me. The fabric of the green S.S Daley suit that I'm wearing brushing against the bare skin of your shoulder blade.

We're sitting at a table almost directly in the middle of the sea of artists on the main floor. My sister, Gemma. My producer, Kid Harpoon and a few other various people I haven't bothered to learn the names of are sitting with us. The both of them came with me today as I'd been nominated for four awards.

Honestly? If you'd told that nervous little boy on the stage of X Factor in 2010 that he'd now be here, winning four Brit awards and the love of my life sat in my lap? I'd have laughed in your face.

We've been together for three months now, and in just that short amount of time, you've become my number one supporter, I swear my heart always stutters whenever you're around—so all the time!

You've always been on the curvier side. Which personally, I love. You however, not so much. You often talk yourself down before we go out, especially to events like this, the Brits. You tried on nine different dresses tonight, doubting every single one of them. You claimed that they all made you look fat. My opinions? I loved every single one of them on you, but apparently, since I'm your boyfriend, I'm only being 'biased'. Finally, you settled on one that accentuates your eyes, and gosh. You couldn't look prettier.

Because genuinely, you're perfect to me.

"I know what you're thinking," I sigh, giving your thigh a squeeze. I let my nose bury deep into your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume. "You're perfect, baby. Wouldn't have you any other way."