#dad harry

“I usually try,” I tell her, leaning against the dresser like I’m not feeling my pulse in my throat.

“No,” she corrects, and I swear she got that razor-sharp certainty from me. “You have to look like this.” She lifts her chin, widens her eyes to an exaggerated seriousness, and gives me a slow nod like she’s granting me permission to exist. You bite your lip, shoulders shaking with a laugh you’re trying to keep gentle. Lily notices, brightening because laughter is the closest thing to applause she’s ever needed.

“And you have to wave,” she continues, raising her hand and doing what I can only describe as a queen’s wave. Tiny wrist, precise little movement, as if she’s been practicing it in a mirror.

I glance at you. “Been watching telly again, have we?”

Lily points at me like she’s caught me being stupid. “No. I’m teaching you.”

“Right,” I say solemnly. “Thank you. Could’ve been a disaster otherwise.”

“It would be,” she agrees earnestly, then slides off the bed and plants herself right in front of me, looking up. “Don’t be scared.”

It lands in my chest like a soft punch. I swallow. “I’m not scared.”

Lily narrows her eyes in a way that’s pure you, pure observation. “Your mouth is doing the thing.”

“My mouth?” I repeat, because it’s easier than admitting anything.

“You do this.” She presses her lips together, then pulls one side in a little. It’s an alarmingly accurate impression. “When you’re think-y.”

You stand, smoothing Lily’s dress. Simple, neat, not fussy. You didn’t want her to look like a prop. You wanted her to look like herself. “Your dad’s just concentrating, love.”

Lily immediately brightens again, satisfied with the explanation like it’s a sticker you’ve given her. “Okay. Then concentrate on me and mummy, Daddy. Because we’re the important ones.”

I laugh, breathy. “Are you?”

“Yes.” She turns to you, as if to include you in the briefing. “Mummy, we have to stand where Daddy can see us. If we stand behind someone tall, it will be bad.”

You nod seriously. “Got it.”

“And Mummy has to hold my hand. But not too tight. Because I have to wave.”

“Not too tight,” you repeat, gentle.

Lily looks at you, then at me, like she’s checking we’re both taking notes. “And after Daddy sings, everyone claps and then we go home.”

I tilt my head. “Is that the order?”

“That’s the order.” She pats my leg, affectionate and firm. “Also, Daddy, don’t forget your words.”

“I won’t,” I promise.

She leans in as if she’s sharing a secret. “If you do, just sing different ones.”

It’s so simple, so full of faith, I feel something in my ribs loosen. The room is still noisy, hairbrushes, zips, the muted hum of phones and schedules and someone outside the door, but Lily’s logic makes it all feel like play. You cross the room and rest your hand on my arm, thumb brushing there, grounding. It’s a small touch. It always is. You’ve never needed to anchor me by force. “You’re alright,” you say softly, not a question.

I look at you and the words I want to say pile up behind my teeth. That I haven’t done this in so long that the shape of it feels wrong. That the thought of standing under lights again makes my skin prickle. That I’m confident, yes, and I know how to be Harry Styles in a suit, but I’ve been Harry-at-home in socks and it’s been good. Instead, I do what I always do with you. I tell the truth, just smaller. “I’m alright,” I say. “Just feels like the first day of school.”

You smile, a quiet, knowing thing. “You’ve done first days before.”

“I’ve done them,” I agree. “But I didn’t use to have my whole heart waiting at the side of the playground.”

Lily interrupts by tugging my sleeve. “Daddy, can I see the stripey pyjama?”

I look down at her, baffled. “The what?”

She points at my suit hanging on the wardrobe door, black with thin white pinstripes. “That. It looks like a stripey pyjama.”

“It’s a suit,” I tell her, failing to hide my amusement.

“A stripey pyjama suit,” she decides. Then, beaming, she adds, “You will look like you’re going to a wedding.”

I glance at you, brows lifting, smug grin. “Been there.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “Don’t start.”

Lily’s face scrunches like she’s thinking hard. “Is the Brit Awards for you?”

I pause, because I’ve never had to explain an awards ceremony to someone who still thinks the moon follows our car at night. “It’s, uhm, kind of for everyone. Lots of people are there. They’re celebrating music.”

She nods like she understands. “So they’re celebrating you?”

I laugh, caught. “Not just me.”

“But you’re going to sing,” she insists. “So they have to watch you. Because you’re the singer.”

“You’re my singer,” she corrects, as if that’s the only category worth noting. “And I’m going to watch you. So you have to look at me.”

You lean down, kissing the top of her head. “You can’t distract him while he’s on stage.”

Lily gasps, offended. “I’m not distracting. I’m supporting.”

I look at you and feel warmth spread through me, because yes, that is exactly what she’s doing. Supporting like it’s a job, like it’s a responsibility she’s proud of.

There’s a knock at the door. Time. The part where real life presses in and the room’s little bubble has to stretch around it. You pick up your keys. Lily, already ready, bounces on the balls of her feet. “We go now?”

“We go now,” you confirm.

My chest feels heavy, unexpectedly. Not because you’re leaving. Because you’re going without me. Because I’m about to step out alone into something I used to do like breathing, and it suddenly feels like I’m walking away from the only air I’ve been using. I crouch in front of Lily, level with her, and she immediately cups my cheeks in both hands. Her palms are warm, soft, unapologetic. “Daddy,” she says, like I’m a small child and she’s the parent. “Wave properly.”

“Properly,” I repeat, smiling.

“And smile,” she adds. “Not your think-y smile. Your nice smile.”

“My nice smile.”

“Yes.”

I kiss her forehead. “I’ll do my best.”

You come closer, and I stand. There’s a second where we’re just looking at each other,years compressed into a glance. The quiet work of loving someone in a way that makes them braver. You reach up, caressing my cheek. “You’ve got this.”

