#hazzashouse

Not because the physician had said so. Not because the maids had begun moving too quickly through the corridors of Bridgerton House or because Violet Bridgerton’s calm voice had sharpened ever so slightly with concern.

No.

Anthony knew because the sound that left your mouth did not resemble pain.

It resembled fear.

Pure, blinding fear.

He was beside you instantly, crossing the room in two hurried strides just as your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, and the moment his hands settled around your waist you clung to him with trembling fingers, burying your face against his chest while another contraction tore through you hard enough to force a cry from your throat.

“Anthony,” you gasped, your voice cracking apart. “Anthony, I cannot do this.”

His heart nearly stopped.

Anthony wrapped both arms around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other pressed firmly against your spine, grounding you against him as though he could physically shoulder some of your pain himself.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, though his own voice shook violently. “Yes, you can, my love. Look at me.”

You lifted tear-filled eyes to his, and Christ, the terror in them nearly destroyed him.

“I am frightened,” you admitted in a whisper so small it sounded childlike. “Something feels wrong.”

Anthony felt every ounce of blood drain from his body.

But he could not break.

Not now.

Not when you were already trembling apart in his arms.

So he cupped your face with both hands and forced himself to become steady, even while panic clawed viciously at his ribs.

“You listen to me carefully,” he said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from your face. “You are not alone in this. Do you understand? I am here. I shall remain here. You may scream, cry, curse my name if you must, but I will not leave you.”

Another contraction hit.

You cried out sharply and doubled forward, clutching at the front of his waistcoat while Anthony held you upright, his jaw clenching painfully at the helplessness of hearing you suffer.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered desperately. “Please, sweetheart, breathe.”

The hours that followed blurred together into something feverish and endless.

The bedroom grew unbearably warm despite the rain battering against the windows outside. Candles flickered low. Maids rushed in and out carrying fresh cloths and steaming water. Violet remained near the bed with a composure Anthony suspected was only held together by years of practice, though he noticed the way her hands shook whenever your cries grew too loud.

And through all of it, Anthony never once let go of you.

Not once.

He held your hand through every contraction until his fingers were numb. He wiped tears from your cheeks with trembling thumbs. He pressed shaking kisses against your forehead whenever the pain became too much and you began sobbing openly into his shoulder.

At some point during the night, your fear began infecting him completely.

Because the physician had stopped reassuring him.

That was what Anthony noticed first.

The older man had initially spoken calmly, confidently, but as the hours dragged on his expression grew increasingly grim. He exchanged too many looks with the midwife. Too many quiet whispers. Too much silence.

And Anthony Bridgerton had always been clever enough to recognize when people were hiding the truth.

Another scream ripped from your throat, raw enough to make Violet close her eyes briefly in visible anguish.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, clutching Anthony’s hand so tightly it hurt. “Anthony, please, I cannot do this anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” he said immediately, though tears were already burning behind his own eyes. “You are the bravest woman I have ever known.”

“I am tired,” you whispered brokenly.

Anthony nearly shattered right there beside the bed.

Because you sounded defeated.

Because your voice had gone weak.

Because beneath the sweat and pain and exhaustion, your face had begun losing colour in a way that made terror crawl steadily up his spine.

Then the physician approached him quietly.

“Lord Bridgerton,” he murmured carefully. “A word, if I may.”

Anthony’s stomach dropped instantly.

You noticed too.

Your hand tightened around his weakly. “No,” you whispered immediately, panic flooding your exhausted features. “No, do not leave me.”

Anthony bent down at once, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I am not leaving,” he promised quickly. “I shall be right outside the door. Only a moment.”

You looked unconvinced.

Terrified.

Anthony kissed your forehead shakily before forcing himself upright and following the physician toward the hallway, every instinct screaming at him not to walk away from you even for a second.

The moment the door shut behind them, Anthony turned sharply.

“What is happening?”

The physician hesitated.

That hesitation alone nearly drove Anthony mad.

“My lord,” the physician said carefully, “the labour is not progressing as it should. Her Grace has lost a concerning amount of blood already, and the child remains in distress.”

Anthony stared at him.

No.

No.

“She is frightened,” Anthony said immediately, as though saying it aloud could somehow fix the situation. “That is all. She has been in pain for many hours.”

The physician’s silence was unbearable.

Then came the words that would haunt Anthony for the rest of his life.

“If matters worsen…” the physician began quietly, “I may need to know who you wish me to save.”

Anthony stopped breathing.

The hallway tilted violently around him.

“What?”

The physician lowered his gaze. “I pray it shall not come to that. But if I am forced to choose between mother and child, I must have your instruction beforehand.”

Anthony physically recoiled.

“No.”

“My lord-”

“No.”

His voice cracked so violently that Violet appeared at the far end of the corridor, alarm flashing across her face immediately.

Anthony dragged a shaking hand through his hair, breathing hard now, panic threatening to suffocate him whole.

“You save my wife.”

The physician nodded once.

Anthony grabbed his arm before he could leave.

“But you save them both,” he said, his voice suddenly vicious with desperation. “Do you understand me? You do not let her die.”

Violet reached him just as the physician disappeared back into the room.

Anthony looked utterly destroyed.

His mother had not seen him like this since Edmund died.

“Anthony,” she whispered softly.

He turned toward her with red-rimmed eyes.

“I cannot lose her.”

And suddenly he was no longer Viscount Bridgerton.

No longer the composed head of the family.

He was simply a terrified husband.

A frightened little boy who had already buried one parent and could not survive burying the love of his life too.

Violet cupped his face gently.

“You must be strong for her now.”

Anthony let out a broken laugh.

“I am trying.”

Then another scream tore through the door.

Anthony was moving before thought could catch up to him.

He rushed back into the room and immediately crossed to your bedside, taking your face into both hands as tears spilled freely down your cheeks.

“There you are,” you sobbed weakly. “You left.”

“I came back,” he whispered instantly. “My love, look at me. I came back.”

Your fingers clutched desperately at his sleeves.

“I do not want to die.”

The words hit him like a blade directly through the chest.

Anthony’s composure broke entirely.

“You are not going to die,” he said fiercely, though tears were streaming down his own face now. “Do you hear me? You are not leaving me. I forbid it.”

A weak sound escaped you that might once have been a laugh.

“You cannot command death, Anthony.”

His mouth trembled violently.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “But I shall fight it for you if I must.”

The physician instructed you to push again.

Anthony held you through it all.

Through the screams.

Through the tears.

Through the moments you nearly gave up entirely.

He whispered constantly, desperate encouragement spilling from him between shaking breaths.

“That’s it.”

“You’re doing beautifully.”

“I have you.”

“Just a little longer.”

“I love you.”

And when your body finally began failing beneath the strain, when your head lolled weakly against the pillows and the physician’s expression turned urgent, Anthony felt true terror consume him for the first time in years.

“Stay with me,” he begged, gripping your hand tightly enough to hurt. “Do not you dare close your eyes.”

“I am so tired,” you whispered faintly.

“No.” Anthony bent over you immediately, his forehead pressing desperately against yours. “No, no, no, sweetheart, stay awake for me. Look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered weakly.

Anthony was crying openly now.

Violently.

Helplessly.

“You promised me forever,” he whispered brokenly. “You cannot leave me here alone.”

Then suddenly, chaos erupted.

The physician barked orders.

The midwife moved quickly.

And a sharp cry split the room.

The baby.

Your baby.

Anthony barely heard it, because his eyes were fixed entirely on you, on your frightening stillness. “Why is she not moving?” he demanded, panic rising instantly. The physician was saying something. Violet was praying quietly somewhere behind him.

Anthony could not hear any of it over the roaring terror flooding his ears.

Then finally.

Finally.

Your eyes opened.

A weak breath left your lips.

And Anthony collapsed. Actually collapsed beside the bed with a broken sob tearing from his chest as he seized your hand and pressed it desperately against his mouth. “There she is,” he choked out through tears. “There you are. God, do not ever frighten me like that again.” You smiled weakly despite your exhaustion. Then the physician carefully placed your daughter into your arms.

