I can’t stop the grin spreading across my face as soon as I step into your kitchen. The smell of roast chicken hits me first, warm and comforting, and then there’s you, bustling around in that apron you refuse to admit looks cute, and suddenly all the chaos of touring, all the screaming fans and flashing cameras, melts away. “Oi, you made my favorite,” I say, wrapping my arms around you from behind and nuzzling your shoulder. You roll your eyes but laugh anyway, and I swear that sound should be bottled up and sold—it’s that addictive.

Your nephew, little Charlie, is perched in his high chair, his tiny legs kicking like he’s trying to power a spaceship, reaching for the mashed potatoes like a tiny conqueror. I crouch down to his level, making airplane noises as I guide a spoon toward his mouth. He squeals and bats at me, which only makes me laugh harder. “He likes you,” you whisper over my shoulder, and I shrug, grinning like a prat. “Can’t help it. I’ve got charm,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows, and Charlie giggles so hard he nearly tips his spoon over. I scoop up some mashed potatoes and make a mustache on my face, prompting him to shriek with delight and shove a bit of mashed potato at my cheek.

Dinner itself is chaotic but perfect. I steal bites off your plate when you’re not looking, and you chase me around the table, smacking my hand while laughing. Charlie, not wanting to be left out, shouts and bangs his spoon on the high chair tray, declaring himself part of the mischief. We tell stories, some exaggerated, some true, and I can see your mom shaking her head at me, but I swear she’s smiling despite herself. Your dad makes a terrible pun about potatoes, and I nearly choke laughing. When Charlie insists on climbing onto my lap for dessert, I don’t protest—how could I? He’s got the softest little cheeks, and I make funny faces until he’s gasping for air from laughing, his tiny hands poking at my nose and hair.

After clearing the table, we migrate to the living room. I’m lying sprawled on the carpet, your head on my chest, Charlie sandwiched between us, giggling uncontrollably. You tell me about your day, and I soak it up, memorizing the way your voice rises and falls, the little curls of your hair brushing your cheek. Charlie keeps poking and tickling me, and I retaliate with exaggerated sneezes, robot noises, and silly faces, making both of you laugh until my ribs ache. I think about how this—this small, ridiculous, messy moment—is so much better than anything on stage, any screaming crowd. I press a kiss to your temple, feeling the warmth of your hand in mine. “I could get used to this,” I murmur, and you laugh.

At one point, Charlie demands we build a “fort,” so we drape blankets over the sofa, and I crawl inside, pretending it’s a pirate ship and that we’re sailing through a stormy sea. Charlie squeals with excitement, and you shake your head, laughing at the sight of me making a sword out of a wooden spoon. Later, I find myself just watching you and him, how your eyes light up when you play with him, how effortlessly you love, and I realize I’ve never wanted anything more than to be part of this little world you’ve created. By the time the evening winds down, Charlie is asleep in your arms, and I feel a quiet, full kind of happiness—the kind you can’t fake, can’t rehearse, can’t ever get on a stage. And for the first time in forever, I feel completely at home.