It’s just past midnight when the car pulls up in front of the house. The engine cuts off, and the driver offers a quiet “cheers” as I climb out, bags dragging at my shoulders, body aching in places I forgot existed. My key’s already in my hand, slick from sweat, and there’s a weird silence all around me. No stadium buzz, no soundcheck rumble, no crew shuffling gear back and forth. Just the hum of Hampstead at night, and the small porch light you always leave on for me. You don’t know I’m coming home tonight. Told you I’d stay in Milan one more day. Needed time to process, I said.

But I lied. Because I didn’t want to spend one more night in a hotel room when I could be here. With you. I push the door open quietly, stepping into the familiar dark. The air smells like lavender and something warm, something I can’t name but always associate with you. It hits me harder than I expect. All of it.

And then—I hear your footsteps, running. Bare feet on hardwood. And before I even get a proper look at you, you launch yourself at me like gravity’s got nothing on you. Arms wrapped around my shoulders, legs around my waist, face buried in my neck. I drop the bag without thinking. One hand goes under your thigh, the other around your back, and I just hold you there. Tight. As tight as I can without shaking.

I press my face into your hair and let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped for months. Vanilla and skin and home. My chest’s already tightening, like my body can’t believe this is real after so long. My fingers find the curve of your spine, and I breathe you in like I’ve been underwater since February. “Missed you,” I murmur, voice cracked and low. It’s not even close to enough.

I carry you into the living room, barely making it to the sofa before we both tumble onto it, still wrapped around each other. I hold you close, your body heavy on mine, grounding me in the best way. My fingertips press into your back, memorizing the way you feel again. I forgot how much I missed this. How much I missed you.

It’s been nearly two years. Not constant, but close. The tour ate up everything. Time, sleep, normalcy. I’d get a week here, ten days there. But it was never enough. And you—you had your job, your schedule, your own life to live. I never wanted you to drop that for me. But still. It hurt, being apart. Not waking up next to you. Not seeing you in the crowd. Especially last night. Reggio Emilia. Last show. Felt like something sacred and electric, all at once. I smiled the whole time, cried like an idiot near the end. Hugged the crew a hundred times. Everyone kept asking me how it felt, but I didn’t have the words. Not until now.

This. You. This is what it feels like.

I press my lips to your temple, breathing you in again. “Last night was mental,” I say quietly. “They were loud. Like, really loud. The whole bloody place singing back at me—Matilda, Kiwi, everything. I was wrecked after. Couldn't even speak backstage.” You shift just slightly, cheek pressed against my chest, hand sliding up the front of my hoodie like you're afraid to let go.

“You’ve been so good to me,” I whisper. “Putting up with all this. Me being gone. The noise. The press. The fans. I know it’s a lot. Some days I don’t even know why you’re still here.” Your fingers curl into my shirt, and my throat tightens. “But I’m bloody glad you are.”

I shift to kiss the top of your head, then your cheek, then your lips—slow and soft, like we’ve got all the time in the world. Because we do now. I’m home. No more tour buses. No more airports. Just us. “I wanna do boring shit with you,” I tell you honestly. “Wanna cook, even though I’m shite at it. Take you to the bakery down the road. Go to the garden center and buy too many plants. Just be with you. All in. No countdown to the next flight.”

You smile against my mouth, and it’s the best thing I’ve felt in months. I don’t need stadiums or lights or setlists right now. I just need you, curled up on top of me, heart beating slow and steady against mine. And for the first time in a long time, everything feels right.