I’ve never been nervous to perform. But tonight, my hands won’t stay still. I keep rolling the mic between my fingers as the energy backstage pulses around me, everyone half-naked and sparkled up, wings grazing shoulders, cameras flashing every few seconds. It’s electric. It’s everything I used to dream about when I was fifteen and singing in pubs.

But this? This isn’t nerves about the show. It’s you. You’re somewhere behind that velvet curtain, probably in hair and makeup, slipping into your final look of the night—the grand finale. The one every camera will catch. The one where you’ll walk past me, glowing, fierce, and effortlessly composed. You always are.

Three years we’ve been together. Three years of stolen weekends in Hampstead, your makeup bag on the bathroom counter, my jumpers disappearing into your suitcase. Three years of your calm balancing out my chaos. Three years of late-night laughter and quiet understanding.

And now... week sixteen. Our baby.

Only a handful of people know. Our families, a couple close friends. We've been guarding this secret like it’s made of crystal, delicate and ours alone. And maybe it’s still early. Maybe we’re reckless. But I look at you and I feel it in my bones—this is real. This is forever.

“Harry, you’re up next.” I nod, adjusting my collar, giving one last swipe at my curls. Black suit, pink shirt, the mic warm in my hand. The opening chords to Kiwi thrum through the venue, and I step out into blinding lights and the thunder of the crowd. The adrenaline hits me square in the chest. I throw myself into it, the stomp, the shout, the swagger. The lyrics tear out of me, wild and unapologetic. It’s loud, it’s sexy, it’s ridiculous. The models float past me, legs a mile long, heels clacking, wings casting shadows. I barely register them. Because I know when you’re coming. I feel it before I see you—like gravity shifting.

Then there you are. You step onto the runway and the whole bloody room goes silent in my head. Time slows. You’re in black, with some kind of celestial cape thing flowing behind you, and your body moves like you own the earth you walk on. Every inch of you is magic. And mine. You’re so close now. I grip the mic tighter, heart hammering as the final chorus comes. This is it. I catch your eyes—those eyes—and I’m smiling so hard my face aches. You’re grinning too, lips pressed together like you’re trying not to laugh, like you already know what I’m about to do.

And I do it. Right there, clear as day, I sing it: “She’s having my baby... it’s all of my business.”

You laugh. A real one. You drop your head for half a second, shake it slightly, then look back at me—still walking, still regal—and give me this small, cheeky bow. Like we’re in on something no one else understands. I bow back. Just a little. Just for you.

The crowd doesn’t know what hit them. I finish the song with the biggest smile I’ve ever worn on a stage, heart beating out of rhythm, not from the music but from you. And when the lights dim and the applause swells, I’m already heading backstage. They try to grab me—PR, tech, someone from wardrobe—but I shake them off.

I find you in the wings, still radiant, still glowing from the walk, the high of it all lingering in your expression. You don’t say anything—don’t have to. You just look at me with that face I love more than anything, the one that’s been my home for three years now.

I step into your space, my hand instinctively brushing the flat of your belly, and I whisper, “Did we just tell the whole world?”You smile, and my whole chest fills. “They’re gonna go mental.”

You give me that look again. And I swear, in this moment—amid the glitter and chaos, the shouting and cameras—I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life.

You’re having my baby. And that’s all of my business.