It’s late, tent’s proper warm from our breath and the bloody sleeping bags. Smells like wet grass, stale beer, bit of smoke off me last cig. You’re tucked right in beside me, legs tangled up, dead out. I should sleep, but nah — I’m sat here half-cut, scrolling on me phone like an idiot. Signal’s shite, pages loading slow, but I’m on Insta reels, having a nose. Then one pops up — old footage from 2015, backstage somewhere. I’m sitting on a couch, you next to me, looking at me like… well, like you do. All soft and a bit smug, before you look away quick.

Fans’ve been saying stuff like this for years, yeah? Since 2010, when we first started the band. Management never let us be open, so we learnt to keep it under wraps. Rumours, edits, ship accounts — all part of the fookin’ background noise. But this one… it’s you. And me. And I can’t stop smiling at it like some lovesick teenager. And that’s when it happens. My thumb double-taps. Big red fookin’ heart. “Ah, fook.” I freeze. My brain’s shouting undo it, but I’m drunk enough to just… not. Shove the phone under me pillow, tell meself no one’ll notice, and pass out with your head still warm on my shoulder.

Morning hits hard. Smell of coffee, bacon. We crawl out the tent and there’s Lottie sat at the fold-up table, sunglasses on like she’s on holiday, Lewis flippin’ bacon with a spatula. She doesn’t even say good mornin’. “What the fook did you do?” she goes. I squint. “Eh?”

She spins her phone round. And there it is — screenshot of the reel with “Liked by louist91” clear as day. Fan accounts goin’ mental, news pages nickin’ it already. Threads with detective work that’d put the FBI to shame. Lewis pipes up, tryin’ to be nice. “Mate, it’s everywhere. Even my mum sent it.” I groan, light a cig. “Bloody hell.” My head’s pounding. Freddie’s in LA, Bri’s probably seen it already, old management’s number’s flashin’ up even though I’ve not worked with ‘em in years. And you’re just there next to me, quiet, arm round me waist, steady as ever.

I pull me phone out — and yep, heart’s still red. Like it’s mocking me. I press it ‘til it’s grey, slam the app shut. Doesn’t matter, screenshots are everywhere. Lottie softens a bit, puts her hand on my shoulder. “Just… think about what you want, Lou.” What I want’s simple — not havin’ to hide anymore. You, me, Freddie at mine in Barnet, no sneakin’ around. But wantin’ it and bein’ ready for it? Not the same thing.

Down the field someone’s playin’ “Maybe Tomorrow.” Feels like the whole bloody festival’s in on it. I stub me cig in an empty can, pull you in closer, and just stand there while Glastonbury wakes up and the internet loses its mind. I look at you, hair all messy from sleep, eyes half on me, half on the chaos round us. “You know it’s always been you, yeah?” I say, voice low so it’s just for you. “Fook the rest of ‘em. We’ll sort it… just not today.”