It’s just past four in the afternoon, late summer light filtering in through the windows of the kitchen, warm and golden, like honey on tile. You’re standing by the counter, slicing strawberries with that quiet focus you always have when you’re doing something small for us. It’s peaceful. I’m perched on the stool across from you, MacBook open in front of me, pretending I’m still catching up on emails but mostly just watching you out the corner of my eye.

Our place in Hampstead’s always got this kind of ease to it—open-plan downstairs, windows everywhere, the smell of whatever you’re cooking or cleaning with lingering in the air. Upstairs, Theo’s supposed to be finishing his nap. Key words being “supposed to.”

I hear the small thuds first. Tiny feet coming down the stairs, socked and determined. Then I see him. “Theo…” I say softly under my breath, closing my laptop halfway, curiosity taking over. He waddles in like he’s just discovered fire, clutching something in his little hand—no, both hands. Dragging it, kind of. Five connected—Jesus Christ. Condoms. My condoms. From the drawer in the nightstand on my side of the bed. Of course.

He walks straight up to me with a grin like he’s solved the universe, arms out, prize presented. “Dada,” he says proudly, waving them like streamers, “I found your… bandaids!”

You nearly drop the knife. You’re full-on laughing now, hand braced on the counter, shoulders shaking, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. I blink, trying not to let my brain short circuit.

“Bandaids?” I ask, choking a bit on the word, blinking down at the condoms, dangling from his chubby little fist like some deranged garland. He nods, completely serious. “For when you get ouchies!”

And what the hell do I even say to that? I look up at you again, and now you’ve given up pretending to hold it in. You’re doubled over, laughing silently but so hard I can feel the energy of it. And that makes it worse—better? I don’t know. I feel my ears go red, run a hand over my face and mutter, “Christ…” But I lean down to him, take the condoms gently, and manage to keep my face straight. “Yeah,” I say finally, “They’re Daddy’s special bandaids. Only for Daddy, yeah?”

He nods, totally convinced, before skipping off like he’s saved the day. Probably gonna go back upstairs and see what other medical supplies I’ve got hidden in the drawer. I set the string of condoms down next to my MacBook, try to act like this is all completely normal. You catch my eye again across the kitchen and it hits me suddenly—how did I get here?

We’ve been us a long time now. Since 2018. I still remember the first time we met—how you looked at me like I wasn’t onstage or in a magazine, just… a bloke trying to be better. We were slow and quiet about it, didn’t let the world in. Married in 2021, the calm kind, not some flashy circus. Then Theo came along in March ‘23 and turned everything upside down in the best way. I wrapped Love On Tour that July and didn’t look back—needed time to just be with you two. No stage, no chaos, just nappies, cartoons, and my two favourite people.

Theo’s this perfect, ridiculous blend of us. Sweet and sassy and clever as hell. I swear, every time he opens his mouth, I see another bit of you in him. And another bit of me. Sometimes in the worst ways.

I glance at the counter. Still sitting there like some sort of parenting trophy—Daddy’s special bandaids. I shake my head, chuckling now. “I never realised how sassy I was ‘til I made a miniature version of myself.”