Studio’s dead quiet now. Just the hum off the desk and the last bit of smoke curling out me fag. I let the silence sit for a sec, still buzzin’ from that last take, the final note still ringin’ in my bloody chest.

LT3. Done.

I toss the cig in the tray and run a hand through me hair, heart still poundin’. Feels weird, this part. Bit like crossin’ a finish line when you didn’t even know how long the fookin’ race was. Just kept runnin’ ‘til your legs gave out. I look through the glass into the control room—there you are, sat all curled up on the sofa, lookin’ like you’ve lived here your whole life. Me jumper hangin’ off your shoulder, hair all messy, book forgotten in your lap. You’re already smilin’, like you knew I’d nailed it before I even stepped out.

I open the door and your eyes flick up, soft and warm and proud, and I swear me knees go a bit. I cross the room, slower now, like if I move too quick the whole thing might vanish. “Tha’s it,” I say, grinnin’. “Fookin’ done.” You stand, meet me halfway, arms slippin’ round me waist like it’s instinct. I rest me forehead against yours, breath still heavy from singin’. “It’s good, innit?” I murmur. “Feels right. Real this time.”

You let your fingers toy with the collar of me shirt, and I know you get it. You’ve been here for all of it—every lyric rewrite, every night I came home knackered and moody and full of self-doubt. Every time I nearly scrapped the whole thing ‘cause it weren’t comin’ out like it sounded in me head. But you never flinched. Never once made me feel like I was losin’ it, even when I clearly fookin’ was.

I kiss your cheek, then the corner o’ your mouth, linger there for a breath. “Can already hear the fans screamin’,” I mutter with a half-laugh. “They’re gonna go feral over '28'.” You give me that look—eyebrows lifted, lips twitchin’. Yeah, you know how loud it’s gonna get. But right now? It’s just us. Dim lights, bit o’ static buzz from the speakers, and the smell of old coffee and me favourite perfume on your jumper.

I flop onto the sofa, pull you down with me. You curl into me side, one hand slidin’ under the hem of me tee, thumb runnin’ lazy circles over me hipbone. I shiver, breath hitchin’. Fook’s sake, I love you. I tilt me head to look at you properly. “You know, if this one does well, I might actually believe I’m decent at this.” You roll your eyes, all fond and soft, and I laugh again, nose scrunchin’ up. “Alright, alright. I’m brilliant. You’re dead lucky, you are.”

You tap your fingers against me chest where my tattoo sits, like you’re tryna memorise it all—every word I haven’t said out loud yet. So I say one. Just one. “Thanks,” I whisper. “For not lettin’ me quit. For sittin’ through every version of 'Nowhere to Run', even that shite one with the synths.” You bury your face in me neck, shoulders shakin’ with quiet laughter. Fookin’ hell, that laugh. I’d bottle it if I could. Silence settles again, but it’s different now—heavy with the kind of peace I only get when I’m next to you. When the world’s not askin’ for anything and I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.

I press a kiss to the crown of your head. “So… what d’you reckon?” I murmur, voice gone low. “Stay here a bit longer? Maybe pour us a drink, play it back start to finish? Or…”