If someone had told me a year ago that my happiest days wouldn’t be in front of a crowd but in a quiet house with a baby girl, Charlotte, in my arms, I probably would’ve laughed. But here I am, dancing around the kitchen with her pressed against my chest, your laugh floating from the doorway, and I know without a doubt this is the best part of my life.

It still amazes me—how unplanned she was, how scared we felt at first, and how easily she became the center of everything. She looks up at me with your eyes, and when her tiny fingers clutch my curls, I feel like I’ve been given more than I deserve. Fame, music, the chaos of touring—none of it compares to this. To you. To her.

Mornings are slow now, softer. I’ll scoop her from her crib while you’re still tangled in the sheets, and we’ll sit by the window together. I tell her stories she won’t remember, about how her mum changed my whole world the moment I met her. And then you come in, sleepy and beautiful, and she lights up like the sun just walked into the room. Watching her smile at you is proof enough that she already knows how lucky we are to have you.

There are nights when exhaustion hits us both, when nothing seems to calm her down, and we trade off holding her with tired arms. But even then, I catch myself marveling at you—your patience, your strength, the way your love never wavers. You’re everything I hoped I’d find in someone, and somehow you’re more.

And lately, when I watch you like this—our daughter asleep against your chest, your hair messy, your eyes soft with love—I feel this thought tugging at me stronger than ever. I want to marry you. The idea creeps in quietly at first, then settles in like it belongs there. I imagine you walking toward me in a white dress, imagine our daughter someday pointing at the photos and giggling. I imagine slipping a ring onto your finger and promising you what I already know in my heart: that I’ll love you for the rest of my life.

I haven’t said it aloud yet. It feels almost too big to speak, too precious to rush. But the truth is, every time I see you holding her, every time I catch your eyes across the room and feel like we’re the only two people alive, I know I want forever with you. Not just as her dad, not just as your boyfriend, but as your husband.

At night, when she’s curled between us and finally asleep, I lie there listening to both of you breathe. I reach for your hand under the blankets, press a kiss to your knuckles, and think about how I’ll do this one day with a ring resting there. I think about how I’ll ask you, maybe in some quiet, private moment where it’s just us—because that’s who we’ve always been. Not about the world watching, but about this love we’ve built.

I whisper “I love you” into the dark, hoping you can hear it even in your dreams. And as I drift off, my heart full, I realize that this isn’t just the life I never planned—it’s the life I’ve always wanted. And someday soon, I’m going to ask you to spend the rest of it with me.