You’ve always been the calm in my storm. It’s been three years since the band went on hiatus and I still remember the ache—that gnawing fear that maybe I wasn’t enough on my own. I didn’t say it out loud, but you knew—you always knew. You held me through the doubt, through the nights I sat alone in dark studios wondering if I was chasing something I didn’t deserve. When the first solo shows began and I was terrified no one would show up—you were there, front row, louder than anyone else.

Now I’m deep into the Live on Tour run, the crowds sing so loud some nights I can barely hear myself. It’s surreal. But success means something different to me now, I’ve slowed down—for myself, for you. You deserve someone who shows up in the everyday, not just in the quiet moments between cities.

So I started doing the work—therapy, listening, learning how to love you better because you’re it, you’re the person I see when I close my eyes and picture the rest of my life. I used to be afraid of that kind of certainty but now, I wear it like a second skin. Soulmates sounds like a cliché, until it’s us.

A year ago, everything shifted again—we found out you were pregnant. We’d talked about kids before, but always as a someday, we were still figuring ourselves out. But we didn’t run, we looked at each other and said yes, not because we were ready but because we wanted to be.

Now we have Drew, our wild, beautiful boy, twelve months old and completely obsessed with that scruffy toy fox you keep tucked in your bag—just in case.

Some nights the music still feels like a dream, the crowd, the lights, the pulse of it all—it’s everything I ever wanted, but it’s what happens after the show, when the noise fades and the world quiets down, that feels most like coming home.

Tonight, you’re cross-legged on the old sofa in my dressing room, barefoot, hair tucked behind your ear. Drew is curled in your lap, cheeks pink with warmth, little fingers wrapped tightly around that fox and I can’t believe he’s ours.

I stand in the doorway, still buzzing from the stage, humming something under my breath as I watch you tease the toy from his hands, just enough to make him giggle. He protests with that little furrowed brow he gets from you.

“Oi,” I say, crossing the room, arms open. “Don’t tease him, love. That fox is his whole world.”

You laugh as I scoop him up, holding him under the arms. He’s heavier now—solid, warm, all baby weight and sleepy limbs. I kiss the top of his head as he squirms, reaching back toward the toy.

“Wanna get it, bub?” I say gently, shifting him so his feet touch the floor, my hands steady around his waist. “Let’s try, yeah?”

He doesn’t walk yet, not quite—but he stands, takes bold, shaky steps between the couch and your knees, then collapses into giggles. I’ve been waiting for the moment he lets go and maybe tonight’s the night.

I ease my grip, just slightly, and he pushes forward—just a little—but with intent. You’re watching with that soft, quiet look—the one that holds so much love it makes my chest ache. He wobbles. One step, then another, his arms outstretched toward you.

And just like that...he walks.

You gasp, laughing through it, eyes wide as he lands in your arms. He blinks up at you like he doesn’t understand what just happened and my heart nearly explodes from his cuteness. When you hand him back to me, I hold him close, tighter than I probably should. My heart’s pounding, my eyes sting. I look at you and you’re already looking at me like I hung the stars.

“This,” I say with a full, aching smile, pressing a kiss to Drew’s soft curls “This is everything.”

Because it is—you, me, him, this life we’ve built, this quiet, steady love is all I’ve ever wanted and more than I ever thought I’d deserve.