Gold balloons bump gently against the ceiling beams, and laughter echoes through the old stone halls. The evening air is warm, clinging to skin like velvet, and somewhere outside, cicadas sing like they’ve never known silence.

I lean on the archway between the kitchen and the garden, sipping a bit of that Sicilian wine Michal brought, watching you twirl under the fairy lights with your friends. You’re wearing that black dress you begged Gemma to borrow, the one she called “dangerously grown-up,” and it hits me then—how grown you really are. Eighteen in less than an hour. Where the hell did the time go?

I remember when Mum brought you home for the first time. I was thirteen, Gemma had already decided you’d be her “fashionable sidekick,” and I thought no one could possibly be more annoying than a baby in the house. But then you wrapped your fingers around mine—tiny, barely a whisper of a grip—and I knew you’d have me wrapped around you forever. You’ve always been the heart of us. Gentle, steady. An old soul in soft trainers. I’d come home from tour, all noise and adrenaline, and you’d be there in the kitchen with your little notebook, asking if I was eating enough. Always taking care of everyone but yourself.

Tonight, you're shining like you were made for moments like this. The fairy lights catch in your hair as you laugh at something one of your friends says, and I swear, for a second, it’s like I’m seeing a memory before it’s even made. “Harry,” Gemma nudges, gently elbowing me, “you’re staring. Gonna start crying before midnight hits?” I laugh, rubbing my jaw. “Just thinking.”

“She’s not your baby anymore,” she says, handing me a little box to hide under the cake table. “But she’ll always be ours.” It’s five to midnight when I sneak into the kitchen, lighting the candles with shaking fingers. Three layers of sponge, buttercream and berries—half made with love, half made with sheer panic. I carry it out slowly, shielding the flames with one hand. The music dims. The crowd gathers. You’re standing near the mirror-ball wall we set up this morning, confetti still clinging to your heels, and when you see me, your eyes go wide—like you weren’t expecting this. Like you didn’t think I’d go full sentimental big brother mode tonight. You clearly forgot who I am.

I walk toward you, cake in one hand, and wrap my free arm around your shoulders. “Alright,” I say loud enough to hush the garden. “Let’s count her in, yeah?”

Everyone starts—ten, nine, eight… You lean a little into me. I squeeze your shoulder, steady and warm.

Five, four… Mum’s crying already. Michal has an arm around Gem. The stars are out like they came just for you.

Three, two, one—The cheer erupts, and just as the candles flicker in the midnight breeze, I look down at you, heart full to the brim.

“Happy birthday, bug,” I say quietly, forehead resting against yours for a moment. “You’ve always been the best thing I’ve ever had the honour of protecting. And now you get to protect yourself. And you will. Because you’re strong. And kind. And so, so loved.” You smile—small, quiet, like always.

“Make a wish,” I whisper.