The room fell silent.

Anthony stared at the tiny infant in complete disbelief, his entire face crumpling with emotion as your daughter let out another soft cry.

“She is beautiful,” you whispered tearfully.

Anthony looked between the two of you, utterly devastated by love.

His wife. His daughter.

Alive.

Both alive.

He reached out with visibly shaking hands and touched the baby’s tiny fingers.

And then he cried harder than he ever had in his life.

—————

—————

Harry found out on a rainy Tuesday morning, in the quiet hours before the world had fully woken.

The house was still wrapped in that gentle dawn silence that made every sound feel softer. Rain tapped against the bathroom window in a steady rhythm, and the pale grey light filtering through the curtains painted everything in muted shades of silver. You had slipped out of bed before sunrise with a suspicion you hardly dared to name, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you were certain Harry would hear it if he so much as shifted in his sleep.

When he wandered into the bathroom a few minutes later, barefoot and sleepy, curls mussed in every direction and his T-shirt hanging crookedly over one shoulder, he found you sitting on the edge of the bathtub with tears running silently down your cheeks and a pregnancy test clenched in your trembling hand. The sight of you crying erased the last traces of sleep from his face. For one awful second, panic flooded his expression as he crossed the room in two hurried strides and dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands coming immediately to rest on your thighs.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with concern. “What happened? Are you alright?”

You tried to answer, but your throat tightened too painfully around the words. Instead, you gave a small, shaky laugh and placed the test into his hand. Harry looked down at it, and the moment he saw the two unmistakable lines, the world seemed to stop.

He did not speak at first. His eyes darted between the test and your face as if he needed to confirm this was real, that he was not dreaming, that the life the two of you had talked about in whispers and sleepy conversations was suddenly and beautifully within reach. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were already filling with tears.

“We’re having a baby?”

You nodded, and Harry broke.

A sob escaped him before he could stop it. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you with a trembling tenderness that made your own tears fall faster. He laughed into the kiss, cried against your lips, and then sank back onto his heels, his hands sliding down to rest over your stomach with a reverence so profound it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Hi, little one,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotion. “It’s me. I’m your dad.”

—————

The next weeks passed in a blissful haze of secret smiles and private wonder. Harry transformed almost overnight into the most devoted, attentive husband imaginable. He kissed your stomach every morning, even though there was no visible bump yet. He downloaded several pregnancy apps and delighted in informing you that your baby was the size of a blueberry, then a raspberry, then a lime. He read articles late into the night, highlighted sections of parenting books, and looked at you with such open awe that you often found yourself blushing beneath the intensity of his affection.

Keeping the secret from his family proved nearly impossible. Harry had never been particularly skilled at hiding his feelings, and now that his heart seemed too full to contain, every interaction with Anne and Gemma became an exercise in restraint. By the time your first scan confirmed that everything was progressing perfectly, he was practically vibrating with anticipation.

“We’re seeing Mum on Sunday,” he said one evening while pacing the bedroom as you folded laundry. “Do you realize how difficult it is going to be to act normal when I know there’s a baby growing inside you?”

You laughed and set one of his shirts aside. “I do seem to recall that I am the one actually growing the baby.”

Harry immediately crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt.

“Yes,” he murmured, looking up at you with shining eyes. “And both my favorite people in the world are right here.”

Sunday arrived bright and clear, and Harry was so nervous that he nearly left the house without his wallet. During the drive to Holmes Chapel, he held your hand tightly, glancing over at you every few minutes with a mixture of excitement and disbelief that made your heart swell.

“Do you think Mum will cry?” he asked.

You smiled. “Without question.”

“And Gemma?”

“She’ll cry too, but she’ll tease you for crying first.”

Harry nodded solemnly. “That sounds accurate.”

Anne greeted you both with her usual warmth, pulling you into a hug before embracing Harry. She lingered for a moment, then drew back and studied her son with narrowed eyes.

“Why do you look like you’re about to burst?”

Gemma appeared in the hallway behind her and laughed. “He does, doesn’t he? You look suspiciously emotional.”

Harry shot you a panicked glance. “Can we all sit first?”

Lunch unfolded with increasing difficulty for Harry, who was utterly incapable of behaving naturally. He smiled to himself for no apparent reason, reached for your hand under the table every few minutes, and nearly choked on his drink when Anne casually asked if there was any news. By the time dessert was served, Gemma set down her fork and folded her arms.

“Alright,” she said. “What is going on?”

Harry looked at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes nearly undid you. You squeezed his hand and gave him a small nod. He inhaled shakily, turned to his mother and sister, and tried to speak, though his voice cracked before he could get through the first sentence.

“Actually, we do have something to tell you.”

Anne and Gemma both sat up straighter, their attention fixed entirely on him. Harry swallowed hard and tightened his grip on your hand.

“Mum,” he said softly, his eyes already glistening, “you’re going to be a grandmother.”

He turned to Gemma, his smile trembling.

“And you’re going to be an auntie.”

For one suspended heartbeat, neither woman moved. Then Anne’s hand flew to her mouth, and a sob escaped her before she hurried around the table and threw her arms around both of you. Gemma was only a second behind, laughing and crying at once as she joined the embrace.

“Are you serious?” she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Harry nodded, his own tears now falling freely.

“We’re having a baby.”

Gemma hugged him fiercely. “Harry, you are going to be the most incredible dad.”

That single sentence shattered whatever composure he had left. Harry buried his face against your shoulder and sobbed openly, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions. Anne cupped your face with both hands and kissed your cheek, tears shining in her eyes.

“This is the happiest news,” she whispered, her hands settling over yours where they rested on your stomach. “That little one is already so loved.”

The rest of the afternoon dissolved into questions, laughter, and more tears than any of you could count. Anne wanted to know how you were feeling, whether you had any cravings, and if you were getting enough rest. Gemma wanted every detail, from how Harry reacted to whether he had started buying baby clothes already. When Harry protested that he had shown remarkable restraint, both you and Gemma laughed so hard that Anne nearly dropped her teacup.

At one point Anne disappeared upstairs and returned carrying a cream-colored knitted baby blanket. Her hands trembled as she held it out to you.

“I made this years ago,” she said softly. “I always hoped that one day one of my children would need it.”

Harry accepted the blanket as though it were made of something infinitely precious. His fingers traced the delicate stitches, and when he looked up at his mother, tears slipped down his cheeks all over again.

“Mum,” he whispered.

Anne brushed his tears away with the same tenderness she had surely shown him when he was a child.

Later, as the afternoon faded into evening and the house settled into a quieter rhythm, you found Harry standing by the sitting room window. The last golden light of the day cast a soft glow around him, and his expression was so openly emotional that your heart ached.

You slipped your arms around his waist from behind. He covered your hands with his immediately and turned until his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m so happy,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full.”

You touched his cheek and smiled.

He glanced down at your stomach, then back into your eyes.

“Our baby already has so many people who love them,” he whispered. “And they haven’t even arrived yet.”

“You’re going to be an incredible father,” you said softly.

Harry closed his eyes, and one more tear slipped free.

“I just want to be everything they need.”

You kissed him gently. “You already are.”

He let out a shaky breath and rested his hand over your stomach, his expression transforming into that familiar look of awe.

“Did you hear that, little one?” he murmured. “Your grandma cried, your auntie cried, and your dad cried so hard he nearly ruined dessert.”

You laughed, and Harry smiled before kneeling down and pressing a lingering kiss to your stomach.

“We love you so much already.”

From the doorway, Gemma’s voice rang out with affectionate amusement.

“If you two are being disgustingly adorable in here, I am absolutely taking a picture.”

Harry laughed and rose to his feet, slipping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

Together, you returned to the sitting room, to the warmth of family, to the sound of laughter and the comfort of knowing that this tiny life was already surrounded by more love than words could ever express. And as Harry pressed a kiss to your temple and your hand settled over his where it rested protectively on your stomach, one truth settled deep within your heart.

