#harrystylesxyn

Harry wasn't processing a single word.

His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.

The air in the dressing room was thick and humid, the kind of heavy, backstage heat that a single oscillating fan could do nothing to fix.

To your right, the soft, rhythmic puffing of your eight-month-old baby boy was the only sound cutting through the quiet. He was fast asleep in his buggy, stripped down to nothing but a nappy, his little chest rising and falling.

The poor thing had been up since 4:00 AM, teething and restless, which meant you and Harry had been running on fumes before the sun even came up.

You were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, your arms raised over your head, completely immersed in trying to get a neat French braid down the back of your head. Your fingers were tangled in your strands, your focus entirely narrowed down to sections of hair, blindly weaving them together by feel.

The heavy dressing room door clicked open and shut with a sharp thud.

Harry walked in, smelling faintly of sweat and the crisp afternoon air outside. He had just finished a grueling pre-show workout with Brad, and every line of his body screamed pure exhaustion.

He was flushed from the workout, wearing his slouchy white long-sleeve tee, dark athletic shorts, and the grey compression sleeves still pulled up over his knees. His white socks were slipped into his striped slides, dragging slightly against the carpet.

His eyes were bloodshot, heavy-lidded, and desperate. All he wanted—the only thing keeping him going—was the thought of crashing onto the sofa for a thirty-minute nap before the frantic pre-show schedule kicked into high gear.

But as he closed the door, his eyes landed on you. Sprawled out right in the middle of the couch, arms up, taking up the entire space.

Harry’s jaw instantly tightened, his brow furrowing into a hard, agitated line. The sheer fatigue of the 4:00 AM wake-up call, combined with the physical drain of his workout, had left his fuse dangerously short. He was vibrating with irritation, a dark cloud settling over his shoulders.

Your hands froze in your hair, but you didn't drop your arms. You were so hyper-focused on keeping the braid tight that you completely misread the rough edge in his voice, assuming he was just groaning about being tired.

"Oh, good, you’re back," you said, your voice breezy and fast as your fingers kept weaving. "Listen, Brad didn't keep you too long, did he? Because the tour manager was already in here looking for you. Apparently, the schedule got pushed forward by fifteen minutes. And oh, before I forget—the hotel in the next city called back about the crib. They don’t have the one we requested, so we might have to use the travel one from the bus, but the zipper on the travel bag is stuck again. Did you manage to look at it? Harry? Also, we’re almost out of the specific nappies he likes, the ones that don’t give him a rash in this heat, so I was thinking maybe one of the runners could—"

"Can you just shut up for five seconds?"

The words didn't come out as a tired grumble. They cut through the room like a whip, loud, sharp, and dripping with pure venom.

Your hands instantly dropped from your head, the half-finished braid unraveling down your neck. The sudden, violent volume in the quiet room made your heart leap into your throat. You stared at him, stunned.

Before you could even process the shock of him yelling, a sharp, frightened wail pierced the air.

To your right, the buggy rattled. The sudden shout had violently jarred your eight-month-old out of his precious sleep. He kicked his little bare legs, his chest heaving as he burst into a hard, breathless cry, terrified by the loud noise.

"Look what you did," you whispered, your own anger flashing through the shock as you immediately stood up to tend to the baby. "Harry, he’s been teething all day, he barely slept—"

"No, look what you're doing!" Harry snapped, his voice staying dangerously high, completely unravelling from the sheer exhaustion of the 4:00 AM wake-up and the crushing pressure of the tour. He threw his hands up, gesturing wildly at you and the buggy. "I have a two-hour show to give to thousands of people, I’ve been running on three hours of sleep, and I walk in here to a bloody barrage of noise! You’re suffocating me! I just wanted thirty minutes of peace on the couch, but you're taking up the whole room, prattling on about zippers and nappies!"

You froze, your hand hovering over your crying son, staring at your husband as if he were a stranger. "It's our son, Harry. It's our life. If you're stressed about the show, don't take it out on—"

"I wouldn't have to take it out on anyone if I could just get some space!" he roared, the final filter of his exhaustion snapping entirely. He stepped closer, his eyes wild and dark, and delivered the blow that made the room go completely cold. "Honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour if this is what you’re going to be doing every night. You’re just in the way."

The silence that followed was suffocating, save for the heart-wrenching cries of your baby.

The moment the words left his mouth, you saw the instant flash of horror in Harry's eyes. The anger drained out of him so fast it left him looking pale, his jaw going slack. He reached a hand out, his chest heaving. "Wait—no, I didn't—"

"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.

Your eyes stung with hot, furious tears, but you refused to let them fall in front of him. Carefully, deliberately, you scooped your crying baby out of the buggy, pressing his warm, nappy-clad body against your chest, bouncing him gently to soothe his whimpers. You didn't look at Harry again. You just grabbed your bag with your free hand, walked right past him—forcing him to step back against that teal wall—and marched straight out into the corridor, leaving him alone in the wreckage of what he’d just said.

His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.

Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour... You’re just in the way.

The words tasted like poison in his mouth. How could he have said that? To you? To the person who had spent the last eight months sacrificing sleep….comfort.

"...and then we'll transition straight into the encore, mate. Sound good?" his friend asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

Harry just gave a dull, numb nod, not even knowing what he was agreeing to. He felt hollow, stripped of his usual pre-show energy, looking utterly defeated against that stark blue backdrop. He wanted to turn back, run down the corridor, and find you—to beg, to explain that the exhaustion had completely hijacked his brain.

But his feet felt like lead.

Suddenly, the roaring crowd let out a collective, deafening cheer as the high-energy track Shania was performing faded out. The stadium lights dimmed into a soft, intimate amber glow.

Then, the first tender, unmistakable acoustic chords of a guitar rippled through the monitors.

Harry’s entire body went rigid against the wall. His breath hitched violently in his throat.

It was "You're Still the One."

Your wedding song.

Every defense mechanism he had built up over the last half hour crumbled to dust. That wasn't just a song on Shania's setlist; it was your song.

The song you had slow-danced to at your wedding, your foreheads pressed together, whispering promises that no matter how crazy his career got, you would always be each other's home.

Hearing it right now, with the sting of his venomous words still hanging fresh in the air, felt like a physical blow to his chest.

"Looks like we made it

Look how far we've come, my baby

We mighta took the long way

We knew we'd get there someday..."

Shania’s smooth, emotive vocals soared through the backstage monitors, crisp and crystal clear. Each line felt like a targeted strike. The contrast was agonizing—the song was singing about overcoming the odds, about proving the doubters wrong, but Harry had just become the biggest threat to his own marriage over a petty argument about a stroller zipper.

As the chorus hit, the massive stadium crowd joined in, a stadium of thousands of voices echoing the declaration of enduring love.

"You're still the one I run to

The one that I belong to

You're still the one I want for life..."

Harry dropped his head. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, his eyes burning as a wave of pure, unadulterated regret crashed over him. He felt so far away from being the man you belonged to right now.

He couldn't just stand here anymore. He didn't care about the schedule, the crew, or the impending stage time. He needed you.

Slowly, his head turned, his heavy, guilt-ridden gaze tearing away from the stage and sweeping down the dim, crowded corridor, desperately searching the shadows for the only person who could put him back together.

The crushing weight of everything became too loud to bear, suffocating him. Harry couldn’t stand there for another second. He couldn't just stand against that teal wall and pretend his world wasn't ending.

Abandoning his spot, he broke into a frantic jog, his slides slapping against the concrete as he tore through the backstage corridors. He was a man possessed, his chest heaving as he threw open the heavy door to the green room.

The room was a bright, noisy haven of family life, completely oblivious to his internal agony. Across the carpet, your eight-month-old boy was wide awake, happily babbling and playing with Sarah and Mitch’s kids, alongside Jeff and Glenne’s little one. The tour family was doing what they always did—rallying around, babysitting, keeping the kids entertained.

But as Harry’s eyes frantically swept the room, his heart plummeted. You weren't there.

"Hey, man, you good?" Pauli asked, noticing the pale, frantic look on Harry’s face.

"Where is (Y/N)?" Harry panted, his voice tight and breathless. "Have you seen her?"

Pauli blinked, sensing the gravity in Harry's tone. "She's back in the dressing room, mate. Said she needed a minute."

Harry didn't even say thank you. He turned on his heel and sprinted down the final stretch of the hallway, practically throwing himself against the dressing room door.

When the door swung open, the sight inside made his breath leave him completely. You were there, but you weren't resting. You were frantically moving around the room, packing the baby’s toys, formula, and extra nappies into a travel bag. And right next to the buggy sat your own canvas duffle bag—halfway zipped, stuffed with your clothes.

"What are you doing?" he choked out, his voice cracking.

He didn't wait for an answer. He crossed the room in two large strides, his hands coming down over yours, firmly but gently wresting the baby blanket out of your grip and setting the bags down on the floor out of your reach.

"Don't touch them," you said, your voice dangerously quiet, though you didn't look up at him. You kept your eyes glued to the empty space where the bag had been. "I'm just taking him back to the hotel. It’s better if the little one gets a decent night's sleep. And... like you said. It’s probably better if we aren’t on the tour if we’re just going to be in the way every night."

"No. No, absolutely not. I am not letting you leave," Harry broke out, his voice raw and pleading. He reached for your hands, his fingers trembling as he caught your wrists, forcing you to look at him. "Please, just look at me. Look at me, sweetheart."

You finally raised your eyes, and the sheer devastation in them made him flinch.

You didn't yell.

You didn't pull away.

You just stood there, completely exhausted, as the first silent, hot tear spilled over your eyelashes and tracked down your cheek.

Then another. You were silently sobbing, your chest trembling with the effort to keep from breaking down completely.

"I am so, so sorry," Harry rushed out, the words tumbling over each other as he stared down at you, his own eyes swimming with tears. "I am a bloody idiot. I’m an absolute monster for saying that to you. I was tired, and I was stressed about the set change, and I took it out on the only person in this entire building who doesn't deserve it. The only person who keeps me grounded."

He squeezed your wrists gently, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up, his face pale with desperation.

"I was running on pure adrenaline and exhaustion, and my brain just completely short-circuited. It was a stupid zipper, a stupid schedule change, and I let the pressure of everything turn me into a stranger. I looked at you taking care of our boy, doing everything on your own while I went off to a workout, and instead of thanking you, I snapped. It’s disgusting. I hate myself for how I made you feel just now. I saw the look in your eyes when I said those words, and it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life."

You didn't answer, a choked, silent gasp escaping your lips as you closed your eyes, more tears streaming down your face. Harry’s hands moved up from your wrists to cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping at the wetness on your cheeks, though his own hands were shaking.

"You aren't in the way," he whispered, his voice cracking completely as his forehead came down to rest against yours. "You could never, ever be in the way. You and our baby are the only reasons I do this. This entire tour, the crowds, the music—it means absolutely nothing if I don't have you waiting for me when I walk off that stage. You are my home. I am so sorry I made you feel like a burden when you’re the most precious thing I have. I need you here. I need you beside me. Please don't leave me, sweetheart. I love you so much."

You closed your eyes, a broken, hitching breath tearing out of your chest as his words tore down the final wall of your anger, leaving nothing but pure, aching exhaustion.

Harry didn’t wait.

The second he felt your posture soften, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist like a vise, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He was trembling, his chest heaving against yours as he held you so tightly it was almost hard to breathe, anchoring you to him as if he were terrified you might still vanish if he let go.

"I've got you. I'm so sorry, I've got you," he muttered frantically into your skin, his voice thick and rough.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, dilated, and swimming with a volatile mix of leftover adrenaline and sheer desperation. He looked down at your wet cheeks, his gaze dropping to your trembling lips, and the restraint in him snapped completely.

He leaned down and crashed his mouth against yours.

The kiss was heavy, raw, and completely unraveled—an explosive release of all the suffocating tension that had been building since he walked through the door. It wasn't gentle; it was a bruising, breathless apology, a silent plea for forgiveness translated through the hard, demanding press of his lips.

He tasted like the salty sweat of his workout and the sharp sting of regret, his tongue tangling with yours in a chaotic, bruising rhythm that made your knees instantly buckle.

You let out a soft, muffled sob against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his baggy white long-sleeve tee, fistfuls of the cotton bunching in your fingers as you pulled him closer.

The sudden, intense heat of his body washed over you, melting away the cold isolation of the last hour in a single, devastating second.

"Harry," you gasped out when he parted your lips, your voice catching in your throat.

He didn't let you speak.

He caught your lower lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper before his tongue swept back into your mouth, deeper and hungrier this time. He backed you up blindly until your spine hit the edge of the dressing room vanity, the jars of makeup and water bottles rattling behind you.

He crowded into your space, his heavy thighs pinning yours against the wood, completely trapping you beneath him.

His hands left your face, sliding down the column of your neck to your shoulders, before his large, warm palms slipped entirely under the hem of your shirt. His fingers were slightly damp and burning hot against the bare skin of your waist.

He gripped your hips with a possessive, unhinged tightness, his thumbs digging into your skin to lift you up onto the edge of the counter.

You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, the friction of your bodies rubbing together through your clothes sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to your core.

Harry let out a low, wrecked growl at the contact, burying his face in your neck.

His mouth traveled down your jawline, biting and kissing a feverish path down to the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking deeply until he knew it would leave a mark.

"Tell me we're okay," he breathed against your heated skin, his chest heaving violently against yours as his hands slid up to frame your ribcage, his thumbs stroking the underside of your breasts. "Tell me I didn't break us. Please."

"We're okay," you whispered, your fingers tangling into his short, damp curls, pulling his head back up so you could look into his blown-out eyes.

Your own breath was coming in ragged shorts. "We're okay, Baby. Just kiss me."

He didn't need to be told twice. He captured your mouth again with a desperate, sweeping hunger that stole the remaining air from your lungs. It was an angsty, tangled mess of teeth and tongue, both of you fighting to get closer, trying to erase the cruel words he’d spoken with the sheer, bruising force of your bodies pressed together.

His hands moved frantically over your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you so flush against his chest that you could feel the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beating in perfect sync with your own.

He ground his hips into yours, a heavy, agonizingly slow rub that made you arch your back and cry out into his mouth. The sound only drove him wilder; his kisses grew faster, sloppier, his breathing completely ruined as he devoured your lips over and over again, cementing the fact that you were his, that he was yours, and that neither of you was going anywhere.

"I want you," you breathed against his lips, the words a jagged confession that broke through the last of the frantic chaos between you. "H, I want you. So much."

The desperation in his movements instantly shifted, a profound, heavy silence settling over him at your words. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours, looking at the honesty in your tear-stained face. The frantic, bruising energy melted away, replaced by something deeply reverent and achingly tender.

"Yeah?" he whispered, his voice incredibly thick as his thumbs gently brushed a final tear from your cheek. "You've got me. Always, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me," you whispered, your fingers tightening in his shirt.

"I promise you," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I promise. Look at me... I am so sorry for what I said. Let me show you how much I need you."

Slowly, deliberately, he reached down to guide your legs down from his waist so you could stand on your own feet, though he kept his body pressed completely flush against yours.

With slow, trembling hands, he reached for the hem of his baggy white long-sleeve tee and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor beside your duffle bags. He looked exactly as he had against the teal wall in image.png, but the defensive shield was entirely gone.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his eyes traveling over your face as he reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. Slowly, gently, he pushed them down past your hips, helping you step out of them until there was nothing left between you but bare skin and raw emotion. "Just... stay with me. Please."

"I'm here," you replied softly, your voice trembling. "I'm not leaving."

He lifted you back onto the edge of the vanity, and this time, when you wrapped your legs around his waist, he stepped into you with a quiet, agonizing slowness. His eyes never left yours as his hands anchored underneath your thighs, supporting your weight.

When he slid inside you, it wasn't a sudden rush. It was a slow, deep, and unyielding push that made you both let out a long, shaky sigh.

