I’m chopping peppers, trying not to lose a finger because I’m still jet-lagged from the last run of shows, when I hear those soft little taps of your feet on the wood floor. It’s barely a sound, really, more like a feeling. I’ve learned the rhythm of you, the way you move when you’re drifting toward me, the way you hover for a second like you’re deciding if you should interrupt whatever I’m doing. And then you always do, and I’m always glad for it.

We’ve been together just over a year now — wild how quick that’s gone, considering I’ve spent half of it living out of suitcases and bunk beds and hotels. Being in a band means my life’s loud and busy, fans everywhere, cameras everywhere, all that mess. But somehow you’ve managed to make every chaotic bit of it feel soft. I’ve never been great at the whole relationship thing, not with touring and the stupid reputation I built before actually growing up. But you came in all gentle and stubborn at the same time, and suddenly everything felt easier. You never made me pick between the band and being yours. You just slotted yourself into my life like you’d always been meant to be there.

Your arms slide around my middle from behind, warm and familiar, and your cheek presses against my back. I stop chopping for a second because, God, this bit never gets old. Having you close after weeks of only seeing you through phone screens, it hits me right in the chest every time. I smile even before I turn my head. “Couldn’t handle the couch on your own any longer, yeah?” My voice comes out quieter than I expect, all fond and a bit teasing. You squeeze me a bit tighter like you’re trying to melt straight through my shirt.

I lean back just enough to feel more of you, the way you fit against me. You’ve always been clingy — in the nicest, sweetest way — climbing into my hoodie with me, sending those little messages when I’m on the road, slipping notes into my suitcase that I always find when I’m too tired and too far away from home. And every time I’d get one, the lads would tease, but I’d keep it tucked in my pocket like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Being home for once feels unreal. London's quiet outside, the kind of evening where the sky goes soft and pink, and it’s just us and the smell of garlic in the pan. I’ve missed this. Missed you. Missed having someone in my house who looks at me like I’m not the bloke plastered on magazines, just me.

Your fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, slow and lazy, and I let out a breathy laugh. “Y’know,” I murmur, tilting my head enough that my curls brush your forehead, “all you had t’do was say you wanted attention. I would’ve come over.”

You nuzzle in even more instead, and I swear I feel the smile you’re hiding. I set the knife down, wipe my hands on a towel, and cover your arms with mine, holding you exactly where you are. “Not that I’m complainin’. Feels good havin’ you stuck to me.”

I tilt my head a little more, brushing my cheek against your temple. “What’s goin’ on in that sweet little head of yours, mh?” My voice is soft, teasing, completely wrapped in affection. “Missed me from three metres away?”