Your baby was already home.

—————

Author’s Note

It feels a little surreal to be posting again after being away for a while. Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, but there is something so comforting about returning to a place that once felt like home. Writing Harry has always felt soft and familiar to me, and this story is my gentle way of finding my way back. Thank you for being here, for reading, and for allowing me to share these little pieces of my heart with you again. I hope this one wraps around you like a warm blanket.

Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Tour Life, Established Relationship

Tags: pregnant!reader, protective Harry Styles, backstage moments, husband!Harry, Together Together tour, soft Harry, emotional support, sleeping reader, song dedication, domestic fluff, expectant parents

Word Count: ~6.5k words

—————

The first thing you noticed when Harry returned to touring was how differently he looked at you.

Not because he loved you more than he had before. That seemed impossible. Harry had always loved you with a kind of all-encompassing devotion that settled into the smallest moments of your life together. The way he tucked your hair behind your ear while you read. The way he reached for your hand in the middle of the night just to reassure himself you were there. The way he said your name like it was both a prayer and an answer.

But now, with your child growing beneath his hands, with your body carrying the living proof of the love you had built together, Harry looked at you as though you had become something sacred. You were six months pregnant, your stomach beautifully rounded now, impossible to hide, and Harry had spent the better part of those six months in a constant state of awe.

Every morning he kissed your belly before he kissed you. Every night he rested his palm over the curve of your stomach and whispered sleepy little conversations to the baby in a voice so soft it nearly made you cry. He read parenting books. Researched strollers with the seriousness of a man preparing for battle. Saved videos of nursery ideas and asked your opinion on tiny knitted jumpers with a level of enthusiasm that was both adorable and slightly alarming.

And when the Together Together tour was was being discussed, there was no question in his mind that you were coming with him. “You are not stayin’ home by yourself for months while carrying our baby,” he had said, kneeling in front of you on the bedroom floor with his hands spread protectively over your stomach. “Absolutely not. You’re comin’ with me. Both of you.” You had laughed and run your fingers through his curls.

“Harry, I would survive.”

He pressed a kiss to your belly. “I would not.”

So here you were. In another city. Another arena. Another night of watching your husband command a stage like he had been born under a spotlight.

You stood backstage with one hand resting under your stomach, supporting the extra weight the way your doctor had shown you, and watched Harry move under the lights with a kind of effortless magic that still stole your breath no matter how many times you had seen him perform. The crowd screamed his name. Thousands upon thousands of voices lifting toward him in adoration. And yet, somehow, when Harry turned and his eyes found you in the wings, it felt like the two of you were alone.

His entire face softened. The smile that spread across his lips was different from the one he gave his audience. Smaller. More intimate. So full of love that your chest tightened painfully. He pressed a hand to his heart.

You smiled and rested your palm over your stomach. The baby kicked.

You laughed quietly to yourself. “Daddy’s showing off again,” you whispered.

Harry launched into the next song, but every few moments his eyes drifted back to where you stood. Each glance lingered just a little longer than the last, as if he needed reassurance that you were still there.

Later, he moved to the center of the stage, breathing a little heavier from dancing, cheeks flushed and curls damp around his forehead. He grinned into the microphone.

“My wife is here tonight.” The crowd erupted. Harry looked toward the wings, his eyes immediately finding you. “She’s six months pregnant with our little one,” he said, his voice warming with unmistakable pride. “And she still came all this way to keep me company, which I think deserves a round of applause, yeah?” The roar that followed was deafening.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Harry’s expression softened into something achingly tender. “This next one is for my two favorite people in the world.” Your hand flew to your mouth as the opening chords began.

Harry sang with his gaze fixed on you so often that by the end of the song you were blinking back tears. The baby moved again, a gentle flutter beneath your ribs. “Your dad’s a menace,” you murmured, smiling through tears.

By the time Harry launched into another high-energy set, fatigue had begun to settle into your bones.

Tour life was thrilling, but pregnancy made everything feel just a little heavier. Your feet ached. Your lower back throbbed. Your eyelids felt increasingly difficult to keep open.

One of Harry’s assistants approached you. “Would you like to rest in his dressing room?”

You hesitated, glancing toward the stage. Harry was dancing under a wash of blue light, radiant and entirely in his element.

“He’ll understand,” the assistant said kindly.

You smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

Harry’s dressing room smelled like him. Clean cotton, bergamot, and the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the fabric of the blanket draped over the sofa. You eased yourself down carefully, one hand bracing your back, another supporting your stomach.

The couch was soft.

The room was warm.

And the distant sound of Harry’s voice drifting through the walls wrapped around you like a lullaby. You curled onto your side, one hand resting over your belly. “I’m just closing my eyes for a minute,” you whispered.

The next thing Harry noticed was that you were gone. He had just finished the song he dedicated to you when he glanced backstage out of habit. The space where you had been standing was empty.

His smile faltered.

He looked again.

Nothing.

For anyone else, it would have been a minor detail. For Harry, whose mind was already perpetually attuned to your wellbeing, panic hit instantly. He forced himself through the next song, but his concentration was fractured. By the end of it, he was already moving toward the edge of the stage.

“Give me one second,” he told the audience, breathless. His manager intercepted him the moment he stepped offstage.

“Harry, what are you doing?”

“My wife’s gone.”

“She probably went to sit down.”

“I’m checking on her.”

“You’re due back in ninety seconds.”

Harry was already walking. “I don’t care.” He moved quickly through the corridors, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. By the time he reached his dressing room, his hands were shaking.

He pushed the door open.

And stopped.

You were curled on the sofa, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other resting protectively over your stomach. Your breathing was slow and even. Your hair spilled across the cushion. The soft rise and fall of your belly beneath Harry’s sweatshirt nearly brought him to his knees. Relief crashed through him so powerfully that he had to brace himself against the doorframe.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. Harry crossed the room quietly, moving with the same reverence he always used when you slept. A blanket lay folded nearby. He lifted it carefully and draped it over you, tucking it around your shoulders and over the curve of your stomach.

Then he crouched beside the sofa and brushed his fingers through your hair. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered open. “Harry?”

His expression softened instantly. “Hi, sleepy girl.”

You blinked up at him, disoriented and adorably drowsy. “Was trying to stay awake.”

“I know, love.” He kissed your temple. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep.”

You shifted slightly. “Shouldn’t you be on stage?”

Harry smiled and slid his hand over your belly. “Our baby needs sleep.”

A small smile tugged at your lips.

“And if our baby needs sleep, then mummy needs sleep.”

You looked at him with so much love that his chest tightened. “Sorry I disappeared.”

He frowned, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Do not apologize for taking care of yourself.”

Your eyes drifted toward the door. “Your manager’s going to kill you.”

Harry let out a quiet laugh. “He can get in line.”

You smiled sleepily.

Harry leaned closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You scared me for a minute.”

Your expression softened. “I’m okay.”

“I know.” His fingers threaded through yours, then settled over your stomach as if he could not resist touching both of you at once. “Just needed to see you.”

The baby kicked against his palm. Harry’s eyes widened. “There you are,” he whispered, his whole face lighting up. He pressed another kiss to your forehead, then another to the curve of your belly. “Look after your mum for me, yeah? Daddy’s got a few more songs to sing.”

You laughed softly. Harry stood reluctantly, smoothing your hair back one final time. “You rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”

You caught his wrist before he could step away.

“Harry.”

He turned immediately.

“I love you.” The words struck him with the same force every time. His eyes softened until they almost glistened.

“I love you more than anything.”

He bent to kiss you, slow and sweet and impossibly tender. When he pulled back, he tucked the blanket more securely around you.“Sleep, baby.”

You were already drifting again by the time he slipped from the room.

Back on stage, Harry seemed lighter. Brighter. As if simply knowing you were resting nearby had restored something inside him. Near the end of the show, he stood before thousands of screaming fans, chest heaving, sweat dampening his curls.