He filled you completely, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours as he froze, letting the absolute perfect fit of your bodies sink in.

"Oh, God," he groaned quietly, closing his eyes for a brief second as he pressed his forehead against yours. "You feel so good. You have no idea how much I missed you today."

"Then don't stop," you whispered, your hands tracing the line of his bare shoulders. "Harry, please."

He began to move, and it was the furthest thing from the frantic pacing of before. It was a slow, rhythmic, agonizingly beautiful tempo.

He withdrew almost entirely, pulling himself out until the very tip of his length brushed against your entrance, making you gasp and arch into him, before he plunged back in, slow and deep, pressing his hips firmly against yours.

"Harry..." you whimpered, your fingers burying into the short curls at the nape of his neck, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as the intense, slow friction began to build a deep coil of heat in your stomach.

"I'm right here," he murmured, his breath warm and steady against your skin. "I've got you. Tell me what you need."

"More," you gasped, tightening your legs around his waist as he pulled out again, agonizingly slow, before sinking all the way back inside. "Just like that. Don't hurry."

"I'm taking my time," he whispered against your ear, his voice rough and laced with a quiet intensity. "We have all the time in the world right now. I'm right here with you. Every single part of me is yours."

He repeated the motion, pulling almost completely out, teasing the sensitive opening of your core until you were silently begging, before sinking all the way back inside you with a heavy, grounding weight.

Every single thrust was deliberate, an unspoken vow, a physical manifestation of the apology he had spoken earlier. He was taking his time, making love to you with a quiet intensity that healed the ache in your chest with every stroke.

"I love you," he murmured between shallow, heavy breaths, his lips grazing your jaw. "I love you so much. Say it."

"I love you, Harry," you cried out softly, your hands gripping his back as the pleasure started to overwhelm you. "I love you."

The room was silent save for the soft, rhythmic sound of skin against skin, your ragged, synchronized breathing, and the quiet declarations whispered between kisses.

He held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in his world, his lips constantly pressed to your temple, your jawline, your shoulder, whispering quiet assurances between deep, slow pulses.

The tension in your core coiled tighter and tighter, driven by the torturous, beautiful slowness of his movements. You gripped his shoulders, your muscles clamping around him as the edge of your release drew closer.

"Harry, I'm close," you breathed, your voice breaking. "I can't—"

"Go ahead, sweetheart," he whispered fiercely, his pace gathering just a fraction of momentum, his deep thrusts becoming a steady, relentless rhythm that pushed you completely over the precipice. "I'm right here with you. Let go."

You let out a choked, breathless cry, your body trembling with the waves of your orgasm. The tight contraction of your walls tore the last of his restraint away. With a low, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest, Harry drove into you one last time, burying himself as deeply as possible as he came, his muscles locking tight as he poured himself into you.

"You're mine," he panted against your neck, his voice fading into a ragged whisper. "Always mine."

“Your still the one.”

Harry came over to your apartment tonight and you two planned on watching movies and pigging out all night long, but you also wanted to confront him about your situation. 

When he entered he placed a passionate kiss on your lips and set down the food he brought over for your date night. 

You admired him, unpacking all the food and talking about the people at the restaurant and how they threw in extra fries because he had to wait long and you just love him so much. Wow. Love. You hadn’t said it to each other yet, but you knew you did love him. 

“And I made sure to get extra ketchup for yeh cause I know yeh love ketchup…” He looked up at you staring at him and his cheeks turned a rosy pink. “Why yeh staring at me like dat, (Y/N)?”

You smiled and looked down at the floor. “You’re just an amazing boyfriend, that’s all.” 

You walked over to the table and helped him unpack the food, then sat down to eat. He ordered take-out and you were starving, you devoured the food in seconds. 

After your lovely dinner, you took the handfuls of snacks and laid them out on the table in the living room. You had a collection of movies, but usually you two decided on watching something on Netflix. 

Harry picked some sappy rom-com about a boy and girl who were best friends their whole life and then fell in love. 

When the movie was over and the credits were rolling, you decided now was a good time to bring the topic up. 

“Hey, Har…” you start. 

“Yes, babe?” 

“Um… do you find me attractive or what?” you asked, biting your lip. 

“(Y/N), where did dat come from? Of course, I find yeh attractive. Yeh’re my girlfriend, for heaven’s sake,” he took your face in his hands and kissed you. 

“Well then, how come you haven’t banged me against the headboard yet?” you blurted out. 

That was the moment Harry decided to pick up a Twizzler and eat it and he nearly choked on it. “What?!?!” 

“I know you’re not a virgin and actually quite the ladies man. So why haven’t we had sex yet?” you asked again. 

“(Y/N)...” Harry let out a heavy breath. “We ‘aven’t even said the L-word yet. Er lot of my past relationships were with me because I’m Harry Styles, international pop star or because they wanted ta get in my pants. When we met, yeh weren’t like dat. Yeh listened ta me and actually like me fo’ me instead of just meh body and that is more special ta me than yeh know. Of course, I wanna make love ta yeh and kiss every inch of yehr body, but I didn’t wanta rush yeh either. Consent always,” he rambled. 

You took his hand in yours and smiled at him. “I love you Harry, I do. And I’m not just saying that. I realized it tonight when you were unpacking the food. The way your care and remember the little things, that’s special. You are a beautiful person inside AND out and I won’t rush us.” 

“I love you too, (Y/N), so much,” Harry now had tears in his eyes and he kissed you once again. “Thank you for lovin’ me, the real me.” 

You now sat on his lap, legs on either side of his and your tongue slipped in between his lips. Your hands slipped to the back of his head and tangled in his hair. His hands were now placed on your hips. You felt his bulge hit your clothed core and you let out a moan. You pulled away from the his lips for a second. 

“How have you lasted this long without any, you know, action?” You asked curiously. 

Harry’s head hung low with a cheeky smile on it. “I get by. Wankin’ off and then your name leaving my lips when I cum helps.” 

Your core was on fire. “Shit. That’s hot.” 

Harry chuckled. “‘Bout yeh?” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah. How’ve yeh been handling yourself not gettin’ a piece of all this,” he gestured to himself with a huge smirk on his face. 

“Well, my other boyfriend is a big help,” you joked. 

“That’s not funny, (Y/N),” Harry scowled. 

You laughed. “I honestly don’t know. You’re literally like a Greek god from head to toe. I don’t know how I haven’t just jumped your bones yet.” 

“‘M not a Greek god, babe. Far from it,” Harry said. 

“Mmm, I don’t know. I haven’t seen all of you yet,” you raised an eyebrow, “but I think you’re pretty close.” You moved your hips on his crotch, causing him to let out a moan. 

“Yeh wanna do this now, love? Yeh sure?” he asked. 

You nodded fast. “Please. I might combust if we don’t.” 

Harry let out a hearty laugh and moved his hand down to your core, feeling your wetness. “Bloody soaked fo’ me. Shit.” 

You were riding his hand, getting lost in the moment, this was the most intimate he’s ever been with you and you could’ve cum right then and there. “How-how big are, Har?” 

“‘M six foot, yeh know that.” 

“No, Har,” your hand snaked down to his bulge. “How BIG are you?” 

“Oh,” his eyes got wide and his voice low. “‘Bout 8.8.” His cheeks got red again. 

“Seriously?” you asked. He nodded. Looking up at the ceiling gesturing towards heaven, you put your hands together in a prayer-like motion. “Thank you.” 

Harry’s normally all energy—singing nonsense songs while getting dressed, stealing pieces of your breakfast, pulling you around the room because he can’t stand still for more than thirty seconds.

But today feels… different.

You noticed it the moment you woke up.

The empty space beside you.

At first, still half asleep, you assumed he’d gone to the bathroom. But then you heard the shower running. And running. And running.

Long enough that you’d rolled over to check the clock.

Long enough that you’d started wondering if something was wrong.

Now, sitting opposite you against the pillows, Harry looks freshly showered and fully dressed despite it barely being morning. Damp curls fall messily around his forehead, and the sleeves of his black hoodie cover most of his hands as he fiddles absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers.

He looks gorgeous.

He always does.

But something’s off.

You can tell by the way his knee keeps bouncing beneath the duvet. By how he keeps staring out toward the city instead of eating. By the fact he’s barely touched his coffee, which honestly might be the biggest warning sign of all.

“Babe,” you say softly, lifting an eyebrow. “You’ve been awake since sunrise and all you’ve eaten is half a strawberry.”

Harry glances down at the plate.

“One and a half strawberries,” he corrects quietly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t get smart with me.”

That gets the faintest smile out of him, small and fleeting, but it disappears almost immediately.

Silence settles between you again.

Not awkward.

Just… heavy.

Today is the first show of the Together Together Tour.

His firs tour in almost three years.

Usually he’s excited for opening night. Nervous, yes—but in an electric way. The kind that makes him restless and playful all at once.

This feels different.

You shift closer across the bed until your leg brushes his.

“Hey,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. “Talk to me.”

Harry lets your fingers intertwine with his instantly, like he needs the contact more than he realised. His thumb rubs slowly across your knuckles while he stares down at your joined hands.

Then he sighs softly.

“I dunno,” he admits after a moment. “Feels different this time.”

Harry’s eyes stay fixed on your intertwined hands for a moment longer, his thumb tracing absent patterns across your skin.

You don’t rush him.

You’ve learned over the years that when Harry’s mind gets loud, silence is sometimes the only thing that gets him talking.

Finally, he exhales softly through his nose, shoulders sinking slightly.

“It’s been a long time,” he says quietly.

You tilt your head. “Since touring?”

He nods.

“Nearly three years.” A humourless little laugh leaves him. “Which sounds ridiculous considering I used to live on stage.”

Your fingers squeeze his gently.

“You still do.”

He shakes his head a little at that, curls falling into his eyes.

“No, but seriously,” he murmurs. “Back then it all felt… automatic. Like I knew exactly what I was doing every night.”

He pauses, jaw tightening briefly. “And now it feels like everyone’s expecting this massive thing and I keep thinking—what if I walk out there and I can’t do it anymore?”

Your heart aches a little hearing the uncertainty in his voice.

Harry Styles—the man who can command an entire stadium with one smile—is sitting in front of you doubting himself.

You shift closer until you’re properly beside him now, your breakfast long forgotten. One of your hands moves up to brush curls back from his forehead, fingertips lingering against his temple.

“Harry,” you say softly. “You know that’s not true.”

His eyes finally meet yours then, vulnerable in a way only a handful of people ever get to see.

“I know logically,” he admits. “But it’s different actually standing there again. People bought tickets. They’ve waited all this time and—” he swallows slightly, “—what if I disappoint them?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“You won’t.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you continue before he can.

“Do you know what people love most about your shows?”

He gives you a look. “The songs, hopefully.”

You can’t help smiling a little.

“Yes, obviously. But it’s you, Harry.” Your hand rests against his cheek now, warm from the sunlight pouring through the windows. “It’s the way you make every single person in that stadium feel important. Like they matter. Like they’re safe with you for two hours.”

His gaze softens slightly.

“You could forget every lyric tonight and they’d still adore you.”

“That’s reassuring,” he mutters dryly.

You laugh quietly, relieved when the corner of his mouth twitches again.

“I mean it,” you whisper. “You haven’t toured in a while, sure. But you haven’t lost any part of yourself. If anything…”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye gently. “You’re better now. Happier. More grounded.”

Harry watches you carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether to believe you.

Then, quieter this time, he admits, “I think I’m scared I won’t feel the same up there anymore.”

That one catches you slightly off guard.

Your expression softens instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

You move without thinking, climbing fully into his lap beneath the duvet, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He lets out a small surprised breath before immediately pulling you closer, burying his face against your neck like he needs the comfort.

“You know,” you murmur into his curls, “it’s okay if it feels different.”

His hands settle at your waist.

“People change. You’ve changed. That doesn’t mean it’ll be worse.”

He stays quiet, listening.

“You’re not the same person you were back then. And honestly?” You pull back just enough to look at him properly. “That’s a good thing.”

Harry’s eyes search yours carefully.

“You think?”

“I know.”

For the first time all morning, his shoulders seem to relax properly.

Just slightly.

Enough that some of the tension leaves his face.

“You always know what to say,” he murmurs.

You grin softly. “It’s part of my charm.”

A real laugh escapes him then—small, sleepy, but genuine—and finally, finally, it sounds like your Harry again.

The laugh lingers between you both for a moment, soft and warm in the golden morning light.

Harry’s arms stay wrapped securely around your waist, fingertips absentmindedly tracing patterns against the fabric of the hoodie you stole from him weeks ago and never gave back. His forehead rests against yours now, eyes closed briefly like he’s letting himself breathe properly for the first time all morning.

You brush your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck gently.

“And anyway,” you murmur, quieter this time, “if you get nervous tonight…”

Harry opens his eyes again, watching you carefully.

“Just look for me.”

His brows pull together slightly.

“You’ll probably barely even be able to see me.”

“You always find me.”

That earns the faintest smile from him because it’s true.

No matter how massive the stadium is. No matter how blinding the lights get. Somehow, Harry always finds you in the crowd.

You lean back slightly in his lap before gesturing toward the small cot positioned near the end of the hotel bed.

Inside, your son sleeps peacefully beneath a tiny cream blanket, completely unaware that his father is currently spiralling about performing in front of thousands of people in a few hours.

Freshly one year old.

Tiny curls sticking up everywhere.

One chubby hand curled near his cheek.

“He’ll be there too,” you whisper.

Harry’s entire expression changes the second he looks over at him.

Everything softens.

The tension in his shoulders eases completely as his eyes settle on your sleeping little boy, and suddenly the huge stadiums and pressure and expectations don’t seem quite so heavy anymore.

You feel his grip on your waist tighten slightly.

Then he looks back at you.

Really looks at you.

At your sleepy face, your messy hair, the hoodie slipping off one shoulder, the way you’re sitting in his lap trying to piece him back together before the biggest night of the year.

And the fondness in his expression is almost overwhelming.

His hand comes up slowly to cradle your cheek.

“And that,” he says quietly, thumb brushing across your skin, “is exactly why I married you.”

You can’t help smiling softly. “Oh yeah?”

Harry nods once, eyes flicking briefly between you and the cot again.

“Because when I look at you both…” His voice lowers slightly, thick with emotion he’s trying not to show too much of. “I’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

Your heart physically aches at the sincerity in his voice.

For a second neither of you say anything.

The city buzzes quietly outside the windows, sunlight flooding the suite while your little boy sleeps peacefully only a few feet away, and Harry keeps looking at you like you’ve hung every star in the sky yourself.

Then, softly, you grin and whisper—

“You’re getting emotional before breakfast again.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours once more.

You’re upstairs in your dressing room, smoothing your hands down the silk of your gown one last time. The ivory fabric catches the light softly, the black pinstripes flowing down your body in long, deliberate lines — echoing his suit perfectly.

You take one steady breath.

Then you open the door.

Downstairs, Harry is adjusting his cufflinks in the hallway mirror. The Chanel jacket fits him perfectly, pinstripes sharp and clean against the dark fabric. His mint-striped shirt peeks neatly beneath the lapels.

Someone says something to him — he nods absently.

Then he hears your heels on the staircase.

He turns.

And goes completely still.

You don’t rush. You don’t say anything.

You just start walking down.

The silk moves around you with every step, the stripes aligning almost poetically with his own. The house lights catch the soft sheen of the fabric. For a moment, the chatter in the hallway fades.

He doesn’t blink.

One of the team members glances between you both and quietly smiles before stepping out of the way.

You reach the middle of the staircase and he’s still staring — not in a dramatic way, not exaggerated.

Just… stunned.

“Harry?” you say softly.

He exhales like he’s just remembered how to breathe.

“Wow.”

It’s barely above a whisper.

You descend the last few steps slowly, heart fluttering a little under his gaze.

