The lights are blinding, the crowd is electric, and I’m halfway through the set at the O2. My chest is tight from all the adrenaline, sweat clinging to the back of my neck. This is my favourite place in the world — not just the stage, but the moment. The now. The pulse of it all.

But then my eyes flick left, instinctively, like they always do. And there you are, my love. And Eloise — our Eloise — in her oversized merch shirt, bouncing like she’s got pop-rocks in her shoes, arms up, mimicking my moves. She’s four now. Big eyes, wild curls, full of so much light I swear she could power this whole bloody arena. I grin, mid-verse, and blow her a kiss.

She’s at the railing of the VIP box, waving something — a sign. I squint through the lights, blinking hard, trying to read it between strobe flashes. The words start to form, and when they do, they knock the wind out of me.

“Papi, you are my forever home. Will you adopt me?”

Everything stops. The music’s still going — I’m still going, my mouth on auto — but my heart’s not in sync with it anymore. I feel like someone’s reached inside and gave it the gentlest squeeze. I bite my lip. My throat's tight. Not now, Styles, not here, I tell myself — but it’s too late. Tears are stinging my eyes.

She’s four, and I’ve known her since she was six months old. I remember the first time I held her — this tiny, warm bundle tucked against your chest at a mutual friend's birthday. I wasn’t scared of the idea of you having a baby — I was scared of not being enough for both of you. But Eloise, she made it easy. She never cared that I wasn’t her dad by blood. She just…picked me. Like kids do when they trust. And I loved her back, hard. Like she was mine. Her dad’s never been in the picture. Never asked. Never called. But I’ve been there. For her first steps. First word. First fall off the swing. I’m the one she calls "Papi" when she’s tired or scared or wants an extra biscuit before bed. And now this.

“Hey,” I mutter into the mic during a quiet pause after the song. My voice cracks a bit, and I don’t even care. “Bug, is that for me?” She nods like mad, grinning, eyes wide and hopeful. I let out this breathy, shaky laugh. Wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand.

“‘Course I will, sweetheart. Been yours since the day I met you.” She jumps up and down, and you’re crying too, I can see it from here. I bend down, grabbing that flower bucket a fan threw earlier — petals half crushed, still perfect. Walk to the far left of the stage and toss it up to her. She catches it with both hands like it’s the crown jewels, then lifts it over her head like she’s just won gold. I blow her a kiss, another one to you. Then I turn back to the crowd, who are now cheering like mad.

The rest of the set blurs. I give it my all, but my heart’s already somewhere else. Backstage, I barely get my boots off before I hear her feet pattering on the floor. “Papiiii!” She barrels into me at full speed, and I scoop her up like she’s made of feathers.

“You really meant it?” she whispers against my shoulder. I squeeze her tighter. “With every bit of me, Bug. You’re my girl forever now, yeah?” She nods into my neck. I kiss the top of her head and look at you — standing there, arms folded, eyes soft, like I’m the luckiest man alive. And I am. I walk over, still holding her, and kiss you slow, grateful.

“You gave me a family,” I say. “Didn’t know I needed one ‘til you.” And you smile — that smile — and I know there’s no stage in the world that’ll ever feel bigger than this moment.