He smiled into the microphone. “My wife’s asleep backstage.” The crowd erupted. Harry grinned, his eyes shining. “She’s carryin’ our baby, and I think she deserves all the rest in the world.” His voice softened. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

—————

When the show finally ended, Harry did not linger.

He thanked the crowd, waved goodbye, and all but sprinted backstage.

You were still asleep exactly where he left you.

Harry changed quickly, then gathered you into his arms with practiced care. You stirred, blinking sleepily as he lifted you. “Show over?”

“Mm-hmm.”

You nestled closer, your head falling against his shoulder. “How was it?” Harry laughed quietly, kissing your hair. “Best one yet.”

You smiled without opening your eyes.

Harry carried you to the car waiting outside, shielding you from the night air, one hand spread protectively over your stomach the entire way. As the car pulled away, you slept against him, wrapped in his jacket and his arms. Harry rested his cheek against your hair and stared down at the two people he loved most in the world.

He thought of the dedicated song.

Of your sleepy smile.

Of the tiny kick beneath his hand.

Of the future waiting for all three of you.

His throat tightened with emotion. He kissed your forehead. And whispered into the quiet darkness. “Thank you.”

You stirred slightly. “For what?” you mumbled.

Harry smiled, tears pricking unexpectedly at his eyes. “For making me the happiest man alive.” Your fingers curled weakly around his shirt.

Outside, the city lights blurred past.

Inside, wrapped around you and your unborn child, Harry felt exactly where he was meant to be.

Home.

Because home was never a place.

It was you.

And the little life growing between you both.

—————

It had not always been like this between you and Anthony Bridgerton, all tense silences and sharp glances and words that seemed to scrape against already bruised feelings, but somewhere along the way your almost-friendship, your almost-something, had slipped from teasing warmth into a slow burn that neither of you knew how to navigate. In the beginning you had dismissed him easily, thinking him too sure of himself, too accustomed to women falling at his feet, too wrapped in duty to know what real affection looked like, and for a while it had been simple to remain clever and cool in his presence. But then he ruined the safety of that distance by noticing the smallest things about you, by remembering your favorite flowers, by stepping between you and unkind whispers before you even realized he had done so, by seeking you out at every gathering under the guise of chance even though everyone else saw the truth long before you allowed yourself to.

And then he wounded you.

He had said something careless, too sharp for the moment, too intimate for the distance you tried to maintain between you. After a long evening at Aubrey Hall, after you had teased him for being proud and impossible, he retaliated with a truth you had not been prepared to hear. You hide behind sarcasm because you are terrified of your own feelings. The words had landed like a slap, and you had stared at him, stunned, humiliated, the air knocked out of you not because he was wrong but because he had seen you too clearly. You had walked out without a reply, expecting him to follow, to apologize, to show something, anything, that meant you mattered, but he let you go, and the quiet click of the door behind you felt like a small betrayal you had no right to feel and yet felt all the same.

The next day you avoided him, and he avoided you in return, and suddenly the two of you were locked in a battle of pride and longing neither wanted to lose but neither knew how to yield. All of that unspoken heat, all the arguments that tasted too much like desire and the silences that felt like promises waiting to break, coiled tighter and tighter until tonight, when you walked into the ball determined to keep your dignity while he walked in determined to hide the fact that he was unraveling.

From across the ballroom, you saw him watching you with that infuriating mix of restraint and yearning, and something inside you rebelled, because how dare he look at you like that after letting you walk away, how dare he think you would simply come back to him because his jaw tightened or his eyes softened. So you danced with another man, not because you wanted to, but because you needed to breathe again, needed to remind him and yourself that your worth did not rest on the whims of Anthony Bridgerton.

It worked instantly.

The Viscount went still, utterly still, his jaw clenching, his hand tightening around the glass he held until you feared it might shatter. Every polite laugh you gave your partner struck him like a blow, every light touch of your hand across another man’s shoulder made his expression darken with something dangerously close to possession. His jealousy was not subtle. It radiated from him like heat, like pressure, like a storm waiting to break, until you almost wanted to step away out of mercy but refused, because he had made you ache for two days and now he could feel a fraction of it.

When he finally moved, he moved as though the floor belonged to him, slicing through dancers and onlookers with polite apologies spoken in a tone that left no room for argument. He stepped between you and your partner without hesitation, without shame, without the slightest pretense of propriety. Your poor dance partner barely had time to stammer an objection before Anthony offered him a look sharp enough to send him retreating in confusion.

You glared at him, breathless with disbelief and anger.

“How dare you,” you hissed, pulling your hand from his grip.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself.”

“And you are making a spectacle of us,” he shot back, voice low. “You know precisely what you are doing.”

“I know only that I am not yours,” you snapped, lifting your chin. “And I refuse to be treated as though I am.”

For a moment he simply stared at you, fighting some internal battle, his breaths uneven, his eyes burning with everything he refused to say aloud. The music swelled around you, dancers turning with unbothered grace while the two of you stood locked in a war only the two of you understood.

“I will not do this here,” you stated, stepping back. “I will not play whatever childish game you think this is. If you wish to be offended, that is your burden to carry, not mine.”

Then, to the absolute shock of half the ballroom, you turned away from him and left. Anthony Bridgerton had likely never been dismissed in his life, and certainly not by a woman he wanted to the point of madness. Gasps followed you but you kept walking, heart pounding, skin hot with frustration, air feeling too thick to breathe.

You stepped out into the quiet corridor leading to the gardens, needing distance, needing the cool night air to stop your thoughts from spiraling. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, a wave of relief washed over you.

Then you heard footsteps.

Firm, determined, unmistakable.

“Do not follow me,” you warned, not turning around.

Which of course meant he kept going.

He ignored your warning, ignored propriety, ignored the fact that being alone with you could ruin everything you had both tried to deny. He reached you just as you stepped into the lantern lit garden, his hand catching your wrist, not tightly, but firmly enough to turn you toward him.

“You should go back,” you said, breath shallow. “We should not be alone. If someone sees—”

“Let them,” he said, and the quiet intensity of his voice sent a tremor down your spine. “I do not care.”

“Well I do,” you insisted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held it, gently, stubbornly, with a look that made your pulse stumble. “Anthony, this is not appropriate.”

“No,” he murmured, stepping closer, “but neither is the way you make me feel, and I cannot seem to stop that either.”

“Stop what?” you whispered, almost afraid to ask.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and in that moment you knew he was past pretending, past restraint, past every wall he had tried to keep between you.

“Stop wanting you,” he said, and the words seemed to melt the air between you.

“Anthony,” you breathed, backing up until your spine met the cool stone of a garden pillar.

He followed.

Not predatory.

Not cruel.

But with a certainty that left your knees weak, with a longing that had been simmering beneath every argument, with a confession burning behind his eyes that he had no intention of taking back.

“You would protest,” he said softly, one hand bracing beside your head while the other hovered inches from your waist. “You would argue. You would tell me I have no right.”

“Because you do not,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“And yet,” he murmured, leaning in, “you feel it too.”

You did.

God help you, you did.

“Anthony,” you tried again, but the word came out like a plea.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, as though he was giving you one last chance to push him away.

You did not.

And he knew it.

His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and reverent.

“Forgive me.”

He kissed you before you could think, before you could build your walls again, before either of you could pretend you did not want this, and the moment his lips met yours the world seemed to tilt in a way that felt dangerously inevitable.

The kiss began like a question, but it turned into something far more dangerous the moment you answered it. Anthony deepened it with a desperate certainty, as though he had waited far too long, as though he had spent months choking on all the words he had never dared to speak. His hands cupped your face with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his kiss, his body pressing just close enough for you to feel the tremor of restraint running through him. When you gasped softly against his lips, he exhaled like a man finally breaking the surface of the water after drowning beneath it. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, achingly earnest, and for a moment you didn’t push him away. For a moment you leaned into him, fingers curling in his coat, heart beating against his like a frantic confession neither of you could deny.

Then reality crashed into you with brutal force.

You pushed at his chest, breathless, shaking, your lips swollen from the intensity of the moment he had stolen from you. Anthony stepped back immediately, chest heaving, eyes wild and dark with both desire and regret.