When you reach the bottom, he takes a step toward you without even thinking.

“You didn’t tell me it was going to be that,” he says quietly, eyes moving over the dress — the matching stripes, the way the silk curves at your waist.

“That?” you tease gently.

He shakes his head slightly, almost laughing at himself.

“We match.”

“I know.”

He looks down at his suit, then back at you.

“It’s like…” he trails off, stepping closer. “It’s like we’re one look.”

Your smile softens.

“That was the idea.”

His hands find your waist slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid to crease the fabric.

“You look…” He stops, searching for the right word. “You look unreal.”

You reach up and straighten his lapel slightly, fingers brushing the crisp edge of his jacket.

“So do you.”

He studies you for another second — quieter now. Softer.

There’s pride in his eyes.

But there’s something else too.

Awe.

“You’re going to walk next to me like this?” he asks gently.

“Of course I am.”

He lets out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“People aren’t going to look at me.”

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead — careful, so careful not to disturb your makeup.

“You always do this,” he murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Make it better.”

A voice from the kitchen calls, “Cars are here!”

Reality rushes back in.

He doesn’t step away immediately.

Instead, he squeezes your waist once, steady and warm.

“You ready?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He offers you his arm — not performative, not dramatic.

Just natural.

And as you step toward the door of the Manchester house you built together, matching stripes side by side, you catch his reflection in the hallway mirror.

He’s still looking at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

The night hasn’t even started yet.

And already, you’ve taken his breath away.

The car door opens and the noise hits you first — flashes, shouting, Manchester humming with anticipation. For a split second, it’s blinding.

He steps out ahead of you, black-and-white Chanel pinstripes sharp against the night, the cut of his double-breasted jacket precise, deliberate. Every camera turns toward him instantly.

But before he straightens fully, before he gives them that composed red-carpet smile, his hand reaches back into the car for you.

It’s automatic. Like breathing.

Your fingers slide into his, and he gives you that small squeeze — the one that says stay with me without ever having to speak it.

You step out beside him in your own Chanel gown, ivory silk skimming your figure, threaded with the same black pinstripes running through his suit. The lines are softer on you — curved at your waist, trailing long and fluid to the floor — but they mirror him perfectly. Two silhouettes cut from the same idea.

The cameras go wild.

They catch the outfits.

They catch the coordinated stripes.

They catch the way his hand never leaves yours.

What they don’t catch is the way his thumb traces slow circles against your knuckles.

“Ready, love?” he murmurs, leaning slightly closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

He looks effortless — mint-striped shirt crisp beneath the jacket, bow-detailed ballet flats peeking beneath tailored hems — but you feel it. The tiny shift in his grip. The grounding. The way the noise presses in.

You tilt your head toward him, offering the smallest smile. The one meant just for him.

“I’m right here,” you whisper back.

And just like that, his shoulders drop a fraction. The superstar expression settles into place, polished and calm, but his fingers tighten once more before he turns toward the carpet.

You move together.

You’re halfway up the path when it starts to feel real.

The carpet is just ahead — flashes already going off further down the line, the roar of the crowd rising in waves. Harry’s hand is still wrapped around yours, warm, steady, but you can feel the adrenaline humming under his skin.

He exhales softly.

Then—

“Harry! Can I borrow you both for a quick chat?”

You both turn at the same time.

Tyler West is grinning, mic already in hand, Charley Marlowe beside him looking equally delighted as producers gesture you over.

Harry glances at you first. Always you first.

“Go on then,” he murmurs with a tiny smile, squeezing your hand before guiding you both toward them.

The cameras pivot instantly.

Tyler beams. “Look at you two! Coordinated Chanel, we see it.”

Harry laughs under his breath, glancing down at your gown — the ivory silk catching the light, black pinstripes echoing the sharp lines of his suit.

“She’s the best-dressed one,” he says easily, thumb brushing against the small of your back.

Charley smiles warmly at you. “You’re matching — was that planned?”

You tilt your head slightly, playful but composed. “We just happened to show up in the same wardrobe,” you say, and Harry snorts quietly beside you.

Tyler raises an eyebrow. “Right, of course you did.”

The crowd cheers his name somewhere behind the barricades, loud and insistent. Harry instinctively shifts closer to you, arm settling more firmly around your waist.

You feel his thumb brush against your hand again — grounding himself more than you.

Tyler tilts the mic closer. “Big night for you — performing, nominated. How are you feeling right now?”

Harry inhales slowly, then exhales through a small smile.

“Grateful,” he says. “Bit overwhelmed. It’s loud.” He gestures lightly toward the screaming crowd. “But it’s nice to be back. Especially here.”

He pauses, then adds — quieter — “Feels better when she’s here with me.”

The crowd reacts instantly.

You keep your composure, but he gives your hand another squeeze, like he’s the one who needed to say that out loud.

Charley looks at you briefly. “Do you help calm the nerves?”

Before you can answer, Harry nods.

“Yeah. She does.” He glances down at you again, softer now. “I get in my own head sometimes. She doesn’t let me stay there too long.”

Tyler laughs warmly. “We love that.”

“Alright,” Tyler says, clapping his hands lightly. “Before we let you go, we’re playing a quick game — Wishful WhatsApp.”

Harry grins. “Oh no.”

Tyler laughs. “If you could have a group chat with anyone in the world — past or present — who’s in it?”

Harry looks down for a second, thinking. His thumb brushes against your knuckles.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I’d have Stevie Nicks in there.” The crowd cheers immediately. “Paul McCartney. Probably David Bowie.” He shrugs slightly. “Just see what they talk about. I wouldn’t even message much. Just observe.”

Tyler nods approvingly. “Solid group chat.”

Charley turns to you. “Your turn.”

You glance at Harry, and he gives you a small encouraging nod.

“I think I’d go with people who’d never realistically be in the same room,” you say. “Princess Diana. Audrey Hepburn. And maybe… Harry.”

The crowd laughs.

Harry looks genuinely startled. “Me?”

You smile softly. “Just to see if you’d behave.”

He laughs properly at that, head tipping back slightly. “Absolutely not.”

Tyler grins. “We’d all pay to see that group chat.”

Harry squeezes your hand again, still smiling down at you.

“Alright,” Tyler says, stepping back. “We won’t keep you from the madness. Time to hit that carpet.”

Harry straightens his jacket, posture settling, that calm public composure sliding into place.

He leans in slightly toward you.

“Ready, love?”

You nod.

Together, stripes aligned and fingers laced, you step forward toward the roar of the red carpet — flashes exploding as the night officially begins.

The second your shoes hit the red carpet, the noise doubles.

Flashes burst in rapid succession, photographers shouting his name — your name — directions overlapping in a blur.

“Harry! This way!”

“Together! Straight ahead!”

“Over the shoulder!”

His hand tightens around yours instinctively, and you move as one. The pinstripes on his suit sharp and structured under the lights, the matching lines on your gown catching every flash as the silk shifts when you turn.

“Just here, you two!” someone calls.

You stop, bodies angled slightly toward each other. His arm settles around your waist, warm and protective. Your hand rests against his chest, fingers brushing the lapel of his Chanel jacket.

“Harry, look at her!”

“Can we get a kiss?”

“Harry, down the middle!”

He glances down at you instead of the cameras for half a second — just long enough to make it feel private.

“Smile for me,” he murmurs quietly.

You do.

The flashes explode.

You turn slightly, giving the photographers your side profile, the stripes of your gown flowing against the clean lines of his tailoring. He adjusts his stance, hand firm at your waist, fingers pressing lightly into your hip — grounding, always grounding.

You feel him relax the more you pose together. He’s steady when you’re next to him.

Then a voice cuts through the noise.

“Harry, can we grab one of you on your own?”

It’s inevitable.

You feel the subtle shift in him — not reluctance, just awareness. He looks down at you immediately, silent question in his eyes.

You give him the smallest nod.

Before you step away, you rise slightly onto your toes and press a soft kiss to his cheek — just beneath the corner of his smile.

The crowd reacts instantly.

A collective gasp. More flashes. Louder shouting.

He lets out a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly pink beneath the lights, one hand instinctively catching your waist for a second longer than necessary.

“Go on,” you whisper, smoothing the front of his jacket gently. “You’ve got this.”

His hand lingers at your side before he steps forward into the solo marks.

You move toward the side of the carpet, standing just out of the frame — close enough that he can still see you if he looks.

And he does.

Between camera turns. Between over-the-shoulder shots.

He finds you.

You watch him shift into that composed red-carpet presence — shoulders squared, chin lifted, effortless and magnetic. The Chanel stripes sharp against the lights. The mint shirt peeking cleanly from beneath the jacket. The faint imprint of your lipstick on his cheek still visible if someone zooms in closely enough.

Your hands fold gently in front of you as you stand in the corner, a fond, almost private smile resting on your face.

The world sees a global icon under flashing lights.

You see the man who squeezed your hand twice before stepping forward.

And when he finishes the solo photos and glances toward the edge of the carpet again, his expression softens — just for you.

As if to say,

Still here?

Always.

The dressing room is quieter than the arena, but you can still feel it.

The bass from the crowd seeps faintly through the walls. Distant cheers. The hum of anticipation. There’s a countdown somewhere in the building.

Twenty-five minutes.

Harry stands in front of the mirror, jacket off now, mint-striped shirt sleeves rolled slightly at the wrists. His in-ear pack clipped neatly at his back. Hair styled perfectly, stage-ready.

But his fingers give him away.

He’s twisting his wedding ring.

Slowly at first. Then again. Then back the other way.

You don’t say anything immediately.

You just watch him for a second — the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way he exhales through his nose, pretending he’s calmer than he feels.

You walk up behind him, gently, slipping your arms around his waist.

His shoulders drop instantly.

“Hi,” you murmur against his back.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Hi.”

His fingers are still fidgeting with the ring.

You slide one hand down and lace your fingers with his, stilling them gently.

“You’re doing it again,” you say quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Twiddling.”

He glances at your reflection in the mirror, sheepish. “Didn’t realise.”

You smile softly. “You always do when you’re nervous.”

He turns in your arms then, facing you fully. Close enough that the world outside the door feels miles away.

“I’m not that nervous,” he says, but it comes out half breath, half confession.

You lift a hand and smooth it through his hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead.

“Course you are,” you say warmly. “It means you care.”

His hands settle at your waist now — grounding himself in you the way he always does. His thumbs trace slow lines against the fabric of your dress.

“What if I forget the words?” he mutters quietly. “Or trip. Or my voice goes.”

You cup his face gently, forcing him to look at you instead of the spiralling thoughts.

“You’ve sung this a hundred times,” you say softly. “You could do it half asleep.”

He gives you a tiny smile, but you can still see it — the flicker of doubt.

“You know what they’re going to see tonight?” you continue.

He shakes his head slightly.

“The man who loves what he does. The one who wrote that song because he had something to say.” You brush your thumb lightly along his cheek. “Not the nerves. Not the ‘what ifs.’ Just you.”

He swallows.

His hands tighten at your waist.

“I don’t ever want to let anyone down,” he says quietly.

“You won’t,” you answer instantly. “Because you show up. Every time.”

There’s a knock at the door — distant, a warning that time is ticking.

Twenty minutes now.

He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

“I hate this bit,” he admits. “The waiting.”

You smile against him.

“Then don’t wait,” you whisper. “Just breathe.”

You place his hand flat over your heart.

“Match me.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

His breathing begins to sync with yours. Slower. Steadier.

The tension in his shoulders loosens.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs softly.

“Why?”

“Because you fix it every time.”

You lean up and press a gentle kiss to his lips — soft, lingering, grounding.

“You don’t need fixing,” you whisper against him. “You just need reminding.”

Another knock.

Ten-minute warning.

He pulls back slightly, but keeps his forehead resting against yours.

“Stay where I can see you?” he asks quietly.

“Always.”

He squeezes your hand once — the same grounding squeeze from earlier — but this time it’s steadier. Stronger.

And when he finally steps toward the door, jacket sliding back on, ring no longer twisting nervously around his finger…

He looks calm.

Not because the nerves disappeared.

But because you’re still there.

You’re not backstage anymore.

You’re seated at a round table near the front, the soft glow of candles flickering against crystal glasses and polished silverware. The arena hums around you — conversations overlapping, camera cranes sweeping overhead, producers rushing in the aisles.

Anne sits beside you, elegant and calm, though you can see it in her hands — folded just a little too tightly in her lap.

Across from you, Olivia Dean leans forward in her chair, smiling warmly. A couple of her management team sit beside her, murmuring something about lighting cues. Further down the table, Stephen from The Traitors is animatedly chatting with his boyfriend, both of them glancing toward the stage every few seconds like they’re waiting for Christmas morning.

The lights begin to dim.

The chatter softens into a ripple.

Your heart doesn’t.

You feel Anne’s hand brush lightly against yours under the table.

“You alright, love?” she asks gently.

You nod.

You’re not sure you trust your voice.

The stage goes dark.

A hush falls over the entire arena — thick, electric, expectant.

And then—

The opening notes of Aperture drift through the speakers.

Soft at first. Almost fragile.

Your breath catches.

The spotlight snaps on.

There he is.

Standing alone at the mic, Chanel sharp under the stage lights, mint-striped shirt glowing faintly beneath the wash of blue. The arena erupts instantly — screaming, cheers, phones lifting into the air.

But you barely hear it.

All you see is him.

You press your lips together, holding your breath as he closes his eyes for the first line.

He sings.

Clear. Steady.

Your chest tightens.

Anne squeezes your hand again, this time a little firmer, and you realise she’s holding her breath too.

Olivia leans toward you slightly. “He sounds incredible,” she whispers.

You nod, eyes never leaving the stage.

He moves with the music — controlled, deliberate, every lyric carried with that quiet intensity that only comes when he means every word. The lights shift warmer, then brighter, catching the sharp lines of his suit.

You can see it — the way he settles into it. The way the nerves melt the second he starts singing.

Halfway through the first chorus, he scans the crowd.

Just once.

Your heart stumbles.

He finds your table.

You know the exact second he spots you — his expression softens almost imperceptibly, shoulders relaxing just a fraction more.

You don’t even realise you’ve stood up slightly until Anne gently nudges you back into your chair with a small laugh.

“Sit, darling,” she murmurs fondly.

You laugh breathlessly, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Stephen from across the table is openly swaying now, mouthing along dramatically. His boyfriend is filming, completely entranced.

The chorus swells.

The arena lights up in waves, thousands of phone screens glittering like stars.

And there he is — centre stage, voice soaring, completely in his element.

You finally let yourself breathe.

Because he’s not nervous anymore.

He’s home up there.

And as the final note hangs in the air and the crowd explodes into applause so loud it vibrates through the floor, you’re already on your feet.

Clapping.

Smiling so wide it hurts.

Anne wipes at the corner of her eye discreetly.

“That’s my boy,” she says softly.

But when he looks out at the audience again — scanning, searching —

You know.

He’s looking for you.

And when your eyes meet across the sea of lights and noise, his smile shifts.

Not the stage smile.

The real one.

The one that says,

I did it.

And you mouth back, steady and certain—

I know.

The applause is still echoing through the arena when you’re already moving.

“Backstage?” you ask one of his team, barely waiting for a full answer.

“Come on,” they grin, weaving you through the maze of curtains and cables.

Your dress makes it difficult to run properly — the silk hugging your legs, the pinstripes catching in the dim corridor lights — but you don’t care. You lift the hem slightly and hurry as fast as dignity allows.

You can still hear the crowd chanting his name.

Your heart is pounding just as hard.

You turn the final corner—

And there he is.

Fresh off stage. Slightly breathless. Hair tousled from movement. Eyes still bright with adrenaline.

For half a second he doesn’t see you.

Then he does.

His entire face changes.

You don’t even think — you just hurry the last few steps and jump as much as your dress will allow.

