The alarm blares, jolting me out of deep sleep. I hurry to shut it off before it awakens Sky, who is sleeping peacefully next to me. Running a hand through my tousled hair, I stretch my arms into the air and crack my neck. Skylar stirs and murmurs something unintelligible as she reaches out her hand in my direction. I'm so tempted to lay back down and have a cuddle, but, instead, I reluctantly stand and walk to the bathroom.

Halfway through my shower, I hear the door open, and, a moment later, Skylar slips into the shower.

"Hi, love," I say happily. "I thought you'd be sleeping all day."

"I plan to," she murmurs, wrapping her arms around me and laying her head against my collarbone as the water pours over us both. "I'm so tired. But I haven't seen you all week."

"You're working too hard," I reply. "It can't be good for the baby."

"She won't be here for another few weeks," Sky responds sleepily. "Tell me about what you've been up to and why you're awake so early."

Her body relaxes against mine as I chatter away, and the warm water cascades over us. It's as if we're in our own little world, and I wish I could take a snapshot of this moment.

"So once we finish filming the promo video today--"

At this, Skylar looks up with interest. "Oh, that's today? You finally figured out where to do it?"

"We did," I reply, pausing for a long moment before taking a deep breath. "The cottage."

Skylar pulls away from me slightly, wiping away water from her eyes. "The cottage?"

I hum in response, making a big show of shampooing my hair. When I finally open my eyes again, she's still there looking at me with bemusement.

"There are a few things to unpack here, Rog," she says, prompting a groan on my part.

"I know, I know--"

"First off, can we agree not to call it a cottage? Because it's anything but."

"Fair point," I concede. It's not a cottage; it's a glorious estate that I'm bloody proud of. The boys all took the piss that I blew our first advance in one go, but we'll see who's left laughing when all is said and done.

"And is that really the best you lot could come up with? A garden? That doesn't seem very... Queen."

Truth is, the band had rowed for hours about it, but, in the end, no one had come up with a better idea.

"And correct me if I'm wrong," Skylar continues, "but do we actually own 'The Cottage' yet?" She makes exaggerated air quotes with her fingers.

"Well, we signed the majority of the paperwork--

"--but is it possible that the current occupants still live there?"

"They do still live there," I concede, "What's your point?"

"Love, this is a terrible pla--" she trails off and winces as if in pain. I look at her with concern as she rubs a spot on the side of her belly.

"You alright?"

"It's like she's drumming in there," Sky says, looking at me accusingly. "I don't think she likes me very much."

The pain gone, Skylar leans forward to kiss me briefly on the lips, then steps away with a bemused look on her face.

"Back to what I was saying," she says as I groan. She carefully steps out of the shower and reaches for a towel. "So, the four of you decided that it was a good idea to film your promo video in the backyard of a home that we maybe half-own in the snow? You'll all freeze to death."

"Snow?" The panic in my voice is evident and, even from here, I can see the smirk on her face.

"Yes, sir. It was snowing up a storm when I came home from work last night."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuuuuuuuck.

Turning off the shower, I step out into the cold air of the bathroom and look blankly at Skylar. She hands me a towel, which I wrap around my torso.

"It'll be great," I say weakly.

But it will not be great. It'll be the opposite of great.

Because John is cross that we're not taking the video for Spread Your Wings seriously. Freddie has been tense for weeks because of everything with Mary. And Brian has just been generally bitchy lately. It's as if I'm the only person who's happy that, after a million years of busting our arses, we're finally no longer broke. And I'm going to be a dad. No one can steal this high from me.

Skylar is still looking at me with a crooked smile on her face. I walk over and wrap my arms around her. Fat drops of water fall from my wet hair, landing on her bare shoulder.

"It's going to be a shitshow," I admit. "You sure you don't want to tag along?"

"And miss sleeping all day?" she replies with a yawn.

"You'd rather be here in bed when you could be freezing your arse off at a semi-illegal video shoot?"

"Roger," she says, looking at me seriously. "The four of you are crazy. But I'm sure it'll somehow work out. There's a bottle of whisky leftover from that last party. Maybe you could take it with you to start a bonfire if times get tough."

And with that, she walks back to the bed, mumbles good-luck-I-love-you, and, just like that, she's back asleep.

**

Despite my best intentions, I'm the last to arrive. As I get out of the car, I wave to Mr. Bidgens, who is peering rather suspiciously out of the window at the rock band and our film crew who are tromping through his--my?--garden.

"Mr. Taylor is here," the director's PA says into a walkie-talkie as I approach the group. The ground is icy, and it's baltic out here. I can't even remember the last time it was this bloody cold.

"You're late," Brian says stroppily as I approach. He's standing in front of a makeshift drum riser situated next to Fred's piano. I'll be honest; it's not the flashiest set that I've ever seen, and it's possible that John is right to be annoyed.

