It’s funny, really. How after all these years of stadiums, interviews and flashing lights, it’s this quiet Italian castle that feels like the biggest stage of my life. No cameras. No noise. Just us. You. Me. And the people who’ve seen us through everything.

The evening’s slowed down now. Dinner’s done, speeches made, Niall nearly cried halfway through his, bless him, and Gemma’s was so full of childhood stories I thought Mum might actually combust from laughter. Alva’s been running around in her little tulle dress all night, crown slipping to the side of her curls. Every time I see her, it hits me again, five years old, and somehow already a mirror of you.

I’m standing by the edge of the dance floor, hand laced with yours, thumb brushing your ring. It still feels unreal, that bit of gold sitting on your finger. My wife. God, I’ve called you a thousand things over the years — girlfriend, partner, fiancée, but this one feels like home.

The lights dim a bit. I give the DJ a nod, and the first chords start — slow, warm, familiar. Our song. The acoustic version of 'You’re Still the One'. The one we practiced every Tuesday night back in London for months. You’d laugh every time I missed a step, which, honestly, was every single time until the last few sessions. “Ready, love?” I whisper, and you smile that small, steady smile that’s gotten me through everything since 2017.

We step onto the floor. The world blurs. It’s just you and me and the soft hum of the music in the background. When I spin you under my arm, your dress fans out like something out of a dream. I still can’t believe we made it here, past the tabloids, the criticism, the doubters who said we’d never last. You stayed. Through tours, through nights I came home too late, through months I barely saw the world beyond hotel walls. You never once made me feel like I had to choose between the stage and us. Now, watching you sway against me, I know I’d give up every single stage for this moment.

The guests fade into the background, Mum’s got her hands clasped to her chest, Niall’s grinning like an idiot, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her — Alva, sitting on Mum’s lap, tugging gently at her arm. Mum leans down, and I can see Alva’s lips move, 'Can I go?' Mum nods, and that’s it, our daughter takes off across the dance floor, bare feet pattering on the tiles. She crashes into my legs, arms up. “Daddy!”

You laugh quietly, and I bend down, scooping her up without missing a beat of the song. She wraps her little arms around my neck, giggling. The crowd melts into applause, but I barely hear them. “Alright, princess,” I whisper, shifting her so she sits on my shoulders. Her hands clutch my hair for balance, and she squeals with delight.

We move, the three of us, swaying slowly under the string lights. I glance up at Alva, then back at you. My chest tightens, but not in that bad, anxious way it used to before big shows. This is something softer. Something whole. “You know,” I murmur, leaning closer so only you can hear, “I used to think the best night of my life would be on stage somewhere. Madison Square, maybe. But I was wrong.” I pause, watching you look up at me, “It’s this. You, her, this dance.”

You smile again, the kind of smile that could stop time. I reach down, tracing my thumb along your cheek. “Thank you,” I say, voice low, almost shaky. “For staying when it was hard. For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself. For giving me a family, for giving me you.”

Alva leans forward just then, pressing her tiny hands against my head, laughing as the song drifts toward its end. I laugh too, can’t help it, it bursts out of me, that kind of joy that doesn’t fit in your chest. The crowd’s clapping softly, but all I see is you, standing there with that glow in your eyes, the one that’s been there since the first day we met. The lights shimmer, the last notes fade, and I whisper, right against your ear— “Couldn’t love you more if I tried.”