“No,” you whispered. “We should not have done that.”

He looked stricken, as though the words physically hurt him. “You did not seem so certain a moment ago.”

“Because you caught me off guard,” you snapped, stepping away from him, wiping your lips with trembling fingers as though desperate to erase the evidence. “This is wrong. You should not have kissed me. You had no right.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“You have ruined me,” you said, and your voice cracked nearly in half. “Do you understand that?”

He flinched.

“Anthony… I am no longer untouched. No longer respectable. No man will want me now.”

He stared at you in disbelief, almost horrified, as though he could not fathom that you would think so little of yourself.

“You are not ruined,” he said firmly.

“You know it is the truth,” you insisted, turning away so he would not see the humiliation burning behind your eyes. “A kiss is enough to put my reputation in jeopardy, and you…” your voice broke again, “you took it without asking.”

His breath left him in a ragged exhale. “If I had asked, you would have run from me.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I have sense.”

“Sense,” he echoed bitterly, stepping closer, his voice low and thick with emotion. “Is that what you call this distance you cling to? This refusal to admit what is right in front of you?”

“It is what I call self-preservation,” you shot back. “Because you and I are impossible.”

He shook his head, almost angry now, though not at you, at the situation, at himself, at the universe that dared to make a woman like you someone he could not simply choose without consequence.

“You are only denying the truth,” he said, voice trembling with the effort of holding himself together. “You feel what I feel.”

You closed your eyes, because the truth of it was a curse.

“It does not matter,” you whispered, willing your heartbeat to slow, willing the world to make sense again.

“It matters to me,” he said, stepping close enough that you could feel the heat of his body but not close enough to touch you. “And I think it matters to you more than you want to admit.”

“It matters only in the sense that it will destroy us both,” you said.

“Then let it,” he replied softly, fiercely. “Let it destroy me. But do not pretend you did not kiss me back.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Anthony…”

You didn’t know if it was a plea or a warning.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Say you feel nothing, and I will walk away.”

Your lips parted, but the words wouldn’t come. The lie stuck in your throat, thick and aching.

His eyes softened, understanding far too clearly.

“You see?” he murmured. “You cannot. Because this, what is between us, is not something a simple kiss could ruin. It was already changing us long before either of us dared to speak it.”

Your heart hammered painfully.

You hated that he was right.

You hated that he knew it.

You hated that the worst part of being kissed by him was how desperately you wanted him to do it again.

“Please,” you whispered, stepping back before you could fall into him again. “Do not make this harder.”

“It was already hard,” he said quietly. “You are only frightened because the moment I kissed you, it became real.”

You swallowed. Hard.

Maybe it had.

—————

You knew something was wrong the moment Harry walked through the door.

He didn’t slam it, that wasn’t his style, but he closed it with a sharp, controlled click that said everything: I’m pissed off, but I’m trying not to be. His jaw was tight, his neck tense, and he didn’t look at you when he shrugged off his jacket.

“Hey,” you said gently, offering a smile. “You’re home early…”

“Am I?” His voice cut through your sentence like a knife.

You blinked.

There it was.

The storm.

“What happened?” you asked softly.

He laughed, a cold, humorless sound. “Well, for starters, I got to read headlines about my own relationship while sitting in a meeting. That was fun.”

Your stomach dropped. “Headlines?”

“The fucking pictures,” he snapped, finally meeting your eyes and that’s when you saw it: jealousy, fear, and something wounded hiding beneath the anger. “You laughing with that guy. Letting him put his hand on your back. Leaning into him like…”

“Harry,” you breathed, “he’s my coworker.”

“And he was touching you.” His tone sharpened. “And you were letting him.”

You stepped closer, but he stepped back.

That hurt.

More than you wanted to admit.

“Harry,” you whispered, “I didn’t even realize he did that. I swear…”

“Of course you didn’t,” he bit out. “Because you’re always so damn nice to everyone that you don’t notice when someone takes it too far.”

That one landed like a slap.

Your breath hitched. “I’m nice because that’s who I am. I don’t flirt with people, Harry. I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

He looked exhausted, conflicted, angry at you but angrier at himself for being angry.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “People saw it. They saw you with him. They assume I’m the idiot who can’t keep his girlfriend’s attention.”

Your chest cracked open slowly, painfully.

“Is that what you think?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

You swallowed hard. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”

“You’re allowed to do whatever you want,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face. “But don’t expect me to pretend it doesn’t fucking bother me.”

Your voice trembled, but you kept it steady. “I’m sorry it bothered you. Truly. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Harry scoffed under his breath, something dark flickering across his expression.

“Right. Because you’re perfect and I’m just…”

“Don’t do that,” you whispered, your heart pounding. “Don’t twist this into something it isn’t.”

His tone turned sharp, brittle. “Then explain it to me. Explain why I had to sit in a studio and listen to people joke about your ‘work flirtation.’ Explain why it looked like you were enjoying it.”

And something inside you snapped.

Because you were sunshine, always choosing softness first.

But sunshine could burn when pushed too far.

“You know me,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “You know my heart. And if one picture can make you doubt everything, then maybe the issue isn’t the coworker, Harry. Maybe it’s…”

“Don’t,” he growled, stepping forward. “Don’t you dare say it’s me.”

Your eyes stung. “Then what is it? Because I can’t keep proving myself to you every time someone stands too close.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes softened for half a second. Then hardened again.

“I didn’t ask you to prove anything.”

“No,” you whispered. “You just act like I’ve betrayed you when I haven’t.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, spiraling, breathing hard.

“I don’t want to fight.”

“But you are.”

He closed his eyes, shaking his head, like he was trying to keep himself together.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” he muttered. “I’m too angry.”

“Then stay,” you said, voice cracking. “Stay and talk to me. Please. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m going upstairs.”

“Harry…”

He turned away.

And walked.

Not slamming the door.

Not yelling.

Just… leaving.

That hurt more than any shouting ever could.

You stood alone in the quiet living room, tears filling your eyes, chest tight and aching in a way that felt almost physical.

You waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Forty.

Silence.

When the sob finally tore out of you, it was soft and broken the kind of sound you didn’t mean to make but couldn’t stop.

You wiped your face and wrapped your arms around yourself, sinking into the couch. The clock ticked. Your vision blurred. You fell asleep curled in on yourself, exhausted from holding the pieces of your heart together.

————

HARRY’S POV

(He finds you hours later)

When I finally cooled down when the jealousy stopped blinding me, when the noise in my head quieted guilt hit like a fucking freight train.

I’d gone too far. Said too much. Hurt someone who never deserved it. You weren’t the problem.

My insecurity was.

My fear of losing you was.

And I left you alone with the mess I made.

I went downstairs, ready to apologize, to fix it, to fall on my knees if I had to and the sight of you broke me clean open.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, asleep in an uncomfortable position, dried tear tracks on your cheeks. You looked small, fragile in a way I’d never seen from you.

Sunshine shouldn’t look like it’s gone out.

My chest cracked in half.

“Love…” My voice cracked, too. “Oh God.”

I knelt in front of you, my hands hovering over your knees but not touching yet.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, barely breathing. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You stirred, eyes fluttering open slowly, confusion bleeding into hurt the moment you saw me.

“What are you doing down here?” you whispered.

“I…” My throat closed. “I came to apologize. I came because I shouldn’t have left you alone. I shouldn’t have said any of that. I shouldn’t have…”

Your lips trembled. “You really thought I’d want someone else?”

I grabbed your hands like they were lifelines.

“Never. I never truly thought that. I was jealous and scared and stupid and I handled it like an absolute idiot.”

You looked down. “You hurt me.”

The words gutted me.

I moved closer, cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing the skin beneath your eyes.

“I know. And I’ll spend as long as you need proving I won’t do it again.”

Your eyes glistened. “Harry…”

“I love you,” I whispered, forehead touching yours. “In this stupid, terrified way that makes me lose my mind sometimes. But that’s my issue. Not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

I caught it.

