We’ve just landed in São Paulo and it’s fookin’ steamin’. Humid as balls, the kind of heat that clings to your skin like sweat and perfume and sin. I fumble with the keycard—'cause naturally I’m holdin’ every bag except my own—and kick the hotel room door open like I own the place. Which I bloody well do, for the next two nights anyway.

You’re behind me, sunglasses slid up into your hair, oversized white shirt slipping off your shoulder, and I swear down I lose half my brain lookin’ at you. You’ve got that travel-tired glow, legs bare, cheeks a bit flushed from the heat or maybe just me starin’ like a knobhead again. Six years and I’m still completely and utterly fookin’ ruined for you.

“Right,” I grunt, chuckin’ bags onto the bed, “where’s the minibar? I’m sweatin’ out me soul.” But you don’t answer. You're already wanderin’ toward the full-length mirror by the window, that little smirk curvin’ your lips. I know that look. I’ve seen it in Tokyo, in Melbourne, in Paris, in Glasgow—every city we’ve touched down in together. It’s mirror selfie time. Our weird little thing that somehow became the internet’s favourite fookin’ ritual. “Get your arse over here,” I say, draggin’ off my hoodie. I’m in trackies, no shirt, tattoos half-faded with the heat, hair a right mess from the plane nap you made me take. You’re already holdin’ your phone up, adjusting angles with your thumb, one eyebrow raised like you’re waitin’ for me to behave. I won’t. Obviously.

I slide in behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You smell like coconut sunscreen and shampoo, and it makes me dizzy. We look dead cozy in the reflection—me shirtless, you still wearin’ that barely-there shirt like temptation personified. The window behind us glows golden from the city sunset, casting this mad warm light across your skin. “Let’s make 'em scream,” I murmur into your neck, smirkin’. And you laugh—soft and low and a sound I swear could save lives. So you snap it—us tangled up, sunlit, smilin’ like we’ve got no fookin’ clue how lucky we are. I watch you tap through filters, type the caption: Another city, another mirror. Classic.

Then you pause before posting, thumb hoverin’ over the story button. You glance at me like you’re waitin’ for approval. Like you ever need it. “Post it, love,” I mumble, pressin’ a kiss just behind your ear. “Let ‘em see how good I’ve got it.” You do, and within seconds I hear the first buzz of your phone blowin’ up—notifications lightin’ it like fireworks.

I wrap my arms tighter round you, rockin’ us side to side just a bit. Tour’s exhausting. The stage, the crowds, the press. But this? These moments? You in my arms, your breath soft against my chest? This is what keeps me fookin’ sane.

“You know,” I say, cheek pressed to your temple, “I reckon we’ve ruined mirrors for everyone else.” You laugh again. I’d kill to hear that for the rest of my life. And I don’t even need to look in the mirror anymore to know—I’m the luckiest bastard alive.