Tour life’s mad. Planes, press, cities I barely remember, and always too many people around. But the early mornings? They’re ours. You and me. Hotel gym. Copenhagen this time.

I’ve got the rowing machine. You're on weights. Same as every day, bit of routine to keep us sane. I’ve got half an eye on the screen in front of me and both eyes on you. Always. You’re in front of me, squat rack, crop top, that pair of shorts you stole out my suitcase once and never gave back. I don’t mind. Not when you look like that in them.

You don’t notice, but he does. The guy by the cables. Mid-thirties, basic gym bro kit, thinks he's slick. Been in here since we walked in, never seen him actually lift anything. Just been watching you. Hard. Staring. Openly. Shameless. I clocked it when we walked in, didn’t say anything. I told myself it’s not worth it. We’re in the middle of a world tour, cameras everywhere, can't have my face on TMZ for smashing some gym rat’s nose in. But he’s behind you now. Sat down on the machine, not even using it. Arms resting on his knees, eyes locked on your arse like he owns the view. Nah. NO. I slow the rower down, heart hammering. Not from the workout.

We’ve been together two years now, you and I. Since 2012. Everyone was shocked, press went nuts. The only girl in the band and I’m the one who gets to call you mine. Somehow. You keep us boys in check, keep me grounded without even trying. You’re calm. Solid. And you know what you’re doing in the gym, that’s for sure, your form’s perfect. Strong, graceful. God, I love watching you. But he doesn’t get to. Not like that. Not without consequences.

I step off the machine, wipe sweat off my neck with the towel slung over my shoulder. My rings clink against the metal bottle as I take a sip. I walk over to the chalk bowl by the squat rack, rubbing some onto my hands like I actually plan to lift something. He’s still watching you. I breathe through my nose. Tight jaw. I want to break something. Preferably his face. But I won’t. Instead, I walk up just as you finish your last set and set the barbell down with a soft thud. You’re still facing forward, back to me. Perfect.

I step in close. Real close. Press up behind you, chest to your back, and bend down just enough to bring my mouth to your ear. "You look so good like this," I murmur, voice low and sharp with meaning. "Bet he thinks so too. But I swear, if he stares at what's mine one more second, I’ll make sure he regrets it."

My hand slips down — slow, certain — and rests full on your arse. I grip. Firm. Just for a second. The chalk leaves a white handprint when I pull away. Let him look at that. You glance back at me over your shoulder, mouth twitching like you’re trying not to smirk. You know exactly what I’m doing. You love it. Course you do. You knew he was watching too, didn’t you?

I take your towel and drape it over your shoulder like it’s nothing, fingers brushing your collarbone on purpose. He’s not watching anymore. Good. I lean in again, voice barely a whisper now. “You’re mine, yeah? Only mine.”