He laughs — a surprised, breathless sound — and catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around you as your heels lift clean off the ground.

“Whoa—” he grins, spinning you slightly. “Careful.”

“I don’t care,” you laugh, arms around his neck.

His chest is still rising quickly from the performance, heartbeat fast beneath your hands. You can feel the warmth of him, the faint vibration of adrenaline that hasn’t settled yet.

“You were incredible,” you breathe.

He presses his face into your neck for a second — hiding there like he needs the shield.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice softer now. Smaller. Just for you.

“Yes,” you insist, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You didn’t miss a single thing. You were steady. You were perfect.”

He shakes his head slightly, almost disbelieving. “I nearly rushed the second verse.”

“You didn’t.”

“I felt like I did.”

“You didn’t,” you repeat gently, brushing your thumb along his cheek.

He exhales slowly, finally setting you back down but keeping his hands firmly at your waist — like he’s not quite ready to let go.

The corridor is busy — crew members moving, producers congratulating him — but it all feels blurred at the edges.

“You came straight back?” he asks.

“Of course I did.”

His forehead drops against yours, just like in the dressing room earlier.

“I looked for you,” he admits quietly.

“I know,” you whisper. “I saw.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief more than anything else.

“I was so nervous before,” he says, almost laughing at himself now. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up.”

“You didn’t,” you smile. “You never do.”

He studies your face for a second — the matching pinstripes, the slightly breathless smile, the pride you’re not even trying to hide.

“I’m glad you were there,” he says softly.

“I’ll always be there.”

He squeezes you tighter at that — arms wrapping around you fully again, less frantic now. More steady.

The roar of the crowd swells faintly through the walls as the show continues without him.

But here, backstage, it’s just the two of you.

His ring isn’t twisting anymore.

His hands are still.

Because they’re holding you.

The adrenaline has settled now.

The applause is a memory, the stage lights dimmed, and the show rolls on around you — but your table feels warmer, louder, lighter.

“Mate,” Stephen says, leaning forward, “that was insane. I’ve watched you for years. Genuinely one of my biggest influences.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly in surprise.

“Me?” he laughs softly. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m serious,” Stephen insists. “The way you carry yourself, the creative risks — I’ve always admired that.”

Harry ducks his head, a little shy in the face of it.

“That means a lot,” he says honestly. “I’m obsessed with The Traitors, by the way. It’s one of my favourite shows.”

Stephen nearly chokes on his drink. “Stop it.”

“No, genuinely,” Harry continues, animated now. “We watch it religiously. I’m convinced I’d be terrible at it.”

You laugh. “You would.”

He turns to you, mock offended. “Excuse me?”

“You cannot lie convincingly.”

“I absolutely can.”

“You blush,” you counter immediately.

Stephen is laughing so hard now he has to set his glass down.

“I love this,” Stephen grins. “Harry Styles saying he’d fail at psychological warfare.”

Harry leans back in his chair, arm sliding around the back of yours.

“I’d get attached to everyone and then feel bad,” he admits.

“That’s because you’re soft,” you murmur teasingly.

He nudges you gently with his shoulder. “Careful.”

The drinks keep coming.

A glass of champagne turns into another. Laughter grows louder. The music between award segments feels more infectious.

Harry’s hand, which started neatly resting on your chair, slowly migrates to your waist.

Then your thigh.

Then back to your hand, fingers lazily intertwining with yours beneath the tablecloth.

Stephen is still talking animatedly about strategy and alliances, but Harry’s attention drifts back to you every few seconds.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs at one point, leaning close enough that his lips brush your ear.

“You’ve told me three times,” you whisper back, amused.

“I stand by it.”

His cheeks are faintly pink now — not from stage lights, but from champagne.

At some point he decides your chair is too far away.

He shifts closer.

Closer.

Until his knee is hooked loosely around yours and his arm is firmly wrapped around your waist.

“You’re very clingy tonight,” you tease softly.

“I had a big moment,” he replies, dramatic. “I deserve affection.”

“You always have affection.”

“Not enough,” he says, leaning in to press an exaggerated kiss to your cheek.

Stephen watches the interaction with a grin. “You two are sickeningly adorable.”

Harry doesn’t even look embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he says proudly.

As the night wears on, he grows softer — laugh louder, posture looser, eyes brighter.

He rests his chin on your shoulder at one point, watching the stage from behind you.

“You proud of me?” he asks quietly, almost vulnerable again despite the tipsy smile.

You turn your head slightly, brushing your nose against his.

“Always.”

That seems to settle something in him.

His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. Your hand smooths absentmindedly over the back of his neck. The world around you fades into warm noise and golden light.

By the time another award is announced, he’s practically folded into you — stripes rumpled slightly, bow-detailed shoes kicked under the table, completely unbothered by who’s watching.

And when someone nearby jokes, “Get a room,”

Harry just grins lazily and replies,

“We have one.”

Before pulling you just a little closer.

The door shuts and it’s like the whole world disappears.

No cameras.

No cheering.

No expectations.

Just you and him in the dim backseat, city lights streaking past the windows.

He’s still looking at you like he hasn’t quite recovered from the staircase earlier.

“You have no idea what you did to me tonight,” he murmurs, voice lower now, roughened by champagne and adrenaline.

“Oh, I think I do,” you tease softly, sliding closer.

His hand moves instantly — firm at your waist, pulling you onto his lap like he’s been waiting for permission all night.

You let out a small laugh as you settle, the silk of your dress shifting against his suit trousers, stripes brushing stripes.

He exhales slowly.

“God,” he breathes.

Your fingers slide into his hair first this time — gently at first, then firmer when he tilts his head to kiss you.

It starts slow.

Soft lips. Warm. Familiar.

But there’s something different in it tonight.

It’s deeper. Hungrier.

Like he held it in for hours and now there’s nothing stopping him.

His hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s barely space between you. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, still charged from performing.

“You were unreal,” he murmurs against your mouth, barely breaking the kiss.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

His thumb traces slowly along your waist through the fabric, lingering where the silk dips slightly. You shiver — not from cold.

The car turns gently and you instinctively brace yourself against him, your palm flat against his chest. He smiles into the kiss, amused.

“Stay,” he whispers.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He deepens the kiss again — slower this time, more deliberate. His hand slides up your spine, fingers curling lightly at the back of your neck, holding you there like he wants to memorise it.

The faint taste of champagne lingers between you.

Your nails drag softly through his hair and he exhales sharply, grip tightening at your waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, but he’s grinning.

“Why?” you breathe back.

“You’re testing me.”

“Good.”

He laughs under his breath, then pulls you in again — this time angling his head slightly, kissing you with a lazy, unhurried confidence that makes your stomach flip.

His other hand moves to your thigh — not rushed, just resting there, thumb tracing absent patterns over the silk.

The world outside the windows blurs completely.

There’s only the warmth of him.

The press of his hands.

The slow build of breathless laughter between kisses.

He breaks away for a second, just to look at you.

Hair slightly undone. Lips flushed. Matching pinstripes tangled together.

“You looked at me like that during the chorus,” he says softly.

“Like what?”

“Like I was the best performer in that room .”

Your expression softens.

“You were.”

He kisses you again at that — softer now, but just as intense. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek with surprising tenderness.

The heat doesn’t disappear.

It just shifts.

Less frantic. More consuming.

You lean your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavier now.

“Driver’s definitely judging us,” you whisper.

He glances toward the front for half a second before pulling you closer again.

“He can’t see,” he murmurs. “And even if he could… I don’t care.”

You laugh quietly, pressing another lingering kiss to his lips.

He responds immediately, hands firm at your waist again, holding you steady as the car rolls through the Manchester streets toward home.

By the time the house comes into view, his tie is completely loose, your lipstick slightly smudged, and neither of you has stopped touching the other for more than a few seconds at a time.

When the car slows, he rests his forehead against yours.

“We are not composed,” he says softly.

“Not even a little bit.”

He smiles — slow, warm, completely yours.

“Good.”

And when the car finally stops, he keeps you in his lap just a second longer before whispering,

“Race you to the front door.”

Beside you, Harry Styles stirs, his arm shifting as he turns toward you, eyes barely open.

“Mm… what’s wrong?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You don’t answer straight away.

You’re counting.

Feeling.

Another one builds.

Your fingers grip the sheets slightly as it crests, your breath catching.

That’s when his eyes open properly.

“Hey—” he pushes himself up instantly, sleep gone in a second. “What is it?”

You look at him, something between nerves and disbelief flickering across your face.

“I think… it’s time.”

Everything changes.

He freezes for half a second.

Then—

“Time?” he repeats, like he needs to hear it again to make it real.

You nod.

And just like that, he’s fully awake.

“Right. Okay. Okay—yeah—alright.”

He’s out of bed in seconds, running a hand through his hair, already scanning the room like he’s ticking off a mental checklist that keeps rearranging itself.

“The bag—we packed the bag—where’s the bag?”

“By the door,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady as another contraction builds.

“Right. Good. Good—okay.”

He turns back to you, softer now, grounding himself.

“We’ve got time, yeah?” he asks, stepping closer, hands hovering like he doesn’t quite know where to put them.

“I think so,” you nod, though your breath wavers slightly.

He exhales, nodding quickly. “Okay. Okay. We’re good.”

And then—

Georgie.

You both think it at the same time.

Harry glances toward the door, then back at you. “We need to wake him.”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

🩵💗

The house feels different as you move through it.

Quieter.

Heavier.

Like it knows something’s about to change.

Harry stays close to you as you walk, one hand hovering at your back, the other ready to catch yours the second you need it.

Another contraction hits halfway down the hall.

You stop, gripping his arm.

He’s there instantly.

“Breathe, love. You’re alright—just breathe with me.”

His voice is softer now. Steadier.

You focus on him, on the rhythm of his words, on the way his thumb rubs slow circles against your hand.

When it passes, you nod.

“I’m okay.”

“Course you are,” he murmurs gently.

Then he nudges open Georgie’s door.

The room is dim, a soft glow from the nightlight casting gentle shapes across the walls. Toys are scattered where they were abandoned earlier, a small pair of shoes kicked off near the bed.

Georgie is fast asleep, sprawled under his duvet, curls messy against the pillow, clutching his favourite dinosaur.

For a second, you both just stand there.

Taking him in.

Harry’s expression softens completely.

“Hey, bug…” he whispers, moving closer.

He sits carefully on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers through Georgie’s curls.

Georgie stirs slightly, nose scrunching.

“Georgie,” Harry says softly. “Wake up, love.”

A small whine.

“Dada…?”

“Yeah, s’me.”

Georgie blinks slowly, eyes barely opening, confusion written all over his sleepy face.

“Why’s it dark?”

Harry lets out a soft breath, smiling gently. “’Cause it’s still night time.”

Georgie frowns slightly, then looks between you both.

“Mama?”

You step closer, crouching slightly despite the ache building low in your stomach.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

Another contraction threatens, but you push it aside for a moment, focusing on him.

Harry glances at you briefly, then back to Georgie.

“We’re going on a little trip, yeah?” he says gently. “You’re gonna go stay with Uncle Niall and Amelia for a bit.”

Georgie blinks.

Processes slowly.

“…why?”

Harry’s voice softens even more.

“Because Mummy’s having the baby.”

That does it.

Georgie’s eyes open wider, sleep falling away in pieces.

“…baby?” he murmurs.

You nod, smiling softly despite everything. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Oh.”

It’s quiet, like he’s trying to understand something very big with a very small amount of awake.

Harry leans down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “C’mon, let’s get you up, yeah?”

Georgie doesn’t argue.

He just lifts his arms.

Harry scoops him up easily, holding him against his chest as Georgie curls into him, still half asleep but trusting completely.

“I’ll grab his bag,” Harry murmurs to you.

You nod, one hand resting on your bump as another wave begins to build.

“I’ll be right here.”

🩵💗

By the time you’re both downstairs, Georgie is wrapped in his coat over his pyjamas, shoes slightly mismatched but on, his head resting against Harry’s shoulder.

The house feels strange.

Like you’re leaving it as one version of your family…

And coming back as another.

Harry helps you into the car, every movement careful, his attention flicking constantly back to you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, though your grip tightens slightly on his hand. “Yeah.”

He presses a quick kiss to your knuckles.

“Nearly there.”

🩵💗

Before pulling away, he reaches for his phone.

“Need to text Niall,” he says.

You nod.

He types quickly, thumbs moving faster than his thoughts can fully form.

Harry: you awake? think it’s happening. contractions started. can we drop Georgie to you?

There’s a pause.

Then his phone buzzes almost instantly.

Niall: ARE YOU SERIOUS?? yeah course you can. we’re up. come now. proud of you both already

Harry lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and nerves.

“He’s awake,” he says, glancing at you. “They’re ready.”

Another message comes through.

Niall: tell her she’s smashing it already. kettle’s on

You smile softly at that.

“Of course it is.”

Harry smiles too, then reaches across, squeezing your hand gently.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

Then he starts the car.

And as you pull away from the house, Georgie asleep in the back, your hand in his, and something new already beginning—

Everything shifts.

🩵💗

When you pull up outside Niall Horan’s House, the porch light is already on.

Waiting.

Ready.

Harry turns the engine off but doesn’t move straight away.

Neither of you do.

Another contraction rolls through you, stronger this time, pulling a quiet sound from your throat as your head tips back against the seat.

He’s there instantly, hand wrapping around yours.

“Breathe, love. I’ve got you.”

You nod, focusing on his voice, on the steady rhythm of it.

It passes.

But only just.

“I’m okay,” you whisper.

He studies your face for a second, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

Then he leans across, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“I’ll be quick, yeah?”

You nod.

“Go.”

🩵💗

The front door opens before Harry even knocks.

Niall Horan is already there, hoodie thrown on, hair messy, concern and excitement written all over his face.

“Alright?” he asks quickly, eyes flicking past Harry toward the car.

“She’s in the car,” Harry says, voice low. “Contractions are closer now.”

Niall nods immediately. “Go on—bring him in. Amelia’s got the spare room ready.”

Inside, the house is warm.

Safe.

Amelia Woolley appears at the end of the hallway, offering a soft, reassuring smile.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says gently when she sees Georgie.

Harry carries him in, still half curled against his chest, but more awake now. Georgie lifts his head slightly, eyes darting around like he’s trying to understand why everything feels different.

“Alright, mate,” Harry murmurs, setting him down carefully on his feet.

Georgie’s hand immediately grabs onto his hoodie.

Tight.

“Dada?” he says, voice smaller now.

Harry crouches in front of him, hands coming up to hold his arms gently.

“You’re gonna stay here for a little bit, yeah?” he says softly. “With Uncle Niall and Amelia. We’re going to the hospital.”

Georgie blinks.

“But… I come too?”

There’s something in his voice that makes your chest ache even from the car.

Harry’s expression softens instantly.

“Not just yet, bug,” he says quietly. “You’ll come meet the baby soon. Promise.”

Georgie’s lip wobbles.

Only slightly at first.

“But I wanna come now,” he whispers.

Harry swallows, his thumbs brushing over Georgie’s sleeves.

“I know you do. I know.”

Georgie shakes his head, his grip tightening.

“No—I come with you. I stay with you.”

And then it happens.

That shift.

The one where tiredness and confusion and change all crash together at once.

His face crumples.

“I wanna go with you!” he cries, voice breaking as tears spill down his cheeks.

Harry’s heart visibly cracks.

“Hey—hey, it’s alright—” he pulls him in instantly, Georgie clinging to him with everything he has, arms wrapping tight around his neck.

“I don’t wanna stay!” Georgie sobs into his shoulder. “Dada, please!”

Harry closes his eyes briefly, holding him tighter.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he murmurs, voice thick now. “You’re safe here, yeah? We’re just going to get your baby sister.”

“I come too!” Georgie insists, crying harder now, his small hands gripping at Harry’s hoodie like if he lets go, everything will disappear.

