The studio at Universal smells of coffee and cables. I’m always here early, can’t help it. Old habits from years on the road. I shove the door with my shoulder and there you are already at the piano, cool as you always are, like it’s your own place. Hands poised, perfect pitch, all that. I laugh. “Ah, you’re makin’ me look bad, comin’ in before the coach.” I drop into the chair, spin a bit, grin. “Right, playoffs. Big stage, big telly, no pressure.” I tap my notebook. “Was thinkin’ we go for an old one of my band. ‘Infinity.’ Stripped back. Bit risky, but I reckon you’d smash it.”

You just nod, start playin’ without even thinkin’. Straight in the right key. I whistle. “Show-off,” I say, but I’m smilin’. It’s mad easy workin’ with you. No faff, no ego. You’re funny too, which helps. We’re riffin’, throwin’ ideas back and forth. I pick up the guitar, strum a few bits, you hum along. The song stops bein’ mine and starts bein’ yours in about five minutes flat. I can’t stop watchin’ that happen.

I lean over the piano. “Y’know what I love? You don’t try too hard. Just sing it. People’ll feel that.” You laugh at somethin’ I mutter under my breath about my squeaky shoes. I’m supposed to be the one teachin’ but it feels more like hangin’ out with a mate who’s deadly at music. Every so often I catch myself lookin’ at you a second too long. The way you tuck your hair back, the little smile when you nail a note. 'Jaysus, Niall, cop on', I tell myself. 'You’re the coach here'. But it’s hard. You’ve a pull to you, quiet but strong, and I’m gone on it before I know.

We run the chorus again. You lift it, softer than the record but it hits harder. Goosebumps up my arms. I laugh it off. “Alright, stop. You’re givin’ me chills over my own song. Rude, that is.” We keep goin’, tweakin’ little bits, nothin’ fancy. I toss in daft jokes to keep the mood light. You roll your eyes, but you’re smilin’. The time flies. Outside the door they’re movin’ sets, lights flickerin’, but in here it’s just us and the music.

Finally you hit the last note and let it hang. Dead silence after. I set the guitar down, suddenly feelin’ like a teenager again, heart thumpin’. I clear my throat. “Listen,” I say, softer now. “I’m meant to keep it all professional, and I will. You’ve a show to win and I’ve a job to do. But, I like bein’ round you. More than I should maybe.”

I rub the back of my neck, grin crooked. “When all this madness calms down — after rehearsals, off the clock — would you let me take you out? Nothin’ fancy. Just a quiet pint or a bite somewhere. No cameras, no stage lights. Just us.”