Mics are fitted and makeup is even powdered onto our faces. It feels weird, and I step back and stare at the woman who just smiles and moves closer.

"It's to just get rid of the shine, sweetie."

I look over to Oliver, who's getting the same thing done as is Luke. Demitri still isn't here. I feel butterflies fluttering in my stomach and I close my eyes, count my breathing. I've done interviews before, countless already and we're only two years into our careers. But the viewership in the UK, while in the millions, doesn't feel that big. Whereas the US is fucking huge; you can fit the UK into it five times, probably.

I feel hands on my shoulders, thumbs stroking them in reassurance. I open my eyes, but I'm not taken aback when it's Oliver. Cool and confident Oliver, dressed in a white shirt with his dark blonde hair quaffed perfectly. There's a height difference, but I like to pretend there isn't. If I tiptoe, we're the same height. I'm tall, we both are, but I guess I'm not that fucking tall.

But Oliver has always been touchy feely, with everyone. He expresses everything through touch, from touching my thigh to get my attention or slapping me on the back in reassurance. He likes to touch my shoulders and my arms and ruffle my hair whenever he feels like it. It's amazing because I never have to yearn for his touch; I just need to look a little sad, a little nervous, a little worried, and Oliver's hands will find their way to me.

"You're alright, mate?"

I nod. "Just...a bigger audience, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you won't see them. Plus, Luke'll do most of the talking, and then afterwards, it's a jam session. You love those." It's true; I fucking love them. It's the only parts of the week where I feel like I bleed out all that I'm supposed to.

Demitri skulks up to us, his hair is ruffled and curly, and he's sipping on a red bull. He's been tidied up by a team, and he doesn't look anyone in the eye.

"Let's get this shit over with, I wanna go back to bed."