Harry looks up helplessly.

Niall steps closer, his expression gentle but steady.

“Hey, Georgie,” he says softly, crouching down beside them. “You can help me, yeah? I need your help tonight.”

Georgie shakes his head violently, burying his face deeper into Harry’s neck.

“No!”

Harry exhales shakily, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers. “I promise you. And then you get to meet her first, yeah? You’ll be the best big brother.”

Georgie’s crying doesn’t stop.

If anything, it gets louder.

“I don’t want you to go!”

Harry’s arms tighten around him instinctively, like every part of him is fighting the idea of letting go.

But then—

Another contraction hits you in the car.

Stronger.

Longer.

You grip the door, breath catching sharply, a quiet cry slipping out before you can stop it.

Through the window, Harry hears it.

Everything changes.

He looks toward the car, panic flashing across his face.

“I have to go,” he says, voice breaking slightly as he looks back at Georgie. “Mummy needs me.”

Georgie clings tighter.

“No!”

Niall steps in gently.

“Come here, mate,” he says softly, placing a careful hand on Georgie’s back.

Georgie resists immediately, holding onto Harry with surprising strength.

Harry hesitates for a split second—

Then kisses the side of Georgie’s head, holding him close one last time.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” Georgie sobs back, voice muffled.

And then—

Niall carefully, gently, has to pry Georgie’s arms loose.

One small hand at a time.

Georgie cries harder, reaching for Harry as he’s pulled back.

“Dada! Dada!”

Harry steps back like it physically hurts, his chest rising and falling quickly, eyes glassy as he watches Georgie reach for him.

“I’ll be back,” he says again, even though Georgie can barely hear him through the tears.

Amelia wraps her arms around Georgie, holding him close, murmuring soft reassurances as he cries into her shoulder.

Harry can’t look for too long.

He turns.

Because if he doesn’t, he won’t leave.

🩵💗

The room feels smaller now.

Not physically.

But everything in it has sharpened, narrowed, tightened around you.

Time doesn’t stretch the way it did before. It doesn’t drift. It moves, fast and relentless, each second pulled forward by the next contraction building deep inside you.

You barely remember getting here.

The car ride.

The corridors.

The way Harry never once let go of your hand.

It’s all a blur now.

Because this—

This is different.

This is faster.

🩵💗

You grip the hospital bed as another contraction crashes over you, stronger than the last, stealing the breath straight from your lungs. Your head tips forward, a strained sound escaping before you can stop it.

“Harry—”

“I’m here,” he says instantly, his hand already in yours, the other bracing your back. “I’ve got you, love. Breathe, yeah? Just breathe with me.”

You try.

God, you try.

But it’s so much more intense this time.

There’s barely a pause between them, barely a second to gather yourself before the next one begins building, your body already moving ahead without waiting for you to catch up.

“It’s too fast,” you gasp, shaking your head slightly. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he says softly but firmly, leaning close so you can feel him, hear him over everything else. “You’re doing it already. You’re doing so well.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, grounding, steady.

You cling to that.

To him.

The midwife moves around the room calmly, efficiently, checking monitors, speaking in that quiet, reassuring tone that almost cuts through the chaos.

“I’m just going to check how far along you are,” she says gently.

You barely register it.

Another contraction takes over, your fingers tightening painfully around Harry’s hand as your body tenses again.

He doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t even flinch.

“Look at me,” he murmurs. “Just me. You’re alright.”

You focus on his face.

On his voice.

On the way he’s holding you like nothing else matters.

A moment passes.

Or several.

You can’t tell.

Then the midwife straightens slightly.

“Well,” she says, a small smile in her voice. “You’re already eight centimetres.”

Harry’s head snaps up.

“What?” he says, blinking. “Eight?”

The midwife nods calmly. “Yes. This baby’s not waiting around.”

You barely have time to process it before another contraction hits, stronger than anything before, pulling a strained cry from your throat.

Harry’s attention is back on you instantly.

“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” he says, his voice softer now but edged with awe and urgency. “Did you hear that? You’re nearly there. You’re doing it.”

You shake your head slightly, overwhelmed.

“It’s too much—”

“I know,” he says quickly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know it feels like that, but it’s because you’re so close. That’s all it is.”

Your breath comes in uneven bursts, your body already preparing for what’s next without asking your permission.

It’s happening.

Quickly.

“So much faster than last time,” Harry murmurs, half to himself, his hand tightening around yours as another wave builds.

You nod faintly, barely able to respond.

Everything is intensity now.

Pressure.

Movement.

Your body working in a way you can’t control, can only follow.

The room shifts again.

There’s more movement now.

More readiness.

The midwife’s voice is steady but purposeful.

“You’re progressing very quickly. Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

Harry brushes your hair back from your face, his touch gentle despite everything.

“I’m right here,” he says again, like a promise. “Not going anywhere.”

You cling to that.

To him.

🩵💗

“Harry—”

“I’m here,” he says instantly, already closer, already holding you. One hand grips yours, the other braced firmly at your back as you lean into him. “Talk to me—what is it?”

“I—” your breath stutters, your head shaking as another wave surges through you. “I feel like I need to—”

The midwife looks up immediately, stepping closer, calm but focused.

“That’s your body telling you it’s time,” she says gently. “You’re ready.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly, flicking between you and her.

“Ready?” he repeats, voice laced with awe and nerves.

She nods. “Yes. Baby’s coming.”

Everything sharpens.

The room.

The sounds.

Harry’s hand in yours.

🩵💗

“Oh—!” you gasp, gripping Harry’s hand tightly, your other hand clutching at the sheets.

“That’s it,” the midwife encourages softly. “Work with it. Your body knows what to do.”

Harry leans in closer, his forehead brushing yours.

“You’ve got this,” he murmurs, voice steady even as his grip tightens around your hand. “You’re so strong. I’m right here.”

You nod, even though everything feels overwhelming, even though your breath comes in sharp, uneven bursts.

You follow it.

You push.

And the pressure builds, intense and consuming, your whole body focused on this one thing, this one moment.

“I can’t—” you gasp, shaking your head.

“Yes, you can,” Harry says immediately, his voice firm but soft, anchoring you. “You are. Look at you—you’re doing it.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, catching the tears that slip free.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

There’s movement around you.

Voices guiding you.

But it’s his voice you hear the clearest.

Always his.

“Next contraction,” the midwife says gently. “Big push, alright?”

You barely have time to prepare before it comes again, stronger, deeper.

Harry squeezes your hand.

“C’mon, love. Just one more like that.”

You bear down, everything in you focusing, pushing through the intensity, through the pressure, through the overwhelming sensation of it all.

“That’s it—” the midwife’s voice lifts slightly. “That’s really good—keep going—”

Harry’s breath catches.

“I can see—” he stops, emotion breaking through his voice. “I can see the head—”

You barely process it, another push taking over, your body moving without hesitation now.

“You’re doing so well,” he says quickly, his voice thick but steady. “So, so well.”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your temples.

“I need it to stop—”

“It will,” he promises softly. “You’re so close. I swear—you’re right there.”

Another contraction.

Another push.

And suddenly—

A shift.

A release.

A cry.

Sharp.

New.

The room pauses.

Everything stills.

Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, your entire body trembling from the effort, from the intensity, from everything you’ve just done.

And then—

“It’s a girl.”

The words land softly.

Gently.

Like something precious being placed into your hands.

Harry lets out a broken laugh, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelming emotion.

“A girl—” he repeats, shaking his head slightly as his eyes fill. “We’ve got a girl…”

They place her on your chest, warm and tiny and real, her cry softening as she settles against you.

You look down at her, your vision blurred with tears, your hand coming up instinctively to cradle her.

“Hi…” you whisper, voice trembling. “Hi, baby…”

Harry leans in beside you immediately, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head so carefully, like she might disappear if he’s not gentle enough.

🩵💗

The room is softer now.

Quieter.

Like everything that was loud and urgent before has gently settled into something slow and fragile and new.

You’re asleep.

Properly asleep.

The kind that only comes after something like that—your body completely spent, your breathing deep and even, your hand still loosely curled in the sheets beside you.

Harry keeps glancing over at you.

Just to check.

Just to make sure.

He’s not sure he’ll ever quite believe what you’ve just done.

“Do you want to try some skin-to-skin, Dad?”

The midwife’s voice is gentle, careful not to disturb you.

Harry looks up, blinking slightly like he’s been pulled out of something.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, almost instinctively. “Yeah, course.”

She smiles softly, stepping closer with your daughter in her arms.

“Alright, we’ll just get you settled.”

Harry nods, suddenly very aware of himself.

Of his hands.

Of how big they feel compared to her.

He sits carefully in the chair beside your bed, his movements slower now, more deliberate. The midwife helps him adjust slightly, guiding without rushing.

“Just take your shirt off for me,” she says gently.

He does, pulling it over his head quickly but carefully, placing it to the side without really looking.

His eyes are already back on her.

On your daughter.

So small.

So new.

“Okay,” the midwife murmurs. “I’m just going to place her on your chest.”

Harry nods, his hands hovering slightly, ready but unsure where to go.

And then—

She’s there.

Warm.

Light.

Resting against him.

For a second, he doesn’t breathe.

His hands come up slowly, instinctively, one supporting her back, the other cradling her gently as she settles against his chest.

“Oh…”

The word leaves him before he can stop it.

Soft.

Awed.

Your daughter makes a small sound, shifting slightly, her cheek pressing against his skin, her tiny fingers flexing as if she’s trying to understand where she is.

Harry lets out a quiet breath, his head tipping down, eyes fixed on her like he’s afraid to blink.

“Hi, sweetheart…” he whispers, voice barely there.

The midwife adjusts the blanket lightly over her back, making sure she’s secure.

“She might settle quite quickly like this,” she says softly. “It helps regulate her.”

Harry nods, though he’s not really looking at the midwife anymore.

He’s completely gone.

Completely here.

Your daughter lets out a tiny sigh, her body relaxing against him.

And something in Harry shifts again.

Softens deeper.

His thumb moves slowly along her back, barely there, like he’s learning her piece by piece.

“You’re so small,” he murmurs quietly, a faint, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips. “D’you know that?”

She makes another little noise, her head turning slightly, nestling closer.

Harry’s chest rises carefully, like he’s afraid even his breathing might disturb her.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he whispers. “All this time… you were just… you.”

His eyes flick briefly to you.

Still asleep.

Still resting.

A soft, grateful expression crosses his face.

“Mum did so well,” he murmurs to your daughter, voice thick with emotion. “So, so well. You’ve got no idea, do you?”

He looks back down at her, his hand instinctively coming up to gently cup the back of her head.

“But you will,” he adds softly. “We’ll tell you.”

Time passes quietly.

Unnoticed.

The world outside the room doesn’t exist.

There’s only this.

The warmth of her against him.

The soft rhythm of her breathing.

The steady rise and fall of your chest across from him.

Harry leans back slightly in the chair, careful not to disturb her, his head resting lightly against the wall behind him.

His eyes don’t leave her for long.

Every now and then, he just… looks.

Like he’s memorising her.

The shape of her nose.

The way her tiny hand curls against his chest.

The soft sound she makes when she shifts.

“You’ve got a big brother, you know,” he whispers after a while, voice quiet but warm. “He’s gonna love you so much. Proper look after you, he will.”

His lips twitch into a small smile.

“He cried when I left him,” he admits softly. “Didn’t want me to go. Gonna have to make that up to him, yeah?”

Your daughter stirs slightly, her fingers flexing again.

Harry chuckles under his breath, careful and quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Big day for all of us, isn’t it?”

🩵💗

It’s morning now.

“Hi, baby girl,” you whisper, your voice still hoarse from everything your body has been through.

The room feels emptier without Harry.

He’d stayed as long as he could, pressed kisses into your hair, your forehead, your hands, and then finally into the soft down of your daughter’s head before reluctantly pulling away.

“I’ll go get our boy,” he’d murmured, his voice thick with emotion, thumb brushing under your eye where you hadn’t even realised a tear had fallen. “Won’t be long. Don’t go anywhere without me.”

You’d laughed softly at that, exhausted but glowing, watching him linger at the door like he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.

Now it’s just you and her.

And somewhere across town, your boys.

🩵💗

The drive feels different this time.

Lighter.

Still tired.

Still overwhelmed.

But now there’s something else sitting beneath it all.

Excitement.

He keeps replaying it in his head.

Her cry.

Your face.

The moment everything changed.

“Our daughter…” he murmurs to himself, shaking his head slightly in disbelief.

And now—

Georgie gets to meet her.

When he pulls up outside Niall Horan’s House again, it feels familiar in a completely new way.

The front door opens before he even reaches it.

Niall is already grinning.

“Well?” he asks, though he clearly already knows.

Harry mirrors it without even trying.

“She’s here.”

Niall lets out a small laugh, pulling him into a quick hug. “Knew it. How is she?”

“Tiny,” Harry says immediately, shaking his head. “And loud. And… just—yeah. She’s perfect.”

Niall claps a hand on his shoulder. “Course she is.”

“Where is he?” Harry asks, already looking past him.

“Upstairs. Didn’t want to go back to sleep properly—kept asking if you’d texted.”

Harry’s chest tightens slightly at that.

“I’m gonna go up.”

“Go on.”

The hallway is quiet as he makes his way upstairs, his steps softer this time.

More careful.

He pushes the door open gently.

Georgie is curled up on the bed now, not fully asleep, just lying there with his dinosaur tucked under his chin, eyes open but heavy.

He looks small.

Smaller than usual.

Harry steps inside.

“Hey, bug…”

Georgie’s head lifts instantly.

“Dada?”

Harry smiles, walking over, crouching beside the bed.

“Yeah, s’me.”

Georgie pushes himself up quickly, eyes searching his face.

“Where’s Mama?” he asks straight away.

Harry’s expression softens.

“She’s at the hospital,” he says gently. “She did so well.”

Georgie studies him for a second.

“…baby?”

Harry can’t help the smile that breaks through.

“Baby’s here.”

That’s it.

Georgie’s whole face changes.

Fully awake now.

“Here?!” he says, sitting up properly.

Harry nods, a soft laugh escaping him. “Yeah. Right now.”

“What is it?” Georgie asks quickly. “Is it a boy? Is it a girl?”

Harry’s eyes soften.

“You’ve got a little sister.”

For a second, Georgie just stares at him.

Then—

“A sister?” he repeats, like he needs to check.

“Yeah.”

Georgie’s face lights up completely.

“I have a sister!” he says, almost in disbelief, a grin spreading across his face.

Harry laughs softly, nodding. “You do.”

“I wanna see her,” Georgie says immediately, already climbing off the bed. “I wanna see her now.”

Harry steadies him gently, hands on his arms.

“We’re going right now,” he promises. “Gonna go meet her together, yeah?”

Georgie nods quickly, bouncing slightly on his feet, all traces of earlier tears gone, replaced entirely by excitement.

“Is she tiny?” he asks, grabbing Harry’s hand.

“Very tiny.”

“Can I hold her?”

“We’ll help you.”

“Does she know me?”

Harry pauses just slightly at that.

Then smiles softly.

“She’s about to.”

Georgie beams.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

🩵💗

They stop at a light.

The world outside glows softly in the early morning haze, everything calm and still.

Inside, Georgie shifts again, leaning forward as far as his seatbelt will allow.

“Dada?”

“Yeah?”

“Does she know I’m her brother?”

Harry exhales softly through his nose, something about that question catching him off guard in the best way.

“Not yet,” he says gently. “But she will. Soon as she sees you.”

Georgie nods firmly, like that’s all he needed to hear.

“I’ll tell her,” he says. “I’ll say, ‘I’m Georgie. I’m your big brother.’”

Harry smiles, glancing at him.

“That’s perfect.”

“I’ll show her my toys,” Georgie continues, already planning. “And my football. And my dinosaur.”

