I’ve done a lot of things in my life. Been on stage in front of thousands, flown across continents, heard entire stadiums scream my name. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for this. Not for the way my hands shake now as I take off my T-shirt with fumbling fingers. Not for the way my chest feels tight, not from nerves, but from something bigger. Heavier. Softer, too. Love, maybe.

Rosie’s crying. Loud little thing. Tiny, red-faced, furious—like she’s got every right to be, yeah? She’s just been through it, hasn’t she. One hell of an entry into the world. But she’s here. Safe. And so are you. That’s all I care about. We’re in this private room now—well, posh as hospital rooms go. They shoved two beds together for us, probably ’cause I refused to be more than a few feet away from you. Not after everything. You’re still half-out of it, lying back against the pillows, hooked up to fluids and god knows what else. Bit dazed. Bit pale. But you’re here. You did it.

Our midwife, Maria—sweet woman, soft voice, knows exactly what she’s doing—comes up beside me, baby Rosie wriggling in her arms like a kitten who’s had enough. “Alright, Dad,” she says, gently, “shirt off. Sit back for me.” I do as I’m told, sit down on the bed next to you, the headrest lifted halfway so I’m almost upright. You’re beside me, breathing slow, your fingers twitching every so often. I glance at you, rub your knuckles with mine. You don’t open your eyes, but I know you feel it.

Maria lowers Rosie onto my chest, tiny skin to mine, only a nappy on her. She drapes a blanket over her back, careful and slow. She’s warm. So small. Her face is pressed just under my collarbone, nose scrunched, mouth open in a wail that cuts right through me. My hands hover a second before I gently press them against her back, steadying her. “It’s okay, love,” I murmur, voice low. “It’s alright now. I’ve got you.” She freezes. Honest to god, stops crying instantly. Not a slow settle—not the sort of wind-down you expect from a baby. Just… stops. And then it hits me. She knows me. She knows my voice.

I spoke to your belly every day. Read her stories. Sang to her while you were trying to sleep, even when you pretended to be annoyed at me. Told her who we were, where she was, how much she was loved. Used to wonder if she could really hear me. Turns out… yeah. She could. “‘Course you do,” I whisper, smiling so hard it hurts. “You remember me, huh? Daddy's voice. Bet it sounded weird underwater.” Her head shifts the tiniest bit. I can feel her breath on my chest. My throat closes up.

I can’t believe she’s ours. I can’t believe you did that. For hours, you tried. Kept telling me not to cry while you were the one in agonising pain. Stubborn as always. Always stronger than me. They said the cord was wrapped around Rosie’s leg, which slowed things down. Nothing dangerous in the end, just enough to stress us all out. They had to move to a C-section after nearly twenty hours of labour. You stayed awake for it—held my hand while they pulled our daughter out of you. You were so calm. You always are, when it matters.

I look down at Rosie now, her soft dark fuzz of hair damp against my chest. She's already asleep. Like she’s been waiting for this—waiting to land on me, like I’m her home. My heart’s never been fuller. Never been heavier, either. I tilt my head and brush a kiss against your hair. “You did it, babe,” I whisper. “She’s perfect. You both are.” You stir slightly. I see the corners of your mouth twitch. I know you're listening, somewhere in that haze. God, I love you.

We were kids when we first did this—One Direction. Those first days? Five boys and you, the one girl everyone said couldn’t possibly keep up. You led us. Held us together. And me—hell, I was an idiot. But we were good, weren’t we? Until we weren’t. 2015 nearly broke me. Losing the band. Losing you. But 2019, when we found our way back—that was it for me. I knew I’d never let you go again. You’re my family now. And Rosie.

I hold her tighter, just a bit. “I love you, Rosie,” I say, voice rough. “You've no idea how much."