I lean down, press my lips to yours. Not long. Not for show. For me. For you. For us. When I pull back, you’re looking at me like you always do, like you’re not waiting for me to be someone else, like you already know who I am. “See you in there,” you say.

Lily waves at me immediately, both arms now, excessive. “BYE DADDY! DON’T FORGET ME!”

I laugh, hand over my heart. “Never.”

You take her hand and lead her out, Lily still chattering about where you’re going to stand and how you have to make sure Daddy sees you, and the door clicks shut behind you.

The room goes quieter. Not empty. Just quieter. I stare at the closed door for a beat too long, then exhale and roll my shoulders back like I’m putting on armour.

Alright, then. First day of school. Let's go.

The car the Brits sent is nicer than it needs to be, of course. Dark windows. Clean leather. The driver polite in that professional, invisible way. There’s something about sitting in the backseat that makes it feel more official, like my body can’t pretend I’m just heading out to dinner. Manchester is dark outside, soft, damp, familiar in a way that makes me feel thirteen and fifty at the same time. We pull up near the Co-op Live, and the closer we get, the more the sound begins to seep through the glass: shouting, cheering, the constant flash-pop-pop of cameras like distant fireworks. It’s been a while since I’ve heard my name like that. Harry! Harry! Harry! It hits a nerve I’d forgotten I had. My stomach flips once, then steadies. You can do this, I tell myself. You’ve done this before. But I haven’t done this with Lily being in the same room.

The car door opens. Cool air rushes in. A handler says something. My feet touch the ground. And the noise becomes a wall. The carpet stretches ahead, lights strung above like a sky made of bulbs, gleaming white against the dark. Fans pressed behind barriers on one side. Phones up like a field of small moons. Press clustered in their designated zones, their cameras angled like weapons. Everything moves fast around me, but time inside my body slows down like syrup. I step forward, smile already in place—trained and practiced. My hand lifts automatically, a wave to the general crowd. My shoulders square. The suit sits well, stripey pyjama or not. I can do this version of me. I know how.

Then something sharp and tiny cuts through the noise. “DADDY!” It’s not my name. It’s a claim.

For a second my brain doesn’t believe it. My eyes keep scanning the crowd, skimming faces, trying to locate it. Another shout, higher this time, like joy physically can’t be contained. “DADDYYYY! HARRYYYY!”

My entire body turns before I decide to. And there you are. You’re at the barrier, just far enough back that you’re not in the thick of it, but close enough that Lily can see everything. You’ve got your arms around her waist, holding her steady while she bounces like a firecracker in your arms. Lily’s eyes are huge, shining, her mouth open in a grin so wide it makes her cheeks round. When she sees me look, she makes a sound that isn’t a word, just pure thrilled noise, and throws her arms up like she’s signalling a plane. My chest does something odd, like it’s been held in a fist and suddenly released.

The screaming crowd blurs. The lights above soften. The carpet under my feet becomes irrelevant. There’s only Lily, waving both hands like she’s trying to scoop the whole world towards her. Only you, watching me with that quiet steadiness, amused and proud all at once. I lift my hand again, but this wave is different. Slower. Smaller. Not for the cameras. Not for the strangers. For her. For you. Lily squeals—actually squeals—and her whole body shudders with it. She points at me urgently, turning her head to the strangers beside her as if to inform them of something they should’ve already known. “That’s my Daddy! That’s him!”

The people around you look at her, then up at me, and their faces melt into those soft expressions adults get when something is unexpectedly tender in a place that’s usually all sharp angles and flashbulbs.

I can feel cameras turning towards you. The tiniest shift in the press line. But you don’t flinch. You just keep Lily’s body against yours, letting her bounce, letting her have her moment. And I think, suddenly, with strange clarity, that this is what I’ve been afraid of. Not the attention. The part where the private version of my life becomes visible. Because once people see the soft thing, they want to take it.

But then Lily catches my eye again and does her serious queen-wave like she taught me, solemn and precise, and I absolutely cannot find it in myself to care. I smile properly. Nice smile. The think-y tightness in my mouth dissolves. I nod at her, just a little, like I’m accepting her instructions. Lily’s face lights up even more, as if she’s proud I’m following her plan. I turn back toward the carpet and start walking again, but my heart is no longer lodged in my throat. It’s with you. At the barrier. In Lily’s waving hands.

As I move forward, fans shout my name, reaching out. I wave, I nod, I do the thing. I stop where I’m supposed to stop, pose where I’m supposed to pose. The lights flash. But every few steps, my eyes tug back to you like a magnet. And Lily is still there, still bouncing, still telling anyone who’ll listen that I am hers. “Daddy’s going to sing,” she announces loudly, chin high. “He’s the singer.”

Someone laughs kindly. “He is.”

“He waved at me,” she adds, very pleased, as if she’s personally approved me. “Because I’m his girl.”

“You are,” you say, and I see the way you press a kiss to her hair, the way your eyes flick up to me when you think I won’t notice, like you’re checking I’m alright. I am. I am, because you’re there.

I reach the section of carpet where the photographers are clustered. This part is always the strangest; standing in front of a row of lenses, being asked to turn, to look left, to look right, to give them something they can sell. I do it. I can do it in my sleep.

“Harry! Up here!”

“Harry, smile!”

“Harry, one more!”

I smile. I turn. I angle my body. And then I hear Lily again, clearer now because the photographers’ shouts leave gaps. “Daddy!” she calls, like she’s reminding me not to forget my job. “Look at me!”

I shouldn’t. Not really. This is the part where you keep your focus on the press. The part where you don’t break the rhythm. The part where you don’t offer anyone evidence that you can be pulled off course. But Lily isn’t “anyone.” I glance over, quick, and catch her eyes. She beams like I’ve handed her an award and her hand shoots up into another wild wave.

