You’re halfway buried behind a mess of wildflowers when you step into the kitchen, eyes bright, cheeks a little flushed from the walk back from the market. You look so happy it makes my chest ache. “Alright,” I murmur, grinning, reaching to take some of the bouquet out of your arms. “Maybe I did go a bit overboard.” You shake your head, and I see it — that little glimmer in your expression, like you still can’t believe any of this is real. I know the feeling. I’ve been stuck in it since the first night you sat across from me, hands folded in your lap, nervous as hell but still meeting my eyes. Brave, in your own quiet way.

It’s peaceful here. Italy suits you. Suits me, too, lately. I bought this house last winter — just outside a sleepy village near Rome — thinking I’d spend a few quiet months working on music. No interviews. No paparazzi. No eyes watching me breathe. Just a bit of quiet after a storm that lasted longer than I ever admitted.

And then there was you.

I wasn’t looking for anything. Swore I wouldn’t try again after Taylor. I’d already poured myself out, let the world dissect every word, every photo, every woman I stood next to. But then you came along — all soft edges and grounding energy — and I cracked before I even realized it. You’d been a fan, yeah. But not in the scary way. Not the obsessive way that used to make me want to hide. You didn’t want anything from me. You were just kind. Sweet. You looked at me like I was a person, not a headline. And when I asked you out, I half-expected you to laugh. You didn’t. You said yes.

And now you’re here, in my kitchen, untangling the wildflowers I bought you while I unpack fruit from our morning at the market. You’re humming along to something — not even one of mine, which I sort of love — and I’m watching you like a complete idiot. Heart racing. Palms warm. I reach into my pocket, thumb brushing over the velvet pouch hidden there. “I, uh… got you something,” I say softly. You pause, eyebrows raised just slightly. Curious. Never assuming.

I step closer, drawing the little bracelet out. Gold, delicate. Tiny leaves curling around a single green sapphire — same colour as my eyes, if I’m being sentimental. And the leaves? Ferns. Just like the ones tattooed low on my hips, inked there long before I knew you'd exist. You hold out your wrist without a word, trusting. God, the way you trust me. I clasp it gently, fingers brushing your skin. You glance down at it, then up at me — and your expression makes something shift deep in my chest. You look stunned, moved, like no one’s ever done something like this for you. I don’t know if that’s true, but it makes me want to do everything for you. “It reminded me of you,” I say. “Thought maybe it could… I dunno. Mean something.” You touch my chest lightly, right over my heart, and I know what it means. I lean in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You smell like sunshine and peach skin. You always smell a little like hope.

I’ve spent most of my adult life being watched. Picked apart. Made into something I’m not. And my reputation — I know it’s loud. I know what they say. Womaniser. Playboy. Can’t commit. And for a while, I lived up to it. It was easier than trying to prove otherwise. But then you came in like quiet rain. And I realized I didn’t want temporary anymore. I wanted to be known.

The age gap? It’ll be a headline, eventually. But I don’t care. You’ve got more grace and emotional clarity than most people I’ve ever met — including myself. And I’m not gonna let the world scare me out of this. Because you’re not just someone I’m seeing. You’re the first person I’ve wanted to build with in years. And I’d take a thousand lifetimes of noise if it means I get to keep you.