It’s mad, really. Standing here on this cold studio floor, lights everywhere, crew running around, cables like snakes under my feet—and I’m meant to pretend it’s all natural. Music video life, innit. You’d think after years of cameras shoved in my face I’d be used to it, but this feels different. This one’s mine. My song, my video, my head on the line.

They’re touching up my hair again, telling me to relax my shoulders. “We’re setting up for the kiss scene next,” someone says, like it’s just another line in the schedule. And yeah, maybe it is. But my stomach still twists a bit.

You’re already here, getting powder brushed across your nose, grinning at me in the mirror like we’re about to run onstage at Wembley again. It relaxes my shoulders straight away. Since the X-Factor days, you’re the one person who never looked at me like I was about to bolt. When I left, phones went quiet except yours. You knew the noise in my head and didn’t try to tidy it. The boys and us—history now. We loved it, then it ended. Everyone’s off chasing their own sound now. You’re writing too, hiding hooks inside voice memos. Me, I’m trying to be honest and not overthink. That’s the whole thing with “PILLOWTALK.” It’s messy and loud and mine.

Last week I rang you from my New York flat at three in the morning. “I need someone I trust,” I said, pacing by the window, city humming. The video’s got a kiss in it. They wanted a model with ice-queen cheekbones. I wanted not to act with a stranger, not on my first go. You didn’t give a speech; you just said you’d be there. That’s us. No drama, just showing up..People shipped us for years. It’s funny until it isn’t. They saw how I light up around you and decided it must be romantic. But it’s not. You’re my safe place, and that’s bigger than gossip. Still, the thought of kissing you for camera puts a tremor low in my chest — not because I fancy you, but because it means putting our thing under a microscope. I’d only do it with you, or not at all. Now we’re here, under a thousand lights, about to fake a kiss that’s gonna live online forever.

The director claps his hands. “Alright, people, we’re rolling next! Scene 14, take one!”

I swallow, trying not to let the nerves show. I look over at you again. You’re standing up now, stretching your shoulders, hair perfect, eyes bright. You catch me looking and grin — small, easy, like we’re just back in some sticky hallway waiting for a soundcheck. That grin always kills me. Not in a romantic way, not really. Just familiarity. Like home.

The set looks surreal — red lights, all dramatic. I walk over, hands in my jacket pockets. You’re already in place, waiting for me. The makeup artist dabs my lip with balm. “Don’t lick it off,” she warns. I pull a face. You try not to laugh; your shoulders give you away. My nerves settle a notch. Camera glides into place. Slate stands by. I lean closer so only you can hear. “Cheers for doing this, yeah? I know it’s a lot.” The words feel small for what I mean: Thanks for every call at stupid o’clock, for letting me be quiet, for not leaving when I left. You squeeze my fingers quick, secret. The shipper parts of the internet would explode at that, but it’s just our handshake.

I look at you proper. Not the star version. My mate. The one who knows the Bradford in my vowels and the noise in my head and still shows up. “If anything feels off, tap my wrist and we stop, no ego,” I add. “We can tell Jake to jog on.” I smile so you know I’m half joking, half not.

“Picture’s up,” the first AD calls. “Rolling! Lock it down!”

The room stills. Lights go white-hot. The slate claps: “PILLOWTALK, Scene 14, Take One.”

I wet my lips — habit, sorry makeup lady — and breathe out. The track swells. I step in until I can count your lashes. I’m not acting tough; I’m just me, heart going double time but steady enough. I tip my forehead to yours and let the noise drop. “You ready, love?”