A photographer notices my gaze and follows it. The line of cameras subtly shifts. For a second, a flicker of instinctive protectiveness rises in me—sharp, old, immediate. Then I look at you. You’re still holding Lily, watching me, your posture calm. Your face says: We’re okay. We’re here. We’re not breakable. And the protectiveness turns into something warmer. A thought I wasn’t expecting: This isn’t the life I had before. This is better.

I turn back to the cameras and finish the poses. I give them what they want, my face, my suit, my return. I’m polite. I’m present. I’m professional. But inside, something has shifted. I used to measure moments like this by how loud the crowd was, how many flashes popped, how many headlines I might make. Now the only measurement that matters is whether Lily saw me wave.

Backstage is a different kind of chaos. People move with purpose, clipboards and headsets and last-minute adjustments. My band’s already gathered, faces I’ve known so long they feel like parts of my own history. We’ve been through everything together. When they grin at me, it’s not the public smile, it’s the private kind. “You ready?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah,” I say, and it’s half true.

My dancers stretch nearby, rolling shoulders, shaking out limbs. Someone hands me a bottle of water. Another person checks my mic pack. And under all of it is that familiar, vibrating pre-show feeling, adrenaline that lives in the bones. It’s been two and a half years. I’ve played with the idea of returning in my mind so many times it started to feel imaginary. Like a past life. Like something I’d dreamed. Now I’m standing in it. My hands flex. I shake them out, trying to keep them loose.

“Your first time back and you’re opening the Brits,” Mitch says, half joking, half impressed.

“Piece of cake,” I reply, because I know how to sound like I’m not about to step into a roaring sea.

But my heart is thudding like it wants out. I lean against a wall for a second and close my eyes. I listen to the muffled sound of the arena beyond, thousands of people settling, the buzz like electricity. Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see your name. A photo. You’ve sent a selfie of you and Lily standing at the back of the pit area with my mum. Anne is smiling into the camera, warm and proud, Lily perched beside her like a little queen, waving at the lens. Lily’s grin is huge. Her cheeks are flushed. She looks like she’s holding excitement in her whole body, like she might float. You’re behind her, one hand on her shoulder, your eyes crinkled with a smile that makes my heart so full.

Underneath, you’ve typed:

We’re here. We can see the stage. Lily’s doing her supportive job very loudly.

I laugh under my breath, and the tightness in my throat eases. I zoom in on Lily’s face, on the bright certainty in her expression. She thinks I’m doing this for her. In a way, she’s not wrong.

I type back quickly:

Tell her I’ll wave properly. Love you.

Then, because I can’t help myself:

Also tell her my suit is not a stripey pyjama.

A reply comes almost immediately:

Too late. She’s already told Anne. Anne agrees.

I chuckle, shaking my head. My mum. Traitor.

One of my musicians claps me gently on the shoulder. “Five minutes.”

“Right,” I murmur, slipping my phone away. I breathe in. I think of Lily’s hands flapping like wings. I think of your thumb rubbing my arm. I think of my mum’s proud eyes. And suddenly the arena doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a room full of people I’m about to share something with, carefully, on purpose.

The stage manager gives the signal. “Places!”

I step into position on the stairs. The lights dim. The crowd roars, a sound that rises up through the floor like a wave. It slams into me and I almost stagger with it, not physically, but inside, because I remember. My body remembers what it’s like to be held up by sound.

I lift my chin and the first notes of Aperture begin. And then I’m moving. The stage lights are blinding at first, white, hot, like stepping into the sun. For a split second, I can’t see beyond them. There’s only brightness and noise and the pulse of the music under my feet. Then my eyes adjust. And the arena comes into focus like a photograph developing. I take the mic, and my voice slides into the first line like it’s been waiting for this. The beat hits. My body moves with it, automatic, familiar, like muscle memory returning home. My dancers fall into formation. My band is steady in front of me, a spine I trust. I sing and it doesn’t feel like being exposed. It feels like being opened.

Aperture. The word itself has been sitting in my head for months, the idea of letting light in again without letting it burn you. Letting yourself be seen without losing yourself.

I scan the crowd, not looking for cameras, not looking for approval, looking for you. And then I see you. Back of the pit area, just like the photo. Mum beside you, her hands clasped under her chin, beaming like she’s watching her son in a school play. Lily in front of you, on her toes, arms already up.

When Lily catches my eye, she loses her mind. She starts dancing, full-body, absolutely unselfconscious. Her little hands are in the air, fingers spread, waving like she’s trying to conduct the music. She’s shouting something, probably my name, probably “Daddy,” probably both. I can’t hear it over the sound of my in-ears, but I can see it. Joy, pure and unfiltered.

I feel my mouth crack into a real smile, not the one I give the cameras. I give her a tiny wave mid-lyric, quick, subtle, like a secret. Lily’s entire face lights up like I’ve turned her on. You laugh, head tipping back, and even from here I can feel the warmth of it. The nerves that have been living in my chest since this morning unravel, thread by thread. Because there you are. Because the thing I’m most afraid of losing is now in the crowd. It’s right there, waving back.

I sing the chorus, and the people sing with me, and it’s huge, it’s loud, it’s everything it used to be. But now there’s a smaller, steadier thing underneath it all. A little girl dancing like the world is safe. A woman looking at me like I’m already enough.

I finish the song with my lungs burning and my heart full. The last note fades. The crowd erupts in standing ovations. I take a breath, hand on my chest for a second, feeling all of it. Then a quick, breathy Thank you and I step back as the lights shift, moving me offstage into darkness again. The cheers follow, muffled but still there, vibrating through the walls.

Back in the backstage hall, people clap me on the back, hands grabbing my shoulders, laughing, shouting “You did it!” like we’re all kids again, like we’ve just pulled off something impossible. My band surrounds me, grinning. I hug them, quick and tight, because I can’t help it. I thank my dancers, palms to their shoulders, murmuring “You were brilliant,” because they were. Because everyone was. Because it all held.