“Think she’ll love that.”

“And I’ll be gentle,” he adds quickly, voice serious now. “Very gentle.”

Harry’s chest tightens again, something warm and overwhelming settling deep inside him.

“I know you will, mate.”

The light turns green.

The car moves again.

Closer now.

Closer to the hospital.

Closer to you.

For a moment, there’s a quiet.

Not empty.

Just… full.

Georgie settles back slightly, still alert, still buzzing, but calmer now.

“Dada?”

“Yeah?”

“…I’m excited.”

Harry smiles, his eyes flicking briefly toward him before returning to the road.

“Me too.”

Georgie grins, clutching his dinosaur a little tighter.

“Is she gonna like me?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “She’s gonna love you.”

Georgie beams at that, completely reassured.

And as the hospital comes into view in the distance, growing closer with every second, Harry reaches one hand back briefly, resting it over Georgie’s knee.

A small, grounding touch.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

Georgie sits up straighter.

“Ready.”

Harry smiles.

“Let’s go meet your sister.”

🩵💗

The hospital corridor feels brighter this time.

Not harsh.

Just… full.

Harry walks beside Georgie, his hand wrapped securely around his, guiding him gently down the hallway. Georgie stays close, his small fingers gripping tightly, his dinosaur tucked under his arm, eyes flicking from door to door as they pass.

“Nearly there,” Harry murmurs softly.

Georgie nods—but it’s quieter this time.

Slower.

The excitement from the car has softened into something else now.

Something smaller.

More unsure.

They stop outside your door.

Harry glances down at him.

“You ready?” he asks gently.

Georgie looks up at him, then at the door.

Then back at him again.

His fingers tighten.

“…Dada?” he says quietly.

“Yeah, bug?”

Georgie hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his dinosaur slipping slightly in his grip.

“I… I want you,” he murmurs.

Harry’s expression softens instantly.

“C’mere,” he says gently.

Georgie doesn’t need telling twice.

He lifts his arms straight away, and Harry scoops him up easily, settling him against his chest. Georgie tucks himself in close immediately, his face pressing into Harry’s shoulder, one hand clutching his hoodie tightly.

“Alright?” Harry murmurs, brushing his hand softly over his back.

Georgie nods against him, but he doesn’t lift his head.

“I’m a bit shy,” he admits quietly.

Harry huffs a soft, warm breath.

“That’s okay,” he says. “You can stay right here with me, yeah?”

Another small nod.

Harry presses a kiss into his curls, holding him just a little closer.

“Just me and you.”

He pushes the door open gently.

The room is calm.

Warm.

You’re sitting up in the bed, propped against the pillows, your hair slightly messy, your face soft with exhaustion—but glowing.

And in your arms—

Her.

Your daughter.

Tiny.

Wrapped up.

Peaceful.

You look up as they enter, your face lighting up instantly.

“Hi, baby,” you say softly.

Georgie doesn’t answer straight away.

He stays tucked into Harry, peeking just slightly, his eyes just visible as he looks toward you.

Then—

Toward her.

He goes very still.

“…that’s her?” he whispers into Harry’s shoulder.

Harry nods gently, his voice soft near his ear. “Yeah. That’s your sister.”

Georgie peeks a little more, curiosity slowly pushing past his shyness.

“She’s… really small,” he says quietly.

You smile. “She is.”

Harry shifts slightly, still holding him securely.

“D’you wanna come say hello?” he asks gently.

Georgie hesitates.

Then shakes his head just a little, pressing his face back into Harry’s shoulder.

“Can I stay here?” he asks softly.

Harry’s chest tightens in the gentlest way.

“Course you can,” he murmurs. “Take your time.”

He walks closer to the bed, slow and careful, letting Georgie stay exactly where he feels safest.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling warmly.

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” you say gently. “You can look from there.”

Georgie peeks again, a little braver this time.

His eyes land on her.

And they don’t move.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly. “She’s had a big day.”

Georgie nods slowly, still watching her, his grip on Harry loosening just a fraction.

“She’s wrapped up,” he adds.

“Keeping her warm,” you say gently.

Georgie shifts slightly in Harry’s arms, turning just enough so he can see her better, though he still leans into him.

“…can I see her closer?” he asks, voice small but curious.

Harry smiles softly.

“Yeah, we can do that.”

He steps right up to the bed, lowering himself slightly so Georgie is level with you.

Georgie leans forward just a little, careful, cautious.

His eyes widen again.

“She’s really, really tiny,” he whispers.

You laugh softly. “I know.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Can I hold her?” he asks, quieter now, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed.

You glance at Harry, then back at him, your expression soft.

“Of course you can,” you say gently. “We’ll help you.”

Georgie hesitates.

Then slowly, he nods.

“…okay.”

Harry shifts, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed with him still in his arms.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “We’ll do it together, yeah?”

Georgie nods again, this time a little more certain.

“Together.”

Harry adjusts him gently, guiding his arms, keeping one of his own wrapped securely around him.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers.

Georgie watches closely as you slowly lower her toward him, his breath catching slightly as she gets closer.

Then—

She’s in his arms.

Supported.

Safe.

And Georgie goes completely still.

His eyes lock onto her.

“She’s warm,” he whispers.

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah, she is.”

Georgie glances up at you, then back down at her, a small, shy smile forming.

“Hi,” he says softly. “I’m Georgie.”

Harry smiles, his chin resting lightly against the top of Georgie’s head.

“Best big brother she could have.”

Georgie leans back into him slightly, still shy, still holding her carefully.

And slowly—

Very slowly—

That nervousness melts into something softer.

Something warm.

Something new.

🩵💗

A soft knock sounds at the door, gentle enough not to startle anyone.

Georgie barely looks up, still completely focused on the tiny weight in his arms, his small hands carefully holding her exactly how Harry showed him.

“Come in,” you say quietly.

The nurse steps inside with a warm smile, pausing just slightly when she takes in the scene.

Georgie, sat so still and serious.

Harry right behind him, one arm wrapped securely around him, his chin resting lightly in his curls.

You beside them, watching both of them like you don’t want to miss a second.

“Well,” she says softly, her voice full of warmth. “That’s just lovely.”

Harry lets out a quiet breath, glancing up at her.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “It really is.”

The nurse tilts her head slightly.

“Would you like a photo? All together?”

You look at Harry immediately.

He’s already smiling.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “We would.”

Georgie looks up slightly at that, his brows knitting just a little.

“A photo?” he asks quietly.

Harry presses a soft kiss into his hair.

“Yeah, bug. So we can remember this moment.”

Georgie nods slowly, like that makes sense.

“Okay.”

Harry carefully shifts, still keeping one arm securely around Georgie as he reaches into his pocket with the other, pulling out his phone.

“Here,” he says, standing carefully from the edge of the bed and handing it over to the nurse. “Just—however you think is best.”

“I’ll make sure it’s perfect,” she assures him gently.

Harry nods, then turns straight back to you both.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, movements careful and deliberate, making sure not to jostle Georgie or the baby.

The mattress dips slightly as he settles in close.

One arm comes around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side.

The other rests lightly behind Georgie, still supporting him.

“You alright?” he murmurs softly to you.

You nod, leaning into him just slightly.

“Perfect.”

Georgie sits in the middle of you both, still holding her, though now he glances between you and Harry like he wants to make sure he’s doing everything right.

“You’re doing amazing,” Harry whispers to him.

Georgie smiles shyly at that, then looks back down at her.

“I’m holding her,” he says quietly, a little bit of pride slipping into his voice.

“You are,” you say softly.

Harry presses a soft kiss to your temple.

The nurse steps back slightly, lifting the phone.

“Alright,” she says gently. “Everyone ready?”

Georgie nods seriously.

“Yes.”

Harry lets out a soft chuckle under his breath.

“Alright, mate.”

You look down at your daughter, your hand resting gently over Georgie’s, Harry’s arm warm around you.

Everything feels… still.

Full.

Complete.

“One… two…” the nurse counts.

Harry’s fingers tighten slightly around your shoulder, his head leaning just a little closer to yours.

“Three.”

The moment is captured.

Georgie holding her so carefully.

You tucked into Harry’s side.

Harry looking between all three of you like he can’t quite believe any of it is real.

The nurse tilted her head to the side. “— do we have a name for baby girl?”

Harry swallowed.

“Jessie Anne Styles.”

The True Love’s Of His Life.

He reached for another piece of bread without looking, tearing it in half while his wife gave him a pointed look across the table.

“You’ve eaten half the basket already.”

Harry smirked, dunking the bread into the pool of olive oil and pepper between them. “They’ll bring more.”

“That’s not the point.” She leaned forward, chin resting on her hand as she watched him take a slow bite, clearly unbothered by her scolding.

He chewed, swallowed, then gestured toward her untouched piece. “You not gonna eat that?”

She raised her brows. “I was. Until now.”

His grin widened as he leaned across the table, fingers brushing hers as he swiped it anyway. She pulled her hand back with a mock gasp, though she didn’t stop him.

Harry bit into the bread, exaggeratedly satisfied, then nodded at her glass. “Drink some. Goes better together.”

She picked up the wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. Crisp, light, with a hint of citrus. He watched her quietly, that small concentration he wore when he wanted to see her reaction before speaking.

“Well?” he prompted.

“It’s good,” she admitted, setting it down carefully.

He leaned back, adjusting his sunglasses. “Told you.”

The waiter brought a plate of marinated olives, followed by thin slices of prosciutto draped over a wooden board. Harry immediately reached for an olive, tossing it into his mouth and closing his eyes like it was some profound revelation.

She snorted. “It’s an olive, H.”

“Yeah, but it’s a proper olive,” he said around his chewing. “Makes a difference.”

She slid the plate toward him, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave a small shrug, reaching for his glass. “You like that about me.”

Harry leaned back, sunglasses hiding most of his expression, but the crooked grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

His wife was laughing at something he’d just said—a throwaway remark that wouldn’t have been funny hours earlier, but after their steady pour of wine, everything seemed lighter, easier.

There conversations were effortless, and he was now speaking about a joke he his sisters boyfriend had sent him earlier that day.

“You’re terrible at keeping a straight face,” she told him, shaking her head as she reached for her glass.

“Am not,” he protested, though he was already fighting another smile.

“You are. You’re smirking before you’ve even finished the joke.”

“That’s because I know it’s good,” he said, drawing out the words in mock seriousness. His accent always softened when he was relaxed, vowels drawn like stretched silk.

She tipped back the glass, finishing the last of it. “Not sure the wine agrees with you on that.”

Harry set his own glass down, nudging the empty bottle with one long finger. “Think the wine agrees with me on everything at this point.”

She laughed again, leaning her chin into her hand as she studied him. His cheeks were flushed pink from the sun and the alcohol, hair curling damply at the edges under his cap.

He looked completely at ease—legs stretched out, shirt loose, voice warm with that lazy charm he wore so effortlessly.

The waiter brought another dish—fresh pasta tangled with clams, tomatoes glistening in oil—and Harry immediately leaned forward, lowering his sunglasses to get a proper look.

“Looks brilliant,” he said.

She twirled a forkful, offering it across the table. He leaned in obediently, lips brushing the tines as he tasted. His expression shifted as he chewed, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“Alright,” he admitted. “That’s good.”

She smirked, drawing her fork back. “Not better than the one you make?”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he said, already reaching for his glass again.

The meal passed in the kind of rhythm only long afternoons in Italy allowed—unhurried, almost drowsy, conversation weaving between little stories, half-finished jokes, and stretches of silence that didn’t feel empty at all.

They poured generously, neither bothering to keep track of how much they’d had.

At one point, Harry leaned closer, lowering his voice as if they were conspiring. “D’you think anyone’s noticed how long we’ve been sat here?”

She glanced around, eyes sparkling from the wine. “Probably. We’re the ones drinking the place dry.”

When dessert came—tiramisu dusted with cocoa—they leaned in together over the plate, spoons clinking as they shared it. She stole the last bite before he could get there, meeting his mock glare with a tipsy smirk.

“Unfair,” he said, shaking his head.

“You had more,” she countered.

“Lies.”

They both dissolved into laughter, the kind that carried, the kind that made nearby diners glance over with faint smiles of their own.

By the time the waiter cleared the plates and tucked the cork into the neck of the last empty bottle, the air had cooled just slightly.

Harry leaned back in his chair, running his thumb along her knuckles under the table, his grin softer now, quieter.

“Feels like we’ve been here all day,” he murmured.

“That’s because we have,” she replied, laughing under her breath.

The waiter had long since stopped checking in, leaving them to their own pace. The other tables on the terrace had turned over once, twice, but Harry and his wife stayed where they were, sunk into the rhythm of the day.

The third empty bottle stood proudly between them like a marker of time well spent. She leaned forward onto her elbow, propping her cheek in her palm as she studied him across the table.

His cap had shifted, hair curling at his temples, sunglasses sliding lower down the bridge of his nose.

“You’re pink,” she said, tilting her head.

Harry adjusted the cap with a lazy hand. “Sunburn or wine?”

“Both.”

He smirked. “You don’t look much better.”

She narrowed her eyes but laughed anyway, running her finger around the rim of her glass, though it was long since drained.

The tipsiness made everything softer—the air warmer, the sea louder, Harry even funnier than usual.

“Do you think we’ve overstayed?” she asked eventually, nodding toward the waiter polishing glasses inside.

Harry glanced back casually, then returned his gaze to her. “Nah. They like us.”

“You’re just saying that because you tipped heavy.”

He gave a small shrug, leaning forward now, resting his forearms on the table. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

This was a favourite restaurant of yours as a couple.

Her smile curved, eyes half-lidded from the wine. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

“Not really,” he said quietly, almost as if the thought had just slipped out. “Just pleased, full stop.”

She blinked at him, surprised by the simplicity of it, the way his words landed without needing dressing up.

The warmth between them had nothing to do with the wine, not really.

The sky deepened as they sat, the sun moving lower, brushing the horizon with streaks of gold and orange. Harry slid his sunglasses onto the table at last, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at her properly.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, softer than usual, his grin slow and unguarded.

“You alright?” she asked, half-teasing, half-checking.

“More than alright,” he said, his thumb tapping against the wood of the table, as if he couldn’t keep still without touching something. “Could sit here forever.”

Her laugh was quiet, a little slurred at the edges. “Forever’s a long time.”

“Don’t care.”

The breeze lifted her hair slightly, and he reached across without thinking, tucking the strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered just long enough to make her heart pick up, before he pulled back, settling his hand on the table between them. She let her own hand slide over it, fitting into the space he’d left.

“Signori,” a familiar voice greeted, and they both looked up to see Marco, one of the waiters they’d come to know well over the past weeks.

He carried a tray of glasses for another table but paused long enough to grin at them. “Still here, eh?”

Harry smirked, voice slow and amused. “Where else would we be?”

Marco laughed, shaking his head. “You drink us dry.”

“That’s the plan,” Harry replied, lifting his empty glass in salute.

The waiter moved on, and she chuckled, resting her chin in her hand. “You’ve made yourself far too comfortable here.”

“Me? You’re the one on first-name terms with the whole staff.”

She smiled into her hand. It was true—every time they came back, someone greeted them warmly, pulled their chairs out, remembered what wine they’d ordered last time. It was the kind of place that made them feel like locals even though they weren’t.

Another waiter, Luca, appeared with a bottle tucked against his hip.

“On the house,” he said, setting it down with a wink. “For our favorite guests.”

Harry raised his brows. “See? Told you they like us.”

“You’re shameless,” she said, though her laugh gave her away as she reached to pour them each a glass.

The wine sloshed unevenly, her aim a little off now, and Harry gently steadied her wrist. “Careful. Don’t waste it.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you’d let me.”

“You’re part of the furniture,” Marco said when he dropped off a bowl of olives they hadn’t ordered. “We’ll start charging you rent.”