“Let me fix it,” I whispered. “Please.”

You hesitated.

Just long enough for my heart to stop.

Then you whispered, so quietly it nearly killed me:

“Then kiss me.”

I didn’t breathe.

I just…

…broke.

My mouth met yours with a desperate, aching need, deeper than any kiss we’d shared before a collision of apology and longing and relief. Your hands slid into my hair, pulling me closer, and I kissed you like I was drowning and you were oxygen.

Slow, then hungry.

Gentle, then desperate.

Soft, then devastating.

When we finally pulled apart, our foreheads remained pressed together, breaths uneven and warm.

“Don’t walk away like that again,” you whispered.

“Never,” I promised, voice raw. “Not from you.”

You exhaled shakily and curled into my chest, and I wrapped my arms around you like you were the only thing keeping me alive, because in so many ways, you were.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured into your hair. “Forgive me?”

You nodded against me. “Just… stay this time.”

“I will,” I whispered, kissing your temple. “Always.”

—————

The Unattainable Princess - Prince Harry is captivated by Princess Y/N, but when she coolly declines his invitation to dance, he interrupts her dance with another prince to claim her attention.

The First Day of Forever - As Y/N endures the stress and pain of labour, Harry remains by her side, comforting her with unwavering love and support, despite his own heart aching to see her in pain.

First Christmas as a couple - Spending their first Christmas together, Harry and the reader savour quiet moments filled with warmth and laughter.

Forgotten - After Harry forgets an important anniversary, tensions boil over into a heated argument that leaves both of you hurting. Harry is forced to confront his mistakes and the cracks forming in your relationship. Determined to make things right, he sets out to prove that his love for you is stronger than his faults.

Out of Place, Held in His Arms - When Harry’s world makes you feel small, the cruel whispers from his friends push you to your breaking point. But Harry refuses to let anyone make you doubt your worth, proving his love is louder than their judgment.

Through the Darkness - When the depression you thought you’d outrun pulls you back under, you hide your struggle from Harry to avoid dimming his light while he’s on tour. But when he discovers the truth, he drops everything to come home, proving that his love doesn’t waver, even in your darkest moments.

Where the Quiet Feels Safe - On a quiet, hollow evening, you find yourself wrapped in Harry’s unexpected warmth as he gently pulls you back from memories that ache. With soft words and steady comfort, he reminds you that you don’t have to face your heaviness alone, he’ll meet you wherever you are.

I’ll Always Come Get You - Harry is taking care of his drunken girlfriend.

Say It’s Not Too Late - A moment of jealousy pushes Harry to walk away, leaving you shattered in the quiet of your living room. But when he returns, heart in pieces and apology on his lips, he vows never to let his fear make you question his love again.

If You Come Home, I’ll Stay - After forty-three days apart, the distance finally breaks you open, leaving you wondering if love is enough when you feel him slipping further every day.

All three of us now - Harry never leaves your side after the birth, caring for you with a tenderness so fierce it almost breaks you. And when he places your daughter in your arms, he realizes he’s never loved anything or you more in his life. PART 2

series:

The Space Between Us - This is a Harry Styles x OC fanfiction, where Harry plays himself—a global superstar—and the story explores his reunion with Sophie Pearson, his childhood best friend (and maybe more…). Expect moments filled with angst, tension, and heart-warming memories as they navigate the challenges of reconnection. PART 2 PART 3

Anthony Bridgerton

series:

The Weight of a Name - When Anthony Bridgerton’s relentless pursuit of you reaches its breaking point, a fiery confrontation reveals the depths of his feelings. PART 2

one shots:

The Viscount’s Very Small Shadow - Anthony Bridgerton has been called many things, but fatherhood turns the fearsome Viscount into something softer, warmer, and entirely undone. A sunlit afternoon in the gardens reveals just how deeply he loves his wife and daughter

The Breaking Point - A single kiss stolen in the shadows leaves your reputation hanging by a thread and forces Anthony Bridgerton to confront the truth he has spent far too long denying. What follows is a desperate, intoxicating confession neither of you can take back—and neither of you truly want to.

The Midnight Lesson - On the eve of your wedding, doubts steal your sleep, and a moonlit walk leads to an unexpectedly tender confession from Anthony Bridgerton. In the quiet of the garden, he shows you the depth of his love, the security of his presence, and the promise of a future built side by side.

Chasing Desire - After a heated argument, you attend a ball while trying to make Anthony jealous, but the game quickly escalates as his desire and possessiveness boil over, leading him to confront you and assert his claim in a secluded garden. Sparks, tension, and raw emotion collide as both of you fight pride and fear, only to find yourselves drawn irreversibly together.

The Things That Break A Man - When a drunk, dangerous man threatens you, Anthony Bridgerton’s fury explodes, leaving nothing but raw violence and desperate protectiveness in its wake. From the terrace to the quiet of home, fear melts into tender reassurance as your Viscount proves you are his…and his alone.

Fiyero Tigelaar

one shots:

Harry’s been gone for forty-three days.

You don’t count them on purpose.

Your brain just… knows.

Feels each one like a weight.

The house has grown quiet in ways you didn’t expect. The plants droop because Harry’s the one who talks to them. The bed feels too big because he’s the one who sleeps diagonally. The kitchen smells wrong without the scent of his tea.

You love him.

God, you love him.

But tonight, love doesn’t feel like enough.

Not after another missed call.

Not after another “sorry love, long day, call you tomorrow x” text he didn’t follow through on.

Not after seeing him smile into camera flashes while you cry into pillows.

You don’t want to resent him.

You don’t want to be the person who needs too much.

You don’t want to be demanding, clingy, dramatic.

But you’re breaking a little.

Piece by piece.

Quietly, the way people do when they’re trying not to ruin something.

When the FaceTime finally rings, it’s late. Your heart leaps first, then stutters.

You consider ignoring it. You don’t, in fact, you never do. After swiping to answer, Harry’s face fills the screen, softer lighting, backstage dressing room, curls slightly damp with sweat, dimples just visible.

“Hi, love.” His voice is warm, tired. “Missed y’so much.”

Your throat tightens because… did he? Has he?

You try to respond but your voice comes out thin. “Hi.”

He squints at you a little. “Everything alright?”

You nod.

He sees right through it. “No you’re not.”

“Harry, I don’t want to fight,” you whisper.

“We’re not fighting.”

You look down, chewing your lip. “Then we’re drifting.”

He goes still. Completely, terrifyingly still.

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice soft but sharp around the edges.

“Harry…”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t… don’t say it like it’s real.”

You swallow. “It feels real.”

He shuts his eyes like you hit him.

“Love…” His voice cracks. “You know I’d teleport if I could. You know this tour…”

“Is your dream,” you finish. Your tone isn’t bitter, it’s defeated. “I know. I really do. But I feel so far from you, Harry. Like I’m living a life you’re not part of anymore.”

“What?” He sits forward. “What are you talkin’ about? You’re part of everything I do.”

“Then why don’t I feel like it?”

Your voice breaks.

You try to hide it, but you know he hears.

“Sweetheart…” He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “Talk to me. Please.”

But you’re tired of talking. Tired of being the one who reaches. Tired of being the one who waits.

“Every day,” you whisper, “I feel you slipping. Just a little. And I keep telling myself it’s tour exhaustion. Or stress. Or time zones. But tonight I realized something, and I hate it, Harry. I hate it.”

His eyes are wide, scared. “What?”

“That maybe,” you say softly, voice trembling, “we might not make it.”

He doesn’t breathe.

You see the exact moment his chest caves in, shoulders curving, eyes going glassy, jaw tightening like he’s holding himself together by threads.

“Don’t,” he whispers, barely audible. “Don’t say that. Not you. Anyone but you.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m sorry but I’m… I’m lonely, Harry. I feel like I’m dating a ghost.”

His breath shakes, rough. “Baby, I’m trying.”

“I know,” you say, tears spilling. “But I’m still hurting.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

When he speaks again, his voice is small, broken in a way you’ve never heard:

“Are you leaving me?”