And then, through the bustle, through the noise and voices and footsteps, I hear it. High and clear and furious with love. "DADDYYYY!”

My head snaps up. Lily comes barreling down the hall like a tiny comet, hair slightly messy now, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like she’s carrying a secret sun inside her. “Whoa—” I start, and then she hits me, arms wrapping around my legs with surprising strength.

I bend down immediately, scooping her up, and she clings to me like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night. “Daddy!” she squeals into my neck. “You did it! You sang! You danced! You waved at me!”

“I did,” I laugh, voice rough, because something in my throat is tight again. “I waved properly.”

“You did wave properly,” she agrees with the gravity of a professional reviewer. Then she pulls back just enough to look at my face, hands on my cheeks like earlier. “But next time, wave longer.”

I burst out laughing, forehead pressing to hers. “Next time I’ll wave longer.”

Behind her, you appear, smiling so wide it makes my chest ache all over again. Mum is with you, eyes shining like she’s trying not to cry. She steps forward and kisses my cheek gently. “You did so well,” she says, voice thick with pride. “I’m so proud of you, love.”

I kiss her cheek back, quick. “Thanks, Mum.” She pats my face like I’m fifteen and back from my first gig in return.

Then I look at you. You step closer, and Lily immediately twists in my arms to look at you too, like she’s making sure you’re witnessing everything. Like you’re part of the ceremony. You reach up, fingers brushing my jaw, and your touch is the same as it was in the hotel, quiet, steady, real. “I’m proud of you,” you say softly. “You looked so happy.”

I swallow and nod. “I was.”

Lily interrupts, because of course she does. “Mummy, did you see? Everyone clapped so much. So I think Daddy is good at it.”

“I saw,” you tell her, smiling. “He’s very good at it.”

Lily nods, satisfied. Then she turns back to me, serious again. “Daddy, are you famous?”

I blink, caught off guard, then glance at you as if you might rescue me. You just tilt your head, amused, letting me handle it. “I… I suppose,” I say carefully.

Lily considers this for a moment, then says, “Okay. But you’re famous because you’re my Daddy.”

I kiss her cheek, then her other cheek, until she giggles and squirms. “That’s the best reason I’ve ever heard.”

She wraps her arms around my neck, satisfied. “Good. Now we go home?”

I laugh softly. “Yeah. We go home.”

You thread your hand into mine like it belongs there—which it does—and mum moves in on my other side, still smiling, still glowing. Lily sits on my hip, one arm around my neck, waving at absolutely no one now because she’s still in wave-mode.

As we walk toward the back exit together, away from the lights and the noise, I look down at you and feel something settle in my bones. It’s not relief, exactly. It’s alignment. This is who I am. This is the life I chose. This is the thing I protect, the thing I return to, the thing that makes the rest of it make sense.

Lily yawns dramatically into my shoulder, then murmurs, “Daddy?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Your stripey pyjama was very good.”

You snort, and mum laughs outright, and Lily smiles sleepily like she’s pleased with herself. I press my lips to her hair, then look ahead at the dark doorway that leads out into the night. And I know it with a certainty that feels like breathing: I came back for the music but stayed for a small hand waving like it could hold the whole world.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @harrysredshortshorts @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @carolinaastyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

“I FORGOT MY CALCULATOR!”

You and Harry eventually come downstairs, both of you trying to look casual and not like you were just caught.

Harry clears his throat. “Mornin’.”

May points at him without looking up. “Don’t speak to me.”

Harry winces. “Oh come on, love. It wasn’t that bad.”

“You were KISSING Mum.”

Harry blinks. “I kiss your mum all the time.”

“NOT LIKE THAT.”

Gemma bursts out laughing again. Anne hides behind her mug. You rub your forehead. “May, sweetheart, we weren’t doing anything inappropriate.”

“You were doing something gross.”

Harry puts a hand on his hip. “It wasn’t gross.”

“It was gross because you’re my parents.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. “Okay, fair.”

Gemma leans forward, smirking. “So, May… what exactly did you see?”

May glares. “A crime.”

Anne nods solemnly. “A felony.”

Harry groans. “Oh for— we were just cuddlin’.”

May shrieks. “STOP SAYING WORDS.”

Gemma grins. “Did you at least knock?”

“I DIDN’T THINK I NEEDED TO!”

Anne pats her hand. “You always need to knock, darling. Your father is… affectionate.”

Harry looks offended. “Why does everyone say it like it’s a bad thing?”

Gemma raises a brow. “Because you’re dramatic about it.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

You snort. May snorts. Anne snorts.

Gemma says, “Harry, you once wrote a poem about Yn’s elbows.”

Harry crosses his arms. “They’re nice elbows.”

Harry kneels beside May’s chair. “Love. Look at me.”

“No.”

“May.”

She peeks through her fingers. Harry sighs. “I’m sorry you walked in on somethin’ you didn’t want to see. But your mum and I love each other. And sometimes that means we’re… affectionate.”

“Ew.”

“Not ew. Sweet.”

“Ew.”

Harry throws his hands up. “Fine. Ew.”

You pat his shoulder. “Good job, babe.”

He beams at you. May groans again. “STOP LOOKING AT EACH OTHER LIKE THAT.”

Gemma fans herself dramatically. “They really are disgustingly in love.”

Anne nods. “It’s sweet.”

Gemma pulls out her phone. Harry narrows his eyes. “Gem. Don’t.”

She’s already typing. Anne leans over. “What are you writing?”

Gemma reads aloud: “May walked in on Harry and Yn being romantic. She’s traumatized. Send prayers.”

Harry lunges for her phone. “GIVE ME THAT.”

Gemma dodges him. “Too late!”

May groans. “Aunt Gemma, no!”

Harry whines. “Gemmaaaaa.”

May stands dramatically. “I’m leaving.”

Harry frowns. “Where are you goin’?”

“To live with Niall.”

Harry blinks. “Why Niall?”