"Yeah, sorry, I--"

"Rog!" Freddie calls over from where he's perched inside his Rolls Royce. "So happy that you've joined us to freeze your balls off." He holds up a small bottle of brandy, half of which appears to be gone.

"I came prepared," I say, holding up the bottle of whisky that I'd brought from home. Ratty and John descend upon me, and we take turns drinking from the bottle until, twenty minutes later, we're still fucking cold yet just drunk enough not to care as much.

"We're ready," the director says, walking over with a clipboard. "John, could you go sit at the piano? And, uh, you--" clearly having no idea what Brian's name is-- "if you could stand right there--"

Brian rolls his eyes and grabs his guitar, walking over to the spot indicated. I take a final glug of alcohol and hop up on the riser. The stool behind my kit has tiny icicles hanging from it, and I wonder if I'll literally freeze my arse off today.

"Rolling," I hear in the background as John begins to play right on cue.

"Sammy was low just watching the show, over and over again," Freddie mimes into his microphone, though he's a beat too late. Apparently, I'm not the only one who noticed, so we start again.

And again. And again.

"You have to actually sync the words to the playback, mate," I call out jokingly. "It doesn't work otherwise."

"Fuck off,' Freddie replies good-naturedly. "I can barely feel my face. And don't pretend that you haven't missed a few cues yourself."

"Well, I can barely feel my hands," I retort.

"At least you have gloves," Freddie says, adjusting his star-shaped glasses. "Can someone give me gloves? I can't fucking hold the mic properly."

"Will you two belt up so we can bloody finish?" Brian calls out, exasperated, as Ratty runs over to offer Fred his heavy gloves. John, meanwhile, sits quietly at the piano and diligently hits his mark every single take.

And so it goes as we all struggle to do our jobs because we're worried that we may actually die of frostbite. Our noses are bright red and Freddie's cursing the cold gets increasingly creative. After an hour, I'm fantasizing about popping into the guest cottage--surely we can call that a cottage, right?!--for some heavily spiked cocoa, when, miraculously, the director calls out that it's a wrap.

"Fucking finally," I mutter, throwing down my drum sticks and standing. I'm about to hop down when I hear John utter his first words of the day.

"Let's get some footage for 'Rock You' while we're here."

I stop at the edge of the riser and squint over at him. He's perched on the piano bench, looking unperturbed by the past few hours. His face is nonchalant, but his eyes are mischevious

"You've got to be joking," Freddie complains, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, we're here, aren't we?" John says innocently. "Why not?"

It's then that I realize what he's up to. And it's genius. Because let's be honest, we half-arsed the video for Spread Your Wings. We're playing in a bloody English garden in the snow. So this is Deaks getting us back. This is his way of saying, if it's good enough for my song, then it's good enough for Brian's.

"Yeah, alright," I say, earning a surprised look from John, a glare from Brian, and an incredulous look from Fred.

"I'm game," I insist, doubling down on John's plan. Walking back to the drums, I sit back down on the stool and pick up my drum sticks as if ready to play.

"But that doesn't even make sense!" Brian sputters. "We'll look like total arseholes if we have two promos at the same location and the same clothes and same everything. We'll look like amateurs."

Freddie looks between the three of us as if trying to game out the best solution. Finally, he gives up.

"Fuck it, fine. But I'm only doing two takes."

I won't bore you with the details of the next forty-five minutes but, suffice it to say, John exacted his revenge on us all. We're almost done with Brian's guitar solo when I hear my name being called from afar.

"Mr. Taylor!"

Looking up, I see Mr. Bidgins walking quickly towards us, wearing only a sweater. He's gotta be freezing is my first thought as I struggle to hear what he's saying.

"What's he saying? My God, he's going to freeze to death," Freddie murmurs from beside me.

"Mr. Taylor!"

I stand there, frozen. After a moment, Freddie nudges me with his shoulder, and we both start to walk towards the elderly man.

"It's your wife," Mr. Bidgins calls out as we approach each other. I haven't got a wife, I think.

"Wha--?" I call back, my mind moving stupidly slow. Cursed booze! Cursed cold!

"He means Skylar," Freddie says impatiently. By this point, Brian and John are also following us to see what the hullabaloo is all about.

"What about her?" I ask, my mind feeling like sludge.

Freddie reaches Mr. Bidgens first and, after a moment, turns back my way.

"The baby is coming."

I stop dead in my tracks, causing John to run into me. He stumbles and reaches out to grasp my shoulder to hold steady.

"What?" I stare first at Freddie, then at Mr. Bidgens. The world seems to have frozen, every detail seems overly in focus.

"Skylar called," Freddie speaks slowly, over-enunciating each world. "She's gone to the hospital with her mum."

"It's time?" My voice sounds a little too squeaky, and I realize that I had really counted on the final three weeks to come to terms that I was going to be a dad. To a baby. A real dad to a real baby.

"It's time," John confirms. "Give me your keys. I'll drive."