Your chest splits open.

“No,” you gasp. “God, no. I-I don’t want to leave you. I just… I don’t know how to do this without losing myself.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling shakily. “Tell me what t’do. I’ll do anything.”

“Come home,” you whisper. “Even just for a day. I need to feel like you’re still here with me.”

And that’s when his expression fractures completely.

“Love…” His voice is strangled. “I-I can’t. Not mid-leg. Not with rehearsals and press and…”

You close your eyes.

There it is.

The crack in your foundation.

“I understand,” you say softly. “I do.”

He hears what you’re really saying:

Even if you can’t choose me.

“Wait-wait,” Harry stammers, panic rising. “Please don’t shut down on me. Please.”

“I’m not shutting down.”

“You are,” he breathes. “You’re pullin’ away. I can hear it.”

You wipe your eyes. “What do you want me to say?”

He presses a fist to his mouth like he’s holding in something desperate.

“I want you t’tell me we’re okay.”

“I can’t tell you that right now.”

His breath leaves him in a crushed, gutted exhale.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then Harry says, voice broken open:

“I’m comin’ home.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“I’m coming home,” he repeats, standing up so quickly the camera angle jolts. He grabs his bag, his hoodie, his passport, shoving everything into a backpack. “I’m calling Jeff, I’m rearrangin’ whatever I have to, I don’t care. I’m not losin’ you.”

“Harry…”

“No,” he says sharply. “You don’t get to tell me not to come. Not after tellin’ me you’re hurtin’. Not after sayin’ we might not make it. I’m not lettin’ that sit overnight. Not a bloody chance.”

Your lips tremble. “But your tour…”

“To hell with the tour for one day,” he snaps, voice thick. “To hell with it. You come first.”

You cover your mouth with your hand.

Tears fall harder, faster.

“Love,” he whispers, suddenly gentle again, “don’t cry. M’here. M’comin’ home t’you, yeah? Just hold on for me.”

“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Okay.”

“I’ll be there in nine hours. I swear.” His eyes soften, aching. “Stay awake if you can. I… I need you.”

You nod, wiping your cheeks. “I’ll try.”

He gives you one more look, raw, terrified, full of love so heavy it hurts, and then he’s gone, the screen going dark.

————

HARRY’S POV — 9 HOURS LATER

I don’t remember the flight. Or the drive.

I remember my chest hurting the entire time, like I couldn’t breathe properly until I saw you.

I burst through the door so fast I barely get the key out. I don’t call your name, I don’t have to. You’re sitting on the couch, curled under one of my jumpers, eyes tired and red from crying.

You look up.

And my whole world shifts back into place.

“Love,” I choke, dropping my bag.

You stand slowly, like you’re afraid to move too fast.

“Harry…”

I cross the room in three strides and pull you into me. Hard. Desperate. My arms around you, your body against mine, your face buried in my neck. You smell like home. Like everything I’ve been starving for.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” I breathe into your hair. “Please. I can’t… I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

Your fingers curl in my shirt. “I’m not leaving.”

“You said we might not make it.”

“I was scared,” you whisper.

“So was I,” I admit, voice trembling. “But I need you t’know something. Really know it.” I pull back just enough to cup your face. “There is nothin’ in this world, not music, not touring, not fuckin’ fame, that comes before you. I just didn’t realize how far away I’d gone until you said it out loud.”

Your breath shakes. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” I say softly. “You told me the truth. And I needed it.”

Your eyes soften.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Something inside me breaks open.

I kiss you… not gently…. not sweetly. But with every buried fear, every sleepless night apart, every ache of missing you until it hurt to breathe.

Your hands tangle in my hair and I kiss you deeper, harder, tilting your head so I can get closer, like if I don’t hold you tight enough you’ll slip away again.

Your lips are warm, soft, shaking against mine.

I can feel the moment the tension leaves your body, replaced with relief and want and something that feels like coming home.

When we break for air, our foreheads rest against each other, breaths mingling.

“Promise me we won’t let it get like that again,” you whisper.

I cradle your face in both hands. “I promise. I’ll fly home more. I’ll call more. I’ll show you you’re loved every damn day.”

Your eyes glisten. “Thank you for coming home.”

I swallow hard, pressing a kiss to your nose, your cheek, your lips again.

“Love… if you say you need me, I’ll cross oceans.”

A tiny smile forms on your lips.

“You did.”

I pull you into my chest again, holding you like I was drowning without you.

Because I was.

————

It began innocently enough, or at least it would have looked that way to anyone else.

Your daughter stood in the drawing room in her newest gown, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes bright with the kind of fluttery hope only fifteen year old girls in the early stages of infatuation could ever possess.

“Papa,” she said with a shy smile, “Leo is calling today with his parents. He asked if he might show me the new sketchbook he has been working on. May we sit on the terrace if Mama approves?”

Anthony’s teacup froze halfway to his lips.

You did not need to see his face to feel the tension erupt through the room.

The cup clinked back onto the saucer so hard you feared it might crack.

“Absolutely not,” Anthony said.

Your daughter blinked. “Papa, we would not be alone. Mama said she would accompany us.”

“I did not agree to such a thing,” he snapped.

Your daughter glanced at you in confusion. “But Mama, you said only yesterday that you would chaperone if Leo came to call.”

Anthony turned sharply. His voice was quiet, but it was the quiet that preceded storms. “You agreed to this without consulting me.”

You set aside your embroidery. “Anthony, she is merely sitting on the terrace with a boy whose family has been calling on us for years.”

“He is not sitting with her on any terrace,” Anthony said, rising to his full height. “He is not sitting with her anywhere. I knew allowing him in this house was a mistake.”

Your daughter stiffened. “Papa, that is unfair.”

Anthony’s eyes flashed. “What is unfair is a fifteen year old girl believing she is old enough to entertain suitors when she is still a child.”

The word child hit her like a slap.

“I am not a child,” she said quietly.

Anthony scoffed. “You most certainly are.”

Your daughter’s voice wavered. “Papa, I only want to talk to him. It is not as if he is proposing.”

Anthony slammed the saucer down this time. “He will not be proposing. Ever. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Silence fell like a shroud.

She stared at him, lips trembling, eyes shining. “Do you mean that?”

“I do,” Anthony said, and there was no hesitation. “You are far too young and far too naive to understand the intentions of boys your age. He will not court you. He will not speak to you without myself or your mother present. He will certainly not see you alone, and he will not be permitted to pretend you are anything more than a child who has convinced herself she is in love.”

Your daughter’s breath caught on a sob so small you almost missed it.

Then she turned and ran from the room, skirt brushing the floor in a rustle of panic and heartbreak.

The moment the door slammed upstairs, you looked at him. Really looked at him and you were furious.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” you said slowly, “you were cruel.”

He turned to you as if insulted. “I was honest.”

“You were heartless,” you corrected.

He paced across the room, dragging a hand through his hair in agitation. “She is too young. She is not ready. I will not have her falling for the first boy who pays her attention. I have seen what men like him are capable of. He is too eager. Too charming. Too interested.”

You stood. “He is fifteen, Anthony. Not a rake on the prowl.”

Anthony pointed sharply toward the stairs. “He looked at her with the eyes of a boy who believes he has a right to her.”

“He looked at her with admiration,” you countered, stepping closer. “You of all people should know the difference.”

Anthony stopped pacing. His chest rose and fell with uncontrolled emotion. “She is my daughter.”

“And she cannot stay a little girl forever.”

Anthony’s expression hardened. “She is not ready to be anything else.”

Your breath left you in frustration. “Anthony, listen to yourself. You cannot freeze her in time simply because you are afraid of what comes next.”

His eyes snapped to yours. The fear in them was wild and raw, the same fear he had the night she was born, the fear of a man who believed that love was a battlefield he could not win.

“You do not understand,” he said quietly.

“I am trying to,” you replied. “But you are making it very difficult.”