“He doesn’t kiss anyone.”

Harry snorts. “He absolutely does.”

May gasps. “EW. NO. STOP.”

You laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re 18. You know adults—”

“NOPE. NOPE. NOPE. I’M A CHILD. I KNOW NOTHING.”

She grabs her backpack and storms toward the door. Gemma calls after her, “Don’t forget your calculator!”

May screams from the hallway, “I HATE THIS FAMILY!”

The door slams. Harry sighs. “She’ll be fine.”

Anne nods. “She just needs time.”

Gemma smirks. “And therapy.”

You lean into Harry. “Well… that was eventful.”

Harry wraps an arm around you. “Worth it.”

May comes home that evening, dramatically exhausted. She drops her bag. “I’ve decided to forgive you.”

Harry nods. “Thank you.”

“But I’m implementing a rule.”

Harry raises a brow. “What rule?”

May points at both of you. “No morning affection unless I’m out of the house.”

You and Harry exchange a look. Harry shrugs. “We’ll try.”

May narrows her eyes. “Try harder.”

You smile. “Deal.”

She sighs and flops onto the couch. “I’m still scarred.”

Harry kisses the top of her head. “We love you.”

She groans. “Gross.”

But she leans into him anyway.

----

BONUS STORY!!!

It’s a Saturday afternoon. You and Harry have been out running errands — groceries, the post office, a quick stop at the bakery because Harry “needed” a cinnamon roll the size of his head.

You walk into the house first. Harry follows behind you, juggling three bags and muttering, “Why do we always buy more than we need? This is ridiculous. I’m gettin’ a trolley next time.”

You’re halfway through telling him he absolutely will not be allowed to push a trolley around your house when you freeze. Because on the couch — under a blanket — are May and Landon.

Very close. Suspiciously close. Like… face‑to‑face, lips‑too‑shiny, blanket‑moving close.

You blink. Harry blinks. May and Landon blink.

Then Harry screams.

“WHAT— WHAT— WHAT IS THIS?!”

May shrieks and throws the blanket over her head. Landon falls off the couch entirely. You drop your purse and burst out laughing.

Harry points wildly. “WHAT WERE YOU DOIN’?! WHY ARE YOU UNDER A BLANKET?! WHY IS HIS FACE SO CLOSE TO YOUR FACE?!”

May’s voice comes muffled from under the blanket. “Dad, stop yelling!”

“STOP— YELLING?!” Harry sputters. “YOU WERE— YOU WERE— YOU WERE—”

He can’t even finish the sentence. You pat his arm. “Harry, breathe.”

“I CAN’T BREATHE. I’M HAVIN’ A HEART ATTACK.”

Landon, still on the floor, whispers, “Should I leave?”

Harry whips around. “YES. GET OUT. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.”

May throws the blanket off. “Dad! We were just kissing!”

Harry claps his hands over his ears. “NOPE. NOPE. DON’T SAY IT. DON’T SAY THE K‑WORD.”

You’re laughing so hard you’re crying. May glares at you. “Mum! Stop laughing!”

“I can’t,” you wheeze. “I really can’t.”

Harry paces like a man who’s just witnessed a crime. “I leave the house for ONE HOUR. ONE. HOUR.”

May crosses her arms. “We weren’t doing anything bad!”

Harry points at Landon. “He was TOUCHIN’ you!”

Landon squeaks. “I wasn’t touching her! I mean— I was— but not like— not in a— I—”

Harry narrows his eyes. “Boy. Choose your next words very carefully.”

May grabs Landon’s hand. “Come on. We’re going upstairs.”

Harry lunges. “NO YOU’RE NOT.”

May dodges him like she’s in an action movie. “We’re just talking!”

Harry shouts after them. “WITH THE DOOR OPEN!”

Harry stomps up the stairs like a man marching into battle. You follow behind him, mostly because you want to witness the carnage. He reaches May’s door. It’s closed.

Harry gasps like he’s been stabbed. “THE DOOR IS CLOSED.”

He knocks aggressively. “OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW.”

May’s voice floats out. “We’re talking!”

Harry scoffs. “NO ONE TALKS WITH THE DOOR CLOSED.”

You whisper, “We do.”

Harry shoots you a look. “We’re married.”

You whisper, “They might be someday.”

Harry screams. “DON’T SAY THAT.”

May opens the door, looking annoyed. “Dad, seriously—”

Then Harry sees it. Landon. Sitting on her bed. Too close. Harry’s soul leaves his body.

“GET OFF THE BED.”

Landon jumps up so fast he hits his head on the wall. Harry points at the floor. “You sit THERE.”

Landon sits. Harry points at the opposite wall. “You sit THERE.”

May crosses her arms. “I’m not sitting in the corner like a toddler.”

Harry glares. “Then Landon can sit in the corner.”

Landon immediately moves to the corner. May facepalms. “Oh my God.”

Harry paces the room. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m livin’ this nightmare.”

You lean against the doorframe. “Harry, they’re literally just sitting.”

“ON A BED,” he snaps.

You shrug. “It’s a bed. Not a portal to sin.”

Harry gasps. “YES IT IS.”

Harry sits on the edge of the bed like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “Right. Ground rules.”

“RULE NUMBER ONE,” Harry says loudly. “No kissing.”

You snort. “Harry—”

He holds up a finger. “No. I’m speakin’. RULE NUMBER TWO: No blankets.”

May throws her hands up. “It was cold!”

Harry narrows his eyes. “You have a hoodie. RULE NUMBER THREE: No sitting on the same piece of furniture.”

You choke. “Harry—”

“NO,” he says. “I’m serious.”

May finally snaps. “Dad, you’re being insane! I walked in on YOU being romantic last week!”

Harry gasps. “THAT IS DIFFERENT. WE ARE ADULTS.”

“I’M EIGHTEEN!”

“YOU’LL BE MY BABY WHEN YOU’RE EIGHTY!”

