I come back down the stairs with the hat in my hand, still half-asleep and definitely not thawed from you dragging me out of bed at eight bloody a.m. But the second I step into the hall, all of that disappears. Because there you are.

Standing in the middle of my foyer, drowning in my snow pants and the puffy jacket that’s three sizes too big for you, sleeves hanging past your hands, knees swallowed by fabric, bouncing on your toes like you’re about to actually lift off the ground. Your hair’s a bit messy from me shoving the hood up earlier, cheeks pink from excitement. And you look so unbelievably happy it knocks the air right out of my chest. “Alright, c’mere, snow angel,” I mumble, stepping in front of you. I ease the hat over your head, tugging it down so it covers your ears properly. You tip your chin up at me, eyes bright, and I can’t help grinning like an idiot. I tap your nose. “There. Perfect. All set.”

You smile back — soft, shy, so damn sweet. And then you’re gone, bolting straight for the door before I can even blink. I let out a laugh, shake my head, shove my boots on, and follow you out into the cold. The moment I step into the backyard, you’re already standing in the middle of it all, completely still. Snow’s falling heavy, thick flakes drifting down like someone’s shaking a giant pillow over Hampstead. Everything’s white, rooftops, hedges, the grass buried under a fresh blanket, and you’re staring up into it like you can’t quite believe it’s real.

I stop a few steps behind you. You hold your palm out, catching a snowflake, and I swear your whole face lights up. Like Christmas morning. Like every firework show. Like a kid seeing magic for the first time. And honestly? I guess you are. Growing up in Adelaide, you told me once that you’d only ever seen snow in movies, that it just didn’t happen there. And now you’re here, in my backyard, in London, three months after we met on tour. Three months since you somehow looked past the whole womaniser, rockstar, mess reputation and decided you’d give me a chance anyway. Three months of late-night calls and stupid jokes and me falling harder for you than I’ve fallen for anything in my life.

I walk up behind you and slip my arms around your waist, pulling you back against my chest. Cold air nips at my face, but you’re warm against me, warm enough that I bury my nose in your hair for a second. The snowflake in your palm melts slowly into a tiny bead of water. “Look at that,” I murmur against your ear. “First snowflake you’ve ever caught.”

You tilt your head just enough that I see your smile again. I tighten my hold, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’m callin’ you Snowflake now, y’know. Can’t help it. Fits you. Tiny. Soft. Way too cute for me to handle.”

You let out a small laugh under your breath, shoulders shaking, and I swear my heart does something stupid in my chest. You lean back into me, eyes still fixed on the sky like you’re trying to memorize every falling flake. And for a moment, everything’s quiet. No tour. No cameras. No noise. Just you, bundled up in my clothes, standing in your first snowfall while I hold you close enough to feel your heartbeat through all the layers.

I rest my chin on your shoulder and whisper, “Welcome to winter, love.”