The rain taps soft against the kitchen window, a quiet rhythm that’s oddly comforting. The grey sky’s been stretching over London since morning, and the clouds haven’t let up once. I glance over at you, perched on the edge of my kitchen stool, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy. You look tired, the kind of tired that goes deeper than sleep. The kind I recognise from years of knowing you.

We’ve been friends since the early days—since before the tours and the mad schedules. Before heartbreaks, headlines, and late-night studio sessions. You've been the constant, the quiet in the noise. You grounded me when things got blurry, made me laugh when everything felt too heavy. And now, you’re here, heavy in your own way, and I know I can’t fix it. But maybe I can make today a little softer for you.

“Right,” I clap my hands together, dusting off the flour, “next batch’s goin’ in. And if we don’t burn ‘em, I reckon we should get a medal.” You manage a half-smile, and I catch it—small, but real. There’s biscuit dough under my fingernails, and I’m wearing the world’s most ridiculous apron, but I’d wear ten more if it keeps that smile on your face. I move around the kitchen like an idiot, pretending to be some posh TV chef, tossing ingredients around with fake elegance. You shake your head, but I see it—your shoulders drop just a little.

Then it’s music. Something upbeat, something old school. I grab your hand without warning, pulling you from the stool into the middle of the kitchen floor. “Dance with me,” I say, and you let me. There’s biscuit crumbs on the counter and flour on your cheek, but when I spin you around, something in the air shifts. It’s not about forgetting the hurt or pretending everything’s okay. It’s just about this moment—warm and silly and safe. I twirl you again, and you laugh, a proper one this time. It wraps around my chest like a hug I didn’t know I needed.

When the cookies are finally done and we’ve danced ourselves out, I make the tea—yours just the way you like it. We settle into the couch, the big one near the fireplace, wrapped in my softest blanket. You curl up beside me, your head resting just below my collarbone, and I feel you exhale, long and slow. The room smells like sugar and cinnamon, and the rain is still falling outside, but here, it’s just us. A low film hums on the telly, something we’ve seen before but always return to, like comfort food in movie form.

I glance down at you, your eyes soft but distant. My fingers move slowly through your hair, and I feel the weight of what you’re not saying. You've been carrying too much lately, and I’ve been watching it chip away at your light. “You know,” I say quietly, “you’re doing better than you think.” You don’t look up, but your body stills like you’re listening. “I mean it,” I add, resting my chin on your head. “You’ve been through hell lately, and somehow you still show up. You still give. You still care.”

I pause, breathing you in. You smell like my hoodie and vanilla, and something else I can’t name—something that’s always felt like home. “You’ve always looked after me, even when I didn’t deserve it,” I whisper. “And I don’t say it enough, but... I see you. All of it. The way you keep going, even when it’s hard. The way you love people, even when they don’t make it easy. You’re... honestly, you’re one of the best people I know.”

My thumb brushes over your knuckles, and I feel you lean in a little closer. “I just want you to feel safe,” I say, quieter now. “And loved. Properly loved. 'Cause you deserve that.” You curl into me and your hand gently finds mine under the blanket— and it tells me all I need to know. Outside, the rain keeps falling. Inside, the biscuits are already half gone, the tea’s grown lukewarm, and the movie’s almost over. But I don’t move. I stay here with you, wrapped up in the warmth of flour-dusted memories and the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need grand gestures. Just this. Just us.