Harry’s voice cracks. “I don’t like this. I don’t like him touchin’ you. I don’t like you growin’ up. I don’t like any of it.”

May walks over and hugs him. Harry melts instantly. “I’m still your baby,” she says softly.

Harry sniffles. “You better be.”

Landon whispers, “Should I leave?”

Harry glares. “YES.”

May sighs. “Landon, go home. I’ll text you later.”

Harry snaps. “NO YOU WON’T.”

May rolls her eyes. “Dad.”

Harry sighs. “Fine. But no emojis. Especially not the heart.”

Later that night, you find Harry lying face‑down on the bed. You sit beside him. “You okay?”

“No.”

You rub his back. “She’s growing up.”

“I hate it.”

He turns his head. “I’m not ready. I want her to stay little.”

You smile. “She’ll always be your little girl.”

Harry sighs. “I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”

You kiss his cheek. “You handled it well.”

He snorts. “I screamed.”

“You screamed with love.”

He laughs weakly. “Is that what we’re callin’ it?”

He rolls onto his back. “I’m never leavin’ the house again.”

You grin. “Sure you aren’t.”

He points at you. “Don’t mock me.”

You kiss him. “Never.”

He softens. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He sighs dramatically. “But I hate Landon.”

The one you had chosen for your peaceful patio time was a ragged, faded patchwork quilt that Harry had kept (possibly stole) from the walk-up apartment you lived in together nearly eight years ago. It had watched your love for him grow beyond your wildest dreams. Had seen moments of rib-aching laughter, frustrated tears, pain and passion, and a commitment that would always withstand rough waters. Neither of you had wanted to part with that blanket, so now it stayed in a special place in the home that had once been a far-fetched fantasy.

As your fingers plucked loose threads from the fabric, you felt your phone vibrate with an incoming call. It was hidden somewhere under the thick blanket, and after a moment of searching, you picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Harry, made evident by his contact photo—a family picture on the Temescal Canyon Trail, your youngest strapped to your chest in a carrier and Harry carrying your oldest on his shoulders. A generous elderly couple had offered to take it, with the stunning backdrop of the expansive coastline. You especially loved the picture because it showed off Harry's legs in his athletic shorts, all long and tanned.

"Hey," you answered, assuming he was calling from the grocery store. He often did with ideas for meals or questions about kiddie snacks. Sometimes he'd ask what desserts you were craving, and then he'd spoil you by bringing home more than you could even fathom eating.

"Hi, baby," he said, sounding winded. "Can you unlock the door for me? Both girls are out like a light in my arms."

"Oh!" you said, not expecting him back so soon. Nature's hypnosis made you lose track of time. "Okay, I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'd hang up, but my phone is balancing rather precariously on my shoulder."

You laughed and hung up for him, then untangled yourself from the cozy confines of the swing chair before heading inside. You were careful to hop over the dolls and picture books and blocks scattered across the living room carpet.

When you reached the front door and opened it slowly, your heart melted. Harry stood there holding one daughter on each hip, their little bodies slumped against him as they slept. You could tell your youngest was in a deep sleep. Your eldest, though, was definitely pretending so she could be carried inside like a princess.

"We're home," he whispered, and those two simple words filled your heart with an unspeakable amount of happiness. The sunset's pink light peeked into the garage and softened Harry's handsome features ethereally. Who else could look this good after grocery shopping?

"I'll help put stuff away," you replied quietly, taking his phone to relieve him from his uncomfortable position. "You go tuck the girls in." It was nearing their bedtime anyway, so better to take advantage of a smooth transition.

Harry smiled with that attentive look on his face, then bent to tenderly kiss the sweet spot on your neck. "You're glowing," he murmured in your ear, then walked past you, leaving your cheeks flushing like a besotted teenager.

Once the groceries were put away and the kids were down for the night, you and Harry went to relax in the bedroom. The sky was now devoid of color with stars twinkling faintly, and the full moon spilled its light through the bay window.

You were already in your pajamas, collapsing onto the comforter, when Harry asked, "How was your day?" He shut the closet light off, dressed in just a T-shirt and black boxers. There were those legs again, the lean muscles a feast for your eyes.

"Mellow," you said. "We stayed inside mostly. Morning sickness has been kicking my ass."

"Good thing you didn't have to work today."

You nodded. That was the nice part about working part-time and partially from home—it allowed for the freedom to be with the kids more often. You didn't mind taking them to daycare, especially since it was imperative for socialization, but it lessened your anxiety when you had them under your supervision. It was a suitable balance.

"Did everyone behave at the store?" you asked, sliding your socks off under the sheets.

"Yeah. No tantrums." Harry raised his eyebrows proudly, and you both shared an air-five. "They seemed knackered. Slept all the way home."

"I tried my best to tire them out."

"Well, you succeeded," he said appreciatively, then joined you in bed, stretching his limbs. You were so thankful for his diligence. To work ten hours and then parent to take some responsibility off your plate was admired more than you could ever put into words.

Harry reached his hand over to the nightstand to resume the book he'd been engrossed in recently but paused and turned to you instead. "Can I gossip with you?" he asked.

You quirked your brows. "What happened?"

He breathed deeply and stared into the distance. "So, I was in the cereal aisle, right?"

You laughed while cuddling up to him. "This is juicy so far."

"It's not even gossip, really," he said. "Just something that irked me."

"Please continue."

He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and painted a picture of the scene. "I had the girls sitting in the shopping cart, and an old lady nearby started fawning over them. Which is understandable, because they're adorable. Anyway, she started asking a bunch of questions—how old they are, what their personalities are like. Somehow I accidentally let it slip that we have a third one on the way, and I know we're telling our families next week, but I got caught up in the conversation and—"

"You're so bad at keeping secrets," you interrupted with a good-natured groan.

