I’m already sweating under these fookin’ lights and we’ve only been on the carpet two minutes. Flashes go off like lightning as we step onto the carpet, reporters shouting, people pushing for angles, and all I’m doing is keeping my hand steady on your lower back so you don’t get shoved. You’re six months along now, bump showing beautifully in that black dress, and every time I look at you I feel this warm, stupid swell in my chest. Six years together and I’m still staring like a lovesick idiot.

Barnet’s been our home for a good long while. Freddy’s in LA with his mum most of the time, and I miss him like mad, but we make it work. Third album’s wrapped. Our little girl’s kicking every night like she’s trying to boot her way out. Life’s good. Small. Quiet. Mine.

Then a car door slams down the carpet and I see him get out. My whole body goes rigid. Logan fookin’ Paul. Never met him in person, but God knows I’ve said enough about him. The Liam interview wasn’t even the real thing that broke me, it was what came after. Liam spiraling, disappearing into himself, rehab, panic calls at 3am, me trying to reach him and him drifting further away. And then Argentina. The balcony. The fall. The headlines. The numbness. The guilt that still sits on my lungs every morning. I swallow it down, force a smile for the cameras because you’re looped into my arm, radiating calm like you always do. You look up at me with that quiet, steady warmth that’s got me through more than you’ll ever know. Your hand squeezes my arm for a second, reminding me to keep it together.

Inside, the hotel’s all gold accents, soft light, fresh flowers — way too posh for people like me. A waiter offers champagne; I shake my head. “Cheers, mate, but no.” Not drinkin’ when you can’t. Just feels wrong. We’re only a few steps deeper when I hear it behind me.

“Tomlinson!” The voice is loud, sharp, too American for my liking, soaked in smugness.

I stop. Turn slow. My hand finds the small of your back again, protectively, automatically. Logan’s strutting toward us with that gross, self-satisfied grin I’ve seen a thousand times online.

“Well damn,” he says, giving me this slow, mocking once-over. “Didn’t expect you to show. Thought grief guys usually avoid big crowds.”

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. He steps right up, too close, eyes flicking to your bump before looking me dead in the face. “You know what’s crazy, man? You were, what — halfway around the world when your boy Liam went off that balcony?” He shrugs like he’s talking about the fookin’ weather. “If you hadn’t been so busy with the whole tortured-rockstar routine, maybe he’d still be alive. Just sayin’.”

My heart drops, then spikes, then burns. He isn’t done.

“And now you’re bringing another kid into the world. Good luck, man. Seriously. Hope this one gets more of your time than the last. But hey — you’ve got fans to please, right? Those off-key vocals don’t sing themselves.”

You go absolutely still. I feel it under my hand, like the air around us freezes. And I see red so fast it’s blinding. I grab his suit collar with both hands, yank him forward so our noses nearly collide. His smirk shatters instantly.

“You pathetic, fookin’ lyin’ piece of shit,” I snarl, my voice low and shaking with pure fury. “You don’t say his name. You don’t talk about my best mate dyin’. You don’t talk about my kids. You don’t talk about her. You shut your fookin’ mouth and walk away before I put you through the nearest wall. I’m not jokin’. I’ll end this whole fookin’ gala if I have to.”