Harry leaned back, grinning lazily. “We wouldn’t mind.”

His wife laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine, and Harry reached across the table to steady the glass, shaking his head fondly.

The sky darkened slowly, lanterns above the terrace beginning to glow one by one. The air cooled, but neither of them moved. They had become part of the rhythm of the restaurant—the couple in the corner who always stayed too long, drank too much, laughed too loudly, and whom everyone welcomed anyway.

Harry reached across again, threading his fingers through hers on the table.

“Told you,” he murmured, his grin softer now. “They love us here.”

His hair is a disaster in the most endearing way, curls sticking up at odd angles, lips parted slightly as he breathes.

There’s something about seeing him like this—unguarded, peaceful—that makes your heart swell.

It’s his birthday, and the idea of him waking up to anything less than pure love feels impossible.

You start small.

A kiss pressed softly to his shoulder, barely there.

Then another.

You let your lips linger, smiling against his skin, before moving upward, dotting kisses along his collarbone.

Each one is slow and intentional, like you’re spelling out a message only the two of you understand.

He shifts beneath the duvet, brow furrowing slightly, and a quiet sound escapes him—half sigh, half hum.

You stifle a laugh and keep going, kissing along his arm, down to his forearm, then back up again.

Your fingertips trace lazy patterns as you move, grounding yourself in the moment.

“Mm… you’re warm,” he murmurs sleepily, eyes still closed.

You grin, leaning in to kiss his jaw, then the soft patch just beneath his ear.

“Good morning, birthday boy,” you whisper.

That does it.

His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then slowly sharpening when they land on you.

A smile spreads across his face, slow and genuine, like it’s happening without his permission.

“Is this… is this how I’m waking up today?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Absolutely.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that comes from deep in his chest, and pulls you closer by the waist.

You end up half on top of him, duvet tangled around your legs, his hand warm and steady at your back.

“You’re dangerous,” he says softly, thumb brushing little circles through your pyjama shirt.

“Only on birthdays,” you reply, kissing his nose, then his cheeks, then his lips again—quick, playful pecks that make him laugh and squirm beneath you.

“Hey,” he protests weakly, trying to hide his face against the pillow. “I can’t defend myself yet.”

“That’s the point,” you tease, pressing another kiss to his forehead.

He finally gives up, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you fully into him.

You settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling it steady and calm beneath your cheek.

The room feels cocooned, like the rest of the world can wait a little longer.

“Happy birthday,” you say again, softer this time.

He kisses the top of your head, holding you there.

“Waking up with you,” he murmurs, “is my favourite gift every year.”

You shift again, hovering over him, and his gaze never leaves yours. There’s a quiet understanding between you now, something warm and unspoken.

You lean down, pressing a lingering kiss to his chest, then another just beneath it, unhurried, affectionate, full of intent.

He exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut as your kisses drift lower, following the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

Your lips brush over his stomach, pausing there for a moment like you’re savouring it, like this isn’t about rushing anywhere at all.

“God,” he murmurs softly, one hand coming up to rest at your waist, grounding but not stopping you.

You smile against his skin, glancing up at him briefly before letting your kisses continue, lower still, until your hands reach the waistband of his pants. 

You hook your fingers there, teasing just enough to make him laugh quietly under his breath.

“You’re trouble,” he says fondly.

“Birthday rules,” you reply, pressing one last kiss before gently tugging them down.

As you pull his pants down, his cock springs out, bouncing against his stomach as pre-cum leaks out of the tip.

He’s ready and rearing to go.

His eyes go wide as your mouth takes him in, your head bobbing up and down as you get a taste for him.

“Oh m’love,” he groans, head thrown back against the pillows. “What a great way to start the day.”

Your hand moves up and down his length, eyes filled with love as you take him further and further.

His cock slides back and forth against your throat, nose buried in the peach fuzz at the base.

“Your so good,” he murmurs, eyes screwed shut.

You suck and suck, his chest heaving more and more.

“(Y/N),” he whimpers as your tongue runs over his slit.

Your head continues to bop up and down, one hand now coming up to massage his balls, “— best girl ever, your gonna make me come.”

You pull away, wiping the spit away from your mouth and smirk.

“That’s the aim.”

And then, your back on him, sucking him harder, Harry moaning your name out of lust and ecstasy.

It doesn’t take long for his cock to twitch in your mouth, his cock going stiff and with a few more gentle sucks, his liquid fills your mouth.

“Holy shit!” He moans, gulping hard. “— just like that, baby, wake me up everyday just like that.”

You pull away, crawling back up to his chest and pressing a soft and sensual kiss to his lips.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

“What’s he watching?” Harry asks, glancing at the mirror.

You check. “Still Bluey. I think he’s watched the same three episodes on repeat for the past forty minutes.”

Georgie speaks up without looking away. “It’s the one where they pretend the floor is lava.”

Harry grins. “Classic. You try that again in the living room and your mum’s gonna ban cushions for life.”

Georgie giggles and mutters something under his breath about how Harry fell over last time.

You shoot Harry a look. “He’s not wrong. You tried to leap across the sofa and pulled your back.”

Harry’s eyes stay on the road, but he lifts his chin like he’s got something to defend. “In my defense, the floor was lava.”

You snort. “You’re nearly thirty-one, H.”

“Exactly. Gotta keep up with the young blood. Right, Georgie?”

Georgie giggles from the back, not looking up from his screen. “You fell off the sofa when we played that.”

Harry makes a face. “Oi, I meant to do that.”

You turn your head toward him slowly. “You landed flat on your back and then swore you saw stars.”

He huffs, half-laughing. “That carpet’s not as soft as it looks. Nearly cracked my hip.”

“You’re thirty, not eighty,” you say with a grin.

He gives your thigh a playful squeeze. “Feels like eighty after a ‘floor is lava’ session with that one.”

Behind you, Isla gives another soft babble, followed by the sound of her rattle smacking against the side of her car seat. Her dummy’s still hanging on, but just barely — she’s more interested in yanking the loops on the hanging toy and slapping her foot against the edge like she’s keeping time with the playlist.

“She’s got the energy of three people,” you murmur.

Harry chuckles. “And none of the patience.”

You glance back again. Isla’s eyes catch yours — that exact same pale green as Harry’s — and she flashes a gummy grin. The curls are already forming around her ears, thick and unruly, just like her dad’s.

“She really is your double,” you say, turning back around.

Harry smiles softly. “I know. I see her little face in the mirror some mornings and think, ‘blimey, did I shrink?’”

You laugh. “You did. Twice. And now they both ask for snacks every seven minutes.”

“Which is fair,” he shrugs. “It’s how I live my life.”

Georgie speaks up again, tugging one headphone off. “I’m hungry.”

Harry checks the screen on the dash. “We’re coming up to services soon. Want McDonald’s?”

“Can I get a milkshake?” Georgie asks, eyes hopeful.

You hesitate, glancing at Harry.

He raises his eyebrows. “You gonna say no to that face?”

You sigh. “Fine. Chocolate. But no complaining later when your hands are sticky.”

“I won’t!” Georgie promises immediately — which is usually a guarantee that he will.

Isla lets out another squeal behind you, arms flailing like she’s trying to take flight.

“She’s gonna need a change, too,” you say. “I can smell something happening.”

Harry makes a face. “Of course she saves it for me driving.”

You smirk. “She’s thoughtful like that.”

He taps his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, then reaches across and gently brushes his pinky against your hand. “Still glad we came?”

You lean back in your seat, watching the motorway roll out endlessly in front of you. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s constant.”

He waits.

“And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Harry squeezes your thigh again. “That’s good. ‘Cause I was thinking we could do this every weekend.”

You turn your head, raising an eyebrow. “Drive three hours with two kids in the back, every Saturday?”

He shrugs. “Just think of all the milkshakes.”

You laugh softly, then tilt your head back. “She’s gonna need a change soon. She’s doing that thing with her legs.”

“The kicking?”

You nod. “The warning kicks. Like a countdown.”

“Brilliant,” he mutters. “Always saves it for when I’ve just settled into cruise control.”

Georgie pulls off one of his headphones behind you. “Mum, how many minutes now?”

You check the screen on the dashboard. “About… one hour and forty minutes to go, babe.”

He groans like you’ve just told him school’s been extended through summer.

“You said that ages ago,” he whines.

“And I’ll say it again in another half hour,” Harry jokes.

Georgie slumps a bit in his booster seat. “Can I have McDonald’s now?”

“We’re stopping soon,” you promise. “As soon as we hit Milton Keynes.”

“Can I get a Happy Meal?”

Harry chimes in. “Only if you don’t wipe the ketchup on your jumper this time.”

Georgie thinks about it. “But what if I accidentally wipe it?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Then Daddy’s washing it when we get to Grandma’s.”

Harry huffs. “Don’t drag me into your crimes, mate.”

Georgie giggles and puts his headphones back on. He’s so much like Harry it almost stuns you sometimes — the same crooked little grin, the way he bites the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking, how his left foot taps constantly to whatever music he’s listening to, just like his dad does.

Isla lets out a loud, delighted squeal behind you. You turn your head just in time to see her kick her elephant toy clean off the car seat.

You sigh. “She’s launched the elephant.”

Harry glances in the mirror. “Did she actually?”

“She’s got a throwing arm on her, I swear. You might need to scout her for the England team.”

“She’s still in nappies, love.”

“Still more coordination than you,” you mutter under your breath.

He laughs. “Right, okay. Taking shots now, are we?”

You smile, leaning your elbow on the window. “Just saying. Maybe she gets that from me.”

He leans over slightly to kiss your shoulder at the red light. “She gets her sweetness from you. Everything else is all me.”

You pretend to be horrified. “So you’re taking credit for the attitude, then?”

He smirks. “Gladly.”

Another stretch of road rolls out before you. The motorway hums on beneath the tires. The kids are relatively quiet now — Isla seems content gnawing on her sock (which is somehow off her foot again), and Georgie’s fully engrossed in Bluey.

You take a breath and look out the window.

🩵💕

The “Services 1 Mile” sign appears just in time — one of those giant blue motorway beacons that feels like a tiny miracle when you’ve got two kids in the back and at least one of them smells… suspicious.

“Finally,” you say, stretching your back as Harry flicks the indicator on and takes the exit slip.

“Praise be,” he mutters. “I swear I can feel that nappy from the front seat.”

You glance back. Isla’s chewing on her blanket contently, completely unfazed by the chaos she’s left in her wake. Georgie’s still watching Bluey, completely nose-blind like all kids somehow are.

The Range Rover hums off the motorway and into the service station car park, weaving between lorries and scattered cars. Harry finds a decent spot — close enough to the entrance, far enough from the chaos of the petrol pumps.

As he parks up and shifts into neutral, you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. He doesn’t move right away.

“What?” you ask, watching him glance into the rearview mirror.

He smirks. “Mentally preparing.”

“For what?”

He reaches for the door handle. “A full-blown blowout, based on that smell.”

You both step out. The air outside is fresh but carries that undeniable chill of July-in-England — breezy, cloudy, definitely not summer-summer.

You move to the boot and pop it open, pulling out the folded stroller with one hand and shaking it open with practiced ease. Meanwhile, Harry’s at Isla’s side door, unbuckling her from her seat.

He lifts her up, and the second he does, his expression changes.

“Oh my God,” he coughs dramatically, holding her away from his body like she’s a bomb about to go off. “That is… that’s not human. That’s criminal.”

You peek around the car, stroller halfway open. “Is it bad?”

He looks you dead in the eyes. “It’s spiritual. I’m seeing things.”

You burst out laughing. “Welcome to fatherhood, again.”

Georgie, now standing at the side of the car with his headphones around his neck, pipes up: “Does Isla need a nappy?”

Harry looks at him with mock-seriousness. “She needs a hazmat suit, mate.”

Isla lets out a delighted little squeal, clapping her hands like she’s proud of herself. You roll your eyes fondly and click the stroller into place.

“Come on then, let’s get inside,” you say. “Change the bomb and then hit the golden arches.”

Georgie lights up. “YES!”

Harry swings Isla onto his hip — brave, considering the risk — and closes the car door with his foot.

“Alright, hold my hand, buddy,” he says, reaching down for Georgie’s little hand.

Georgie grabs it without hesitation, still half-watching Isla with that perfect sibling blend of admiration and disgust.

“Does her bum actually smell that bad?” he asks as they start walking toward the entrance.

Harry leans down a little. “Georgie, it smells like something died and then came back angrier.”

You shake your head, falling into step beside them with the empty stroller. “Can we not scare everyone before we even get inside?”

Harry holds up one finger. “I make no promises.”

The automatic doors whoosh open as you approach the service station building. Inside, it’s a swirl of fast food smells, tired travellers, and vending machines glowing faintly in the corners. A couple of truckers walk past holding massive coffees, and the smell of fries is already drifting over from the McDonald’s queue.

“Right,” Harry says. “You take this one”—he gestures toward Georgie—“and I’ll go tackle The Situation.”

You smirk. “Good luck. Try not to cry.”

He hands Isla to you for a second while you strap her into the stroller, both of you laughing as she immediately starts trying to wiggle out, arms windmilling.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” he mutters, straightening up and shaking his hands like he’s just wrangled a wild animal.

You lean over and kiss her curls. “You’re chaos, aren’t you?”

She squeals back, completely unbothered by her own destruction.

Harry leans in, lowering his voice. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume I’ve been taken hostage by a nappy from hell.”

You grin, swatting his arm. “Go on, hero. We’ll be at the counter ordering fries.”

He winks, grabs the nappy bag, and heads toward the baby changing signs.

You and Georgie push the stroller in the opposite direction, his little fingers still sticky from whatever snack he had earlier.

“Can I get apple slices too?” he asks.

“Of course,” you say, pulling him closer. “Fries and fruit. Classic combo.”

🩵💕

He’s pushing Isla through the tiled walkway of the service station, one hand on the stroller handle, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, monkey,” he says quietly, glancing down at her as she kicks her sockless feet and babbles around the dummy still half in her mouth, “what have you done, huh?”

She beams up at him, wide-eyed and innocent, like she doesn’t smell like a literal landfill.

Harry laughs under his breath, shoulders shaking. “That’s the look of someone who knows exactly what they’ve done.”

They pass the Krispy Kreme stand and the row of vending machines humming against the wall. The baby changing room is tucked off to the side — that awkward, sterile, slightly damp-smelling little unit every service station seems to have. He pushes the door open with his hip, wheels the stroller in, and lets the door click shut behind him.

“Right, team,” he mutters to no one but her, “we’ve got a mission. It’s just you and me.”

Isla makes a high-pitched noise that sounds suspiciously like a challenge.

He lifts her out of the stroller and lays her on the plastic fold-down changing table. There’s a sharp, undeniable moment where the smell really hits.

“Oh my God,” he chokes out, stepping back like she’s just let off a firework. “Isla-girl You need to warn someone.”

She squeals again, completely unfazed, waving both arms like she’s proud of her own work.

Harry grabs the wipes and the nappy from the bag, shaking his head as he peels back the tabs on her nappy like he’s defusing a bomb.

He glances down.

And immediately regrets it.

He holds his breath as best he can, wipes at the damage with the precision of someone trying to preserve their own soul.

“You know,” he continues, as she kicks and giggles and smears her heel in her own mess, “I was once in Vogue. Big photoshoot. Had a fan blowing my hair and everything.”

She grins, dummy falling from her mouth as she tries to grab a wipe mid-swipe.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, catching her hand just in time. “You’re covered in war crimes right now. Sit still.”

A couple more wipes, a very efficient nappy change, and then a swift round of I-hope-this-bin-is-secure later, he finally gets a clean nappy on and fastens the little tabs like a man finishing a marathon.

“There we go,” he says, lifting her carefully off the table and blowing a raspberry against her belly. “Fresh as a daisy. A very, very loud daisy.”