Harry kissed your forehead apologetically. "The worst. So, this lady had the audacity to act all surprised that I was going to be a father of three girls. Gave me a face like she pitied me. And then guess what she said..."

"I assume something mildly offensive," you replied.

"She goes, 'I bet you were hoping for a boy. To bring some balance to your home.'"

You scoffed and said, "More like chaos. What did she even mean by that?"

He shook his head, equally puzzled. "I don't know, but I just said, 'I'm very happy with my life,' then grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs and went on with my day."

You frowned. "Why do some people think having daughters is such a burden?" It was mind-boggling. They had taught you so much and would continue to as they grew and spread their wings. It was your purpose to shape them into resilient, kind, and empathetic women. What a beautiful honor anyone would be lucky to experience.

"I'll never understand," Harry mused, locking eyes with you. "It's the most..." He trailed off with an emotional smile, and you stroked his cheek, letting him take his time. It wasn't often you or he could speak so rawly about the life you had created together. "It's just the best feeling imaginable, you know? I can't describe it. All I know is that I wouldn't want it any other way."

You kissed him softly, feeling the sincerity of his words in the way he gracefully slipped his tongue past yours. With your palm still cradling his cheek, you halted his kisses using your thumb to say, "You're this family's heartbeat."

His lustful green eyes opened, his pupils dilating as if absorbing your romantic admission. "If I'm the heartbeat, then you're the lungs."

"Sweet-talker," you teased.

"You started this love fest."

After a stretch of quiet laughter, Harry settled his hand on your small bump, a warm and knowing touch. "Please don't think I'm waiting on a son," he said.

You snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I know more than anyone else how much you wanted daughters. You told me during our first date."

"I did?"

"We talked each other's ears off that night about our futures. The universe must have been listening." The conversation is burned into your brain. In that dim oceanside restaurant, you had known he was a keeper.

"Yeah," Harry whispered, kissing all over your stomach, leaving no skin unmarked by his gentle lips. He then rested his head in your lap. "I can't wait to meet her."

You hummed. "Have you ever thought about what she'll be like?"

"A combination of all four of us."

A ghost of a smile spread across your lips. "We're going to have our hands full then."

"I'm ready."

"I know you are," you said while playing with his hair. "That's why I chose you."

He was a protector, down to the fibers of his being. You didn't have to be in the room for him to remind the world of his devotion to being your husband. To being a father. He laid it all bare, and you could only hope that it would be passed down to your daughters like an heirloom blanket.

The flat was too quiet without him. It always was.

Harry had only been home for one night before jetting off again, the weight of his suitcase wheels rolling out the front door still echoing in my chest. I hated that part the sudden hollow left in our bed, the pillow beside mine cooling far too quickly. But last night had been… distracting. He’d made sure of that.

Still, as I curled on the sofa in one of his hoodies, phone in hand, a wicked thought crept into my mind. He’d been smug when he left this morning, kissing me until I laughed and swatting my bum as he called over his shoulder, “Behave while I’m gone, Mrs Styles.”

Behave. As if I’d ever.

My thumbs moved over the screen before I had time to reconsider.

Me: Just letting you know I’m not satisfied with last night’s service. I didn’t finish.

It only took a minute before his reply lit up my phone.

Harry: Excuse me?

I grinned, tucking my legs up under me.

Me: Yeah… can I speak to the customer complaints department please?

There was a pause. Long enough that I could imagine him somewhere in a lounge, curls tied back, jaw tight, thumb hovering over his phone.

Harry: Baby, we both know you finished. Twice.

I bit back a laugh.

Me: Mmm… are you sure? Because I seem to recall otherwise.

His reply came fast.

Harry: You’re playing the wrong game with me today, baby.

A shiver ran down my spine, delicious and sharp.

Me: I like games.

Three little dots blinked, disappeared, blinked again. When his message finally came through, my breath caught.

Harry: You won’t like the consequences. You’ll be begging me to stop before I’m finished with you.

Heat bloomed low in my stomach. My fingers trembled slightly as I typed back.

Me: So dramatic. All I asked for was a customer service number.

Harry: Cheeky little thing. I should put you over my knee for that.

I pulled his hoodie tighter around me, laughing softly at the screen while my body reacted in ways I couldn’t ignore.

Me: You’re all talk. You’re not even here.

The reply nearly made me drop the phone.

Harry: I’ll fly home tomorrow morning. You’ll regret sending these texts, baby.

My heart slammed against my ribs. He wouldn’t. Would he?

Me: You wouldn’t dare. You’ve got meetings.

Harry: Meetings can wait. Can’t have my wife unsatisfied.

The rest of the day dragged, my imagination running wild with what tomorrow might bring. When his car finally pulled up outside mid-morning, I swear I forgot how to breathe.

The moment Harry stepped through the door, suitcase abandoned by the entry, I knew I’d made a mistake.

His eyes were dark, fixed on me like prey, and his voice was low, dangerous.

“Y’know, Mrs Styles,” he drawled, shrugging off his coat, “when you play games, you ought to know the rules. And the rules are simple don’t start what you can’t finish.”

I swallowed hard, trying for innocence. “It was just a joke.”

He smirked, slow and sharp. “Was it? Because all I heard was ‘I didn’t finish’. And baby, I take customer complaints very seriously.”

He stalked towards me, each step deliberate. My back hit the wall, his body pressing into mine, one hand braced beside my head.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he murmured, tilting my chin up with his free hand. “Let’s see if I can put it to better use.”

My pulse thundered as he kissed me, not sweet but consuming, teeth grazing, tongue demanding. His hand slipped to my throat, not squeezing, just holding reminding me who was in control.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, eyes burning into me.

“On your knees,” he said softly.

My body moved before my mind caught up, sinking to the floor, my breath uneven. He watched with satisfaction, thumb brushing my cheek as he pushed a curl behind his ear.

“That’s better,” he whispered. “Now, let’s see how sorry you really are.”

