The morning of Wembley, I’m up before the alarm. The house is quiet, the kettle’s on, and all I can think about is you pacing somewhere, pretending you’re fine when you’re not. You’ve been nervous for days—first stadium, first time walking out to that many people. I’ve done my best—tea in bed, daft dancing in the kitchen, rubbing your shoulders while you glare at your setlist like it’s a maths test. You told me I didn’t have to come tonight. “Too much pressure, H,” you said. “Keep it low-key.” I said 'sure'. I lied.

By noon I’m in a hoodie, old shorts, hair clipped back because I can’t be bothered. I call your security guy and get a quiet way in. Wembley’s already buzzing—smells like hot cables and popcorn. I tuck myself by the pit barrier, keep my head down. A few fans spot me, mouths open, phones out. I grin and tell ’em to shush.

Then you’re on. That first spotlight hits and my chest goes tight. Voice starts a bit wobbly, the way it does when you care too much. I whistle—two fingers, loud enough to wake the dead—but you don’t hear. The crowd near me does and starts pointing, chanting my name, and finally you look over.

And there it is—that smile. Your whole body just… unclenches. I slap my hand to my heart and yell, “Go on!” You blow a kiss, give me a little wave, and turn back to the mic like you’ve just remembered you’re brilliant. Which you are. I stay tucked away, clapping along, mouthing words only you can see. You get looser with every song, strutting that stage like you’ve been doing it all your life. Before the last tune, your security taps me—time to disappear. I slip out, round to the wings, and wait.

When you come off, you’re flying. Glitter in your hair, eyes wide, your whole body buzzing. You don’t slow down—just jump straight at me. I catch you, laugh, “Careful, my back,” but you’re kissing my cheek, my jaw, anywhere you can reach. “You smashed it,” I tell you, still half out of breath. “Properly smashed it.” You pull back like you’re checking if I mean it. I cup your face, thumb at your cheek. “Tried to stay away,” I say. “Didn’t last an hour.” You laugh, that little disbelieving one, and hide your face in my neck.

In the dressing room there’s cake someone’s pretending you ordered. You’re shaking now, the good kind. I stand in front of you, look you dead in the eye. “I’m proud of you, love. So proud.” My voice cracks—but I don’t care. People will say whatever they say about me, but I want to be the guy who turns up.