She laughs properly this time — that belly-deep baby giggle that scrunches up her whole face. It softens everything instantly.

Harry holds her close for a second, arms wrapped snug around her warm, wriggly little body. Her curls tickle his chin, and she still smells a bit like… well, baby wipes and betrayal. But it doesn’t matter.

He kisses the top of her head.

“You know what?” he murmurs. “I’d do this a hundred times a day. For you. Even the nuclear ones.”

She snuggles into his shoulder for a second, going still — those rare, rare moments when she melts into him, trusting and soft and tiny.

He closes his eyes.

“Don’t tell your mum I said this,” he whispers into her curls, “but you’re definitely my favourite today.”

Another happy squeak from her, and he pulls back with a grin.

“Alright, let’s go find them. Bet Georgie-boy is already neck-deep in fries.”

He straps her back into the stroller, wipes his hands one last time with a baby wipe (more out of psychological necessity than hygiene), and pushes the door open with his foot.

As they wheel back out into the buzz of the service station, he’s got one hand on the stroller, the other rummaging in the nappy bag for her dummy. He glances down at her, still smiling like she’s done nothing at all.

“Next one’s your mum’s turn,” he tells her.

🩵💕

The McDonald’s is its usual motorway kind of loud — chip trays clattering, the hiss of the drinks machine, toddlers crying over apple slices — but somehow, your little corner table by the window feels untouched by the chaos.

You’ve got Isla nestled in your arms, feeding peacefully under a soft muslin cloth. Her breathing is slow, her fingers curled gently into the fabric of your jumper, lashes resting against her cheeks. The noise doesn’t faze her — not now. She’s warm, content, milk-drunk and safe.

Across from you, Georgie is working his way through the last of his Happy Meal, chips dipped heavily in ketchup, mouth stained slightly red from his chocolate milkshake. Harry’s beside him, turned half toward you and half toward his son, one arm casually resting along the back of the bench seat.

“So,” Harry says, taking a sip of his Coke, “what film are we making Nana watch tonight?”

Georgie looks up, chip halfway to his mouth. “Can I pick?”

Harry nods. “Course you can. You’re the boss of film night. Big responsibility, though. Nana’s got high standards.”

Georgie thinks for a second, lips pursed. Then: “The Incredibles.”

You laugh softly. “Again?”

“It’s SO good,” Georgie insists, animated now. “The bit where Dash runs on water? That’s my favourite. I wanna run like that.”

Harry grins. “You already run like that, mate. All elbows and shouting.”

“I don’t shout, Daddy.”

Harry lifts a brow. “You literally narrated yourself jumping off the sofa yesterday like it was an action film trailer.”

Georgie breaks into a giggle. “Okay but that was for effect.”

You shake your head, gently shifting Isla as she finishes feeding. Her little mouth drops open, totally still now, head slumped against your chest in perfect baby exhaustion. You adjust her carefully, lifting the muslin and tucking her in close.

Harry catches the movement and glances over at you, softening immediately. “She’s out?”

You nod. “Gone. She was holding on for that last bit of milk but now she’s in another dimension.”

Harry smiles, then turns back to Georgie. “So, The Incredibles, yeah? Think Nana can handle all that superhero chaos?”

Georgie shrugs. “She likes when the baby turns into fire.”

“She did laugh at that last time,” Harry says, chuckling. “Said it reminded her of Isla when she gets overtired.”

You glance down at your sleeping daughter. “She’s not wrong.”

Georgie yawns — one of those big, sudden ones that takes him by surprise. He blinks a few times, then scoots along the bench seat without a word and climbs onto Harry’s lap, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Harry reacts instantly, arms folding around him, milkshake now slightly forgotten in the corner of the tray.

“Comfy?” he murmurs, brushing Georgie’s hair out of his eyes.

Georgie nods, curling slightly into his chest. Not quite asleep, but quiet now, calm. Winding down. Harry presses a soft kiss to his curls, resting his chin gently on his head.

You cradle Isla tighter against your chest and lean back in your seat, soaking in the moment. Across the table, your son is slowly blinking his way toward rest, safe in his dad’s arms. Your daughter is heavy and still in your own, a little milk bubble at the corner of her mouth.

Harry looks up at you, eyes soft, mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

By the time you’ve packed up the empty Happy Meal box, wiped ketchup from Georgie’s chin, and gathered the crumbs from the table (as best you can), both kids have slipped quietly into that sleepy, post-meal haze.

Isla’s completely gone — she started twitching in her sleep as soon as you tucked her back into the stroller, arms limp at her sides, dummy bobbing gently with each breath. Her curls are matted slightly at the back, her little legs splayed comfortably, one sock half-on like it always is.

Georgie made it to the end of his milkshake, mumbled something about The Incredibles 2, and then crawled fully into Harry’s lap, curling up like he’s four again instead of six.

Now he’s quiet against Harry’s chest, fingers gently playing with the soft ends of the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck — a little absentminded motion, slow and rhythmic. His eyes are half-lidded, and his face has that flushed, warm look that tells you he’s minutes from sleep but clinging on, just barely.

Harry’s got one arm tucked under Georgie’s legs and the other braced behind his back, holding him securely as he stands up from the bench. He shifts his son gently against his shoulder, resting Georgie’s head just under his chin.

“Got him?” you ask softly, already flicking the stroller brake off with your foot.

Harry nods, smiling faintly. “Yeah. He’s a koala.”

Georgie mutters something sleepily, his fingers still idly twisting that little curl of hair just behind Harry’s neck.

“I think he’s talking to your hair,” you whisper.

Harry grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You push Isla ahead of you gently, one hand on the stroller, the other clutching the nappy bag that now feels twice as heavy as when you arrived. The walk back to the car is slower now — that content, end-of-the-day kind of slow. The sky outside is still overcast, but the light’s softer now, golden around the edges.

Harry walks beside you, Georgie snug in his arms, completely trusting, completely still.

“I can’t believe they both fell asleep,” you murmur.

Harry glances over. “Miracle. Honestly. We should buy a lottery ticket.”

You smile. “Or just come to service stations more often.”

He laughs under his breath. “Tempting. Nappy explosions and all.”

When you reach the car, it’s the quiet coordination of two tired but well-practiced parents. You pop the boot and start folding the stroller without needing to say anything. Harry opens the back door and lowers Georgie down gently, trying not to jostle him.

“Okay, come on, mate,” he murmurs softly, as Georgie clings a little tighter. “Nearly there.”

Georgie doesn’t answer, but he allows himself to be buckled in with minimal fuss, head rolling slightly to the side as Harry clicks the belt in place.

You join him at Isla’s side, lifting her from the stroller carefully and resting her against your shoulder. She lets out a tiny sigh, eyes still shut, body warm and relaxed.

“She’s so still when she sleeps,” you whisper. “Like a little rag doll.”

Harry smiles. “Unlike her dad.”

You slide her gently into the car seat and start adjusting the straps while Harry folds the last of the stroller and slides it into the boot.

When you both finally climb back into the front seats, doors closing with a quiet thud, the car feels different. Full, warm, quiet in the best way.

You glance into the mirror: Georgie’s already slumped sideways, mouth open just slightly. Isla’s dummy is still in, one hand curled against her cheek.

Harry looks at them through the rearview and then over at you, hand finding its place back on your thigh, right where it always goes.

“They’re completely out,” he says.

“Think we’ll actually get the rest of the drive in silence?”

He grins. “We deserve the rest of the drive in silence.”

You laugh, leaning your head against the window as he starts the engine again.

🩵💕

The motorway unfolds ahead like a ribbon of quiet now. The kids are asleep in the back — Georgie’s head tilted to the side, mouth slightly open, arms slack at his sides, and Isla curled in her car seat like a perfect comma, dummy still in, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The car is filled with the gentle hum of the engine and the soft lull of whatever acoustic song Harry put on before pulling out of the service station car park.

He’s driving one-handed, the other resting on your thigh again — instinctively, always. Your fingers are threaded together, and neither of you speaks for a long while. There’s no need.

The silence invites memory.

You stare out the window at the passing blur of trees, motor signs, long hedgerows, and let your mind wander — backward.

To him.

To meeting him, first. Not in some grand way — not a glittering stage or flash of paparazzi. Just a quiet moment. A regular day. A shared look. A conversation that lingered. That smile that felt like a slow unraveling. His voice, his softness, the way he saw you. The way he really looked. You never expected him. You didn’t plan for him. But he changed everything without even trying.

You think of the first time you knew. Knew you were in love with him. Not because he said something grand, but because he did something small — thoughtful, quiet, meaningful. It was always like that with him. The little things. Making you tea without asking. Waiting to leave because your favourite part of a film hadn’t finished. Pulling you close in the middle of a crowd, like you were the only one that mattered.

Then the wedding — your wedding. Small, personal. Not showy. Not anything for anyone else. Just the two of you and the people who really knew you. His hands shaking slightly when he held yours, his forehead pressed to yours when the ceremony ended and he whispered something only you could hear. You can’t even remember what it was now — only how it made you feel. Like the world had steadied around you.

And then… telling him you were pregnant with Georgie.

His face. You still remember it like it’s printed behind your eyelids. The silence at first. Not shocked. Just overwhelmed. Like the love had hit him all at once and he had nowhere to put it. The way he pulled you into him, arms wrapped so tightly around you, the sound of his laugh into your neck. Not the big stage kind of laugh — the real one. The one he gives when his heart is too full.

You remember the moment Georgie was placed in his arms — tiny, pink, squirming. And Harry looking at him like he’d never seen anything so important.

Then Isla. A whole different journey. The exhaustion, the nerves, the impossible joy. Watching Harry become a dad again, but in a deeper way. Softer. Surer.

And now, here you are. Two kids asleep in the back. The same Range Rover he drove you home from the hospital in. Your hand in his, just like the very first drive. Except everything’s different now.

Because this time, you know.

You know the weight of his love.

The stretch of time you’ve walked together.

The way your family looks in a rearview mirror.

🩵💕

About forty minutes roll by in silence, the motorway slowly giving way to country roads — narrower, winding, framed by low stone walls and endless fields. The light’s beginning to shift, mellowing into early evening gold, and there’s that gentle stillness in the car that only comes when both kids are asleep and neither of you dares break it.

Harry’s still driving one-handed, your fingers threaded loosely in his. Isla hasn’t stirred.

And then —

“Mama?”

It’s a groggy little voice from the back.

You turn your head slightly, meet Georgie’s sleepy eyes in the rearview.

“What is it, baby?”

He shifts a bit in his car seat, blinking hard. “I need a wee.”

You groan softly. “Of course you do.”

Harry lets out a breath, not taking his eyes off the road. “How bad is it, mate? Like, we’ve got half an hour left. Think you can wait?”

Georgie frowns. “I really need it.”

You twist to glance at him properly. He’s already doing the tell-tale knee-wiggle. “Yeah, he’s not bluffing.”

Harry sighs again, louder this time, pulling his hand from yours to tap the wheel. “Brilliant.”

“Don’t make him hold it, H. You remember what happened on the way to Brighton?”

Harry winces. “I just got the smell out of the car, don’t bring that up.”

You stifle a laugh. “Pull over if you see somewhere. We’re in farmland now anyway.”

Harry cranes his neck slightly, scanning the fields lining both sides of the road. “Alright, alright… come on, countryside, give us something useful…”

Georgie pipes up again, this time with urgency. “I’m actually really really bursting.”

“Alright, alright! Hold on, Captain Bladder,” Harry mutters, eyes flicking toward a narrow lay-by just ahead. “There. That’ll do.”

He swings the car gently into a grassy pull-off that backs onto a quiet hedgerow and a wide, open field. No cars, no buildings. Just nature, a few cows in the distance, and your son about to have an accident.

Harry shifts the car into park and unclips his seatbelt in one smooth motion. “Right, let’s go, buddy. Come on.”

He’s out of the car before you can offer to help, jogging around to Georgie’s door and opening it quickly. Georgie hops down, dancing slightly on the spot.

“I can’t wait!” he says.

Harry’s already taking his hand. “I know, I know. Come on. Let’s find a nice patch of grass to wee on, yeah?”

You watch from the front seat as they disappear just slightly behind a line of bushes, Harry crouching down a little beside him, clearly making it feel like more of an adventure than a bathroom emergency.

You shake your head, smiling to yourself.

A few moments later, they reappear, Georgie looking very pleased with himself and Harry walking back like a man who’s been through war but made it out the other side.

“All good?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Harry opens the back door and buckles Georgie back in. “Crisis averted.”

Georgie nods solemnly. “That was the best wee I’ve ever had.”

You try not to laugh. “One for the memoirs.”

Harry gets back into the driver’s seat and shuts the door with a sigh. “I swear, we could write a parenting book just called ‘Where to Wee When There’s Nowhere to Wee.’”

You reach over and pat his thigh. “You did great, babe. Very heroic.”

He leans back, gripping the wheel again with both hands. “I deserve a medal. Or at least a biscuit when we get there.”

🩵💕

The road narrows into familiar countryside lanes, and your shoulders relax just a little when you spot the final left turn. You’ve driven this route enough times now that it almost feels automatic — the way Harry slows just before the bend, the way the driveway stones crunch under the tyres as the Range Rover rolls into the space just outside his mum’s house.

Georgie is instantly wide awake.

“We’re here!” he announces, kicking his legs in the back seat like he wasn’t just dead asleep twenty minutes ago.

Isla, meanwhile, remains completely knocked out in her car seat, dummy still in, one arm flopped across her face.

You glance through the windscreen. Anne’s already outside, standing at the top of the drive, arms folded and one hip cocked in a way that’s more rockstar than grandma.

She’s wearing cropped black trousers, a crisp oversized white shirt, chunky trainers, and her signature sunglasses — despite the fact the sun’s nearly dipped behind the trees.

“She’s in full fashion mode,” you murmur to Harry, smiling.

“She always is,” he replies, already turning off the ignition. “Bet you a tenner she’s got matcha in that flask.”

Before either of you even reach for your seatbelts, Anne’s already making her way down the path, pulling her sunglasses up onto her head.

She goes straight for Georgie’s side, opening the back door with one hand and grinning wide. “Oi, mister. You napped through most of my texts.”

Georgie beams. “I was tired!”

“Poor you,” she teases, unbuckling him with ease. “Bet this car smells like crisps and baby wipes.”

“It does,” Harry calls, stepping out of the driver’s side. “And one questionable nappy.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anne says, helping Georgie hop down. “You can air it out later. Come here, trouble.”

Georgie runs straight into her arms and she scoops him up with a familiar groan, even though he’s getting big for it now.

“You smell like nuggets,” she says, sniffing his hair.

“McDonald’s!” he grins proudly.

“I knew it,” she laughs, hoisting him properly onto her hip. “You two spoil them every time.”

You meet Harry at the boot and grab the nappy bag, while he’s already making his way to Isla’s door, peering in at her peaceful face.

“She’s completely gone,” he says. “I hate waking her.”

“Yeah, but you also hate being up at 2 a.m. with her.”

Harry sighs, already reaching in. “Fair.”

He lifts her carefully, her little body heavy with sleep, cheek smooshed against his shoulder. She stirs slightly, lets out a tiny grumble, then settles again, dummy still bobbing softly in her mouth.

Anne’s waiting at the door, still holding Georgie, who’s now lazily twirling one of her hoop earrings between his fingers.

“Baby girl asleep?”

“Barely holding on,” Harry says.

“Well,” Anne smirks, turning to open the door wide with her free hand, “bring her in. I’ve got snacks, Peppa on standby, and wine chilled. Priorities.”

You follow them up the path with a grin. “You’re a saint.”

Anne laughs over her shoulder. “I know. I’m also Nana of the year. Tell everyone.”

Georgie giggles, already wriggling to get down and run into the living room, shouting, “I want the red bowl!”