I reached for him, fingers working at his belt, and the sound he made a low groan from deep in his chest sent heat rushing through me. I took my time, deliberately slow, knowing it would wind him tighter.

“Careful,” he warned, voice rough. “Push me too far, and you’ll regret it.”

I looked up through my lashes, feigning innocence. “What if that’s what I want?”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next moments blurred into heat and taste and sound. His hand tangled in my hair, guiding me, his breath uneven as he muttered curses under his breath. The praise that slipped through (“good girl,” “just like that”) was enough to unravel me.

When he pulled me back suddenly, I gasped, lips swollen, chest heaving. He cupped my face, tilting it up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You think you’re done?” he asked, voice low. “We’re only getting started.”

He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me towards the bedroom. My body clung to him instinctively, my laughter breaking through nerves.

“Harry”

“Shh,” he said, kissing me fiercely as he laid me on the bed. “Remember what I said in those texts? That you’d be begging?”

His fingers traced down my side, skimming under the hem of my shirt, teasing.

“I meant it.”

The anticipation was unbearable, every touch calculated to torment me kisses trailing my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone, hands mapping every inch of skin with a maddening patience. By the time his mouth moved lower, I was trembling, clutching at the sheets.

He held my thighs apart firmly, eyes flicking up to meet mine before leaning down, and I nearly cried from the relief of his mouth on me. Every flick of his tongue, every hum of satisfaction, had me spiralling higher, his grip unrelenting when I tried to wriggle.

“Stay still,” he ordered, voice muffled against me. “You asked for this, baby. You don’t get to run from it now.”

My protests dissolved into gasps and moans, the tension inside me winding tighter and tighter until I shattered, crying out his name.

When he finally pulled back, lips glistening, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked.

“Customer complaint resolved?” he asked.

I could barely form words, breathless and flushed. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned down, kissing me deeply, letting me taste myself on his lips.

“Not yet,” he murmured against my mouth. “We’re nowhere near finished.”

He still remembers the nickname he'd given her while she was still inside her mum's belly – 'Pumpkin' he had called her, and her little frame couldn't have agreed more with him. 

Full and round cheeks hung a little low on her face, her small mouth in a pout and eyes as circular as pearls, nothing if not the true meaning of grace.

Which is why he'd settled with the name 'Opal', grinning widely while Y/n had nodded furiously with tears in her eyes, saying how it was the perfect name ever.

His mornings suddenly became impossibly sweeter, something he hadn't expected since he had moved back in this childhood home with Y/n.

A few days ago, when he had laid his eyes on the bundle of sunshine for the very first time ever, a huge piece of his heart, if not his entire heart, had been taken right then and there. 

Sighing, Harry got up very carefully, wary of waking up the newborn and then, when he successfully hadn't, laid her on the two person size sofa – all that he could fit in the name of a seat inside his small art studio. 

He had just turned to get back to his awaiting Canvas, when Opal began mumbling. She was talking in her sleep, he realised with a smile growing on his face, making his dimples show up. 

Another piece of his heart was taken then. 

He wondered, each time that she slept, about just what she was dreaming up. On nights, he worried if she wasn't warm enough, wanted her to know that there was a blanket of stars above her – but he knew he could wait until she began talking to do that. 

Even though he couldn't afford the best, he was going to make this work. He was going to be the best father out there, give Opal all of his love, all with Y/n by his side.

Putting back down the paintbrush he had picked up because he couldn't stop thinking of her, Harry walked back over with his stool to sit and watch her. He crossed over the chair, his front against the chair's backrest as he rested his face on his arms, gazing down with a soft smile on his mouth. 

"I can't wait for you to grow up so that we can talk, you know? So, hopefully, you can tell me if this is where you'll always wanna be," he spoke, brushing away the unruly mop curls on her head. 

"And we can go to a place where you look at the light and it splinters," he sighed, moving to cover her up with a blanket. "Where there's plenty of gas in our car to last us the cold, cold winter," tears glazed over his sight, sniffling as he looked at her small figure lull to side as she slept – he almost let slip a chuckle. 

Right then, she took whatever pieces were left of his heart. 

Winter this year wasn't easy, but that wasn't to say that it wasn't the best one aside from the ones he had spent with Y/n. So much financial stress had come with the unplanned pregnancy, and now a baby. But he knew that the both of them could pull through the loans and make it out as a happy and healthy family, if they stuck together. 

Y/n’s dad, a single father, was a little bit bitter about the whole situation but had begrudgingly stepped forward to help out the two with handling the house, seeing as the both of them had to attend college as well as take care of the baby. He dropped off the groceries last weekend, along with the last minute new-born-baby stuff that Y/n had told him they needed. 

Even Anne stepped forward, letting the two of them borrow a room in her house for as long as they needed – likely until they could get back up on their own feet financially.

Currently, as Harry sat feeling overwhelmed with all of the love and other emotions rushing through him, he could hear Anne talking to Y/n down the hall. The walls weren’t the thickest and he could tell that Anne was sharing her own stories with Y/n, telling her about how she’d had Harry at a young age, and more. 

He’d heard it before, had even seen the two of them having this chat. So he knew that Anne, very likely, had Y/n’s head in her lap and brushing her hands through her hair, trying to console the woman high on hormones and the insurmountable number of emotions she must be feeling. 

Wiping away at his nose with the sleeve of his flannel, Harry blinked away the tears and pulled up a smile on his face again, trying to be courageous, for Y/n and their daughter. Because he knew that Y/n was doing the same for them. For the little family they were both going to build slowly and lovingly now.

"But I also want you to be this little forever, so that I can cherish you enough, yes?" He asked her, nodding his head when she mumbled something incoherent, something similar to ‘we’ll be fine, dada', Harry wanted to believe. 

And unable to help himself, he picked her up again, holding her flush against his exposed torso because he didn’t have the energy to button up his shirt and the skin to skin contact made breathing a little easier.