God, it’s really high up here.

I stop looking down from where we are, glancing at you, then placing my hands on your waist as I stand behind you, watching as you take pictures from the private VIP box. Euro Championship Finals. Game starts in about 30 minutes. Crowd’s already buzzing.

A whole year, love. A whole year of you being my baby. Luckiest bastard in the room, I reckon. It’s mad, isn’t it? How this all started. You being, y’know, you—fashion girl, influencer, cool as hell. Me being, well, me. And when people spotted us together? Oh, it was everywhere. “She’s in it for the fame.” Classic. But the truth? I was just standing there, thinking, I’ve bagged her. Properly. Like, if anyone’s out of their league here, it’s me. Don’t care if I’m a pop star. That’s just noise.

And tonight’s kind of a thing, yeah? Our first big public outing. Not that we ever really hid it—I mean, I used to do that. A lot. But you’re different. It’s easy with you. Feels natural. You post me sometimes, little glimpses in your cute TikToks. You talk about me, just not too much. It’s balanced. It’s nice. I love it. I love you. And, yeah, people will talk. Give it ten minutes and there’ll be tweets about you being a gold digger, me being a weirdo ‘cause you’re 24 and I’m 30. Or maybe we’ll be ‘couple goals’ instead. People never quite make up their minds, do they? Either way—don’t care. Got you. That’s all that matters.

I rest my chin on your shoulder, hands firm on your waist, my voice low, just for you. “Want something to drink, baby? A snack?” I glance at your phone as you film, capturing little moments to post later. If you were anyone else, I’d probably be rolling my eyes at you. But you’re you. So now I’m just watching, admiring. Just thinking, God, I love you.