Anthony rubbed both hands over his face with something close to anguish. “She is my first daughter. My little girl. The thought of her being courted, of her being touched, of her being looked at the way I looked at you in our youth, it makes my blood run cold.”

“And that is natural,” you said, softening slightly. “But what you did was not protective. It was controlling. And it hurt her.”

He clenched his jaw. “Better she be hurt now than devastated later.”

You closed the distance between you, your voice low and tight. “Anthony. She came to you with excitement. She came to you with trust. And you shattered it.”

He looked at you, wounded. “You think I do not know that?”

You exhaled slowly. “Then go to her.”

Anthony shook his head. “She does not wish to see me.”

“Then go anyway,” you insisted, stepping closer, gripping his forearm. “Go up those stairs, open her door, and talk to her. Explain. Apologize. Be her father, not her warden.”

Anthony’s eyes softened, but not enough. “You would let her be courted?”

“I would let her grow,” you answered. “And I would chaperone, and guide, and protect. But I would not imprison her.”

Anthony’s voice lowered to a whisper. “And if this boy hurts her?”

“Then she will have her father,” you said, brushing your thumb across his hand. “A father who loves her enough to let her choose.”

Anthony trembled for a moment, emotion working through him with almost physical force.

Then he nodded and exhaled, the fight draining from his posture.

“I am not ready for this,” he admitted.

You cupped his cheek. “You never will be.”

He leaned into your palm like a man starved for reassurance.

Then he turned toward the stairs.

When he reached the doorway, he looked back at you with that same helpless, adoring expression that always undid you.

“Will you come with me?” he asked quietly.

You smiled gently. “Of course.”

Together, you climbed the stairs toward your daughter’s room.

Toward reconciliation.

Toward the next impossible stage of parenthood.

Anthony reached for your hand halfway up.

You squeezed his fingers in silent support.

He squeezed back.

A father preparing to apologize.

A husband leaning on the only person who understood his heart.

A man doing the hardest thing he knew how to do.

And the two of you walked the rest of the way together.

————

Your daughter’s door was closed, but the sound of quiet, hitched breathing was unmistakable. She had always cried softly, as if even her tears tried not to burden anyone. The sound pierced Anthony straight through the chest. You felt his hand tighten around yours, the pressure sharp and desperate, as if he needed physical grounding to prevent himself from turning around and fleeing from the very conversation he knew he had caused.

You knocked gently.

There was a pause, then a faint, trembling, “Come in.”

Your daughter sat on her bed with her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her eyes red, cheeks blotchy, hair slightly mussed in the way it always was when she cried. She looked so heartbreakingly young in that moment, and so much like Anthony when emotions overwhelmed him, that you felt a deep ache bloom behind your ribs.

Anthony froze in the doorway.

For a moment, he simply stared, as if he could not reconcile the fact that he had caused this. His shoulders sagged with shock and shame. He seemed to shrink, not physically, but in the same vulnerable way he did whenever the weight of his emotions threatened to crush him.

“Sweetheart,” you murmured, moving to sit beside her and smoothing a hand over her back.

Anthony took a step forward.

She flinched.

It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but Anthony caught it instantly, and the pain that crossed his face was so raw that you felt your throat tighten.

“May I speak with you?” he asked quietly.

Your daughter wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “You will only say that I am a child again.”

Anthony closed his eyes for a moment, visibly collecting himself. When he opened them, there was nothing defensive in his posture. Only remorse. Only helplessness. Only the fierce, overwhelming love that had shaped every inch of this man since the moment he became a father.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Your daughter’s chin quivered. “You are only saying that because Mama told you to.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Your mother told me nothing I did not already know. I was cruel. I was frightened. And I took that fear out on you.”

She blinked, surprised. “Frightened of what?”

Anthony moved closer, pausing as if giving her the opportunity to stop him. When she did not, he knelt beside the bed, lowering himself so he was not towering over her. His voice softened into something almost fragile.

“Of losing you,” he said.

She frowned. “You are not losing me. I only wanted to speak with Leo.”

Anthony let out a shaky breath. “When I saw how you looked when you mentioned his name, when I saw the way your cheeks flushed and your eyes lit, I realized something. You are growing. You are becoming a young woman, and your heart is opening to new things. And I am not ready for that.” He paused and glanced toward the floor as if ashamed of the truth. “It feels as though time is moving faster than I can bear. One moment you were taking your first steps. The next you are asking about boys.”

Your daughter softened just a little, though her eyes glistened with fresh tears. “Papa, growing up does not mean I will stop loving you.”

Anthony looked up at her with that same devastated tenderness he sometimes wore when looking at you. “It feels that way,” he admitted. “It feels as if each new phase of your life takes you further away from me. And I am foolish enough to believe that if I hold on tightly enough, none of it will happen.”

You touched his shoulder, proud of him for saying what he had never once said aloud.

Your daughter uncrossed her knees, letting her feet dangle from the bed. “I like Leo,” she whispered. “He makes me laugh. And he listens when I speak.” She bit her lip. “But that does not mean I want to marry him.”

Anthony exhaled with relief so powerful that his shoulders slumped. “Thank God,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Your daughter let out a small, watery laugh.

Then her expression sobered. “Papa, I do not want to hide things from you. I want to be able to tell you when I like someone. I want you to trust me.”

Anthony reached for her hand. He hesitated, waiting for permission. She offered it to him.

He held it gently, as if afraid she might break. “I do trust you,” he said. “I simply do not trust the world around you. You are precious to me. The most precious thing I have ever been given besides your mother. And I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt.”

She sniffed. “You hurt me today.”

Anthony’s voice cracked. “I know. And I swear to you I will spend every day making certain I never make you feel that way again.”

Your daughter studied him quietly for a long moment, as if weighing his sincerity. Then she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Anthony froze, overwhelmed.

Then he clutched her to his chest, burying his face in her hair, holding her with a trembling intensity that spoke of both apology and fear and love so deep it defied words.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again. “My darling girl, I am so sorry.”

She hugged him tighter. “I know, Papa. I forgive you.”

You watched the two of them, your heart swelling at the sight. This was the part of Anthony most people never saw. Everyone knew his strength, his authority, his fierce protection. But very few understood the boy inside him who feared losing the people he loved. The boy who had lost too much, too young, and who clung too tightly because he did not know any other way to love.

You approached the bed and brushed a tear from your daughter’s cheek. “Now,” you said softly, “shall we discuss what a chaperoned visit looks like?”

Your daughter nodded eagerly, glancing at Anthony cautiously.

Anthony cleared his throat. “If your mother accompanies you, and if you remain within sight, and if he understands that any improper behavior will result in his removal from this house, and if he never calls you darling, sweetheart, or any other ridiculous endearment, then perhaps we might consider it.”

Your daughter laughed. “Papa, he only calls me by my name.”

“Good,” Anthony said sharply. “He may continue doing so.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Anthony. She is not marrying him tomorrow.”

He huffed. “I am aware.”

You pressed a kiss to your daughter’s forehead. “You are a young lady now, my love. And your father and I will guide you. Together.”

Your daughter beamed. “Thank you, Mama.”

She looked at Anthony.

He squeezed her hand again. “You may see him.”

You saw the relief and excitement light her entire face, and it warmed you from within.

Anthony stood slowly, looking as if he had aged and grown younger at the same time.

When the three of you stepped out into the hallway, your daughter hurried downstairs, eager to send a note to her potential suitor.

You and Anthony remained at the top of the steps.

“You were wonderful,” you whispered.

Anthony let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against yours. “I felt as though my heart was being torn out of my chest.”

“That is fatherhood,” you said gently.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, as if grounding himself in the one person he trusted to teach him how to navigate the things that terrified him. “Promise me you will never let me make a fool of myself in front of her again.”

You smiled against his cheek. “I make no such promise.”

Anthony laughed softly and kissed you, slow and grateful, before lowering his voice to a murmur.

“I am still not ready for this,” he confessed.

You cupped his jaw lovingly. “You never will be. That is why she has both of us.”

He kissed your hand in that earnest, devoted way that always melted you. “Thank God for that.”

—————