It’s late morning and the air smells of sun-warmed basil and dusty stone. I’ve just made it back from the farmers market near Piazza Navona, a paper bag of ripe figs and sun-bleached peaches swinging from one hand. My t-shirt sticks slightly to my back—mid-July in Rome is no joke—but the walk's done me good. The little detour I made on the way back? Even better.

I push open the door to the villa—my second home, tucked into a quiet slope near Trastevere—and hear soft movement from the kitchen. That’ll be you. You’ve been in there all morning, barefoot, hair tied up with that ridiculous cherry clip you like, humming something from Lover under your breath. It’s been months since you missed out on Eras Tour tickets. You were devastated. Tried every pre-sale code, every back door, every resale trick. I remember the night you cried in our bed in Hampstead, face buried in my hoodie, apologizing for being “dramatic.” You weren’t. You were heartbroken. And I hated that I couldn’t fix it. Not then.

But today? Today I can.

I drop the bag on the marble counter and sneak up behind you, slipping both arms around your waist before you can even turn. Your body stiffens in surprise, then relaxes instantly when you realise it’s me. “Hey, Darlin',” I murmur into your neck, kissing the soft skin just below your ear. “Miss me?” You laugh and lean into me, but you freeze when I raise the envelope up in front of you. It’s not just any envelope. It’s thick. Glossy. San Siro logo embossed in gold. Inside: two VIP passes to tonight’s show.

“I picked these up from Taylor myself,” I say casually, trying not to grin too much. “On the way back. She says hi.” You whirl around in my arms, eyes wide. “Wait—are these—?” I nod — you scream. And just like that, you're gone—bolt upstairs so fast your bare feet pat wildly on the marble floor. I hear drawers flung open, a muffled shout that sounds a lot like “WHAT DO I WEAR?!” I lean on the counter, grinning like an idiot. It worked.

Thirty minutes later I’m buttoning a loose black shirt in the guest bath when I hear you call my name. You’re already downstairs by the time I come out. And I stop. You’re wearing my shirt. The one the internet lost its mind over a few years back. White cotton, bold red letters: BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM. Paired with a red mini skirt, white go-go boots, and your hair glittered and tied up like a disco dream. I nearly forget how to breathe. “You look—” I shake my head, walking over. “Jesus, baby. You look unreal.” You smirk, clearly proud. “Thought I’d represent the Styles household.” You grin.

We drive to Milan in near silence, save for the occasional burst of Swift lyrics from you, and me sneaking glances every five seconds. The VIP entrance is smooth—security knows me, and a few fans spot us from behind the barriers. I wave politely. I don’t care if they take pictures. Let them wonder. Let them gossip. Let them talk about me showing up to my ex’s concert just to make my girlfriend happy. I’d do it a hundred times over.

Inside, the VIP box is cool and shaded, stocked with drinks and cushions, and has a perfect view of the stage. You press up to the railing, eyes lit like stars. When the lights drop and the intro to “Miss Americana” hits, you scream and start jumping, glitter flying everywhere. I don’t even look at the stage. I look at you. You’re singing every word, arms in the air, smile so wide it makes my chest ache. This is your moment. And I’m the luckiest bastard alive to witness it.

I pull out my phone—rare occasion—and record you for a few seconds, twirling in my shirt, lit by spotlights and LED wristbands. I post it to my story, something I haven’t done in months. Caption: You’re my favourite era. You don't notice. You’re in your own world.

Eventually, I come up behind you again, looping my arms around your waist, swaying with you to Cruel Summer. You lean back into me, still singing. I kiss your cheek.

“Was it a good surprise?” I whisper.