#hsff

(Y/N) was his everything. He never had a love like her before, and he had no intention of having another love ever. He was going to marry her. That was a cold hard fact.

“Harry,” she whimpered as she brought one of her hands back and behind her.

He knew what she wanted, and he gave it to her. Placing his large hand in hers, he intertwined their fingers - flexing his to give hers a soft squeeze.

“Feeling good, baby?” Harry’s chin rested against his chest as he looked down at where his thick cock entered his girlfriend.

(Y/N) just hummed in response, but that wasn’t enough for Harry. Propping one foot up on the mattress, he brought his freehand down and swatted at one of her ass cheeks. “You know that’s not going to cut it.”

Stopping his thrusts, he pulled out which caused (Y/N) to gasp, and she looked over her shoulder at him with wide eyes. She was flipped onto her back faster than she could blink.

Harry’s hands came down to her thighs, and he pushed them apart before plunging back inside of her with one fluid roll of his hips.

“Oh my god,” (Y/N) moaned with her eyes screwed shut. “You’re so fucking deep, H.”

Smirking to himself, Harry leaned down and scraped his teeth against his beautiful girlfriend’s jawline. “Do you like that, (Y/N)? Feeling me so deep in there?”

“Yes, yes,” she panted as he started pounding into her once more. “I love it when you’re this deep. I feel you all the way…all the way in here.”

Placing a hand over her lower stomach, (Y/N) pressed down - eliciting a groan from Harry and another mewl of pleasure from her with just how good that felt. 

(Y/N) was never properly fucked before, and Harry caught onto that by the first time they slept together. She made him work for it, something he didn’t mind doing by any means, but when the time actually came, he was seething at her past lovers at what he had seen. Sexy and confident (Y/N) had retreated into a shell of herself the moment he had her laid out on his mattress. She had asked him to turn almost all the lights off, and the ones that were left on had been turned down. She had asked that he not remove her bra, and that he just pull her panties to the side. It pained him to realize that she didn’t want him to see her fully naked.

That changed before Harry entered her that night. He took his time to kiss over every inch of her skin. To compliment every piece of her that he could see. He let her know that she was by far the prettiest thing he had ever seen in the world. The most beautiful woman to ever be in his bed. He made it clear that no one before her ever compared, and that no one ever would.

By the time he took her home the next morning, (Y/N) had allowed Harry to take her in four different positions, resulting in six orgasms total. It was obvious to both of them that they’d never get enough of each other just after that one night. 

“Squeezin’ my cock so tight. You’re gonna have me coming sooner than I want to,” Harry huffed out a laugh at himself, and it caused (Y/N) to also giggle. “But, fuck, honey, you just feel too damn good. Such a snug little thing.”

His words had (Y/N)’s cunt pulsing around him even more, and he could tell she was right on the edge of her orgasm. 

Sucking on the pad of his thumb, Harry brought it down to start rubbing precise circles against his girlfriend’s clit, and that had her arching her back off the bed.

“Holy shit,” she gasped - toes curling and fists clenching against the pale pink sheets surrounding them. “I’m about to cum.”

Harry watched as (Y/N) threw her head back which resulted in her pretty neck being completely exposed to him. He could feel her walls beginning to clamp down around him, and with one more deep thrust, her orgasm gushed around his length.

“Good girl,” he crooned, leaning down to kiss over (Y/N)’s collarbone. “Such a good girl f’me.”

Once she felt like the air had properly returned to her lungs, (Y/N) blinked her eyes open to stare at the gorgeous man above her.

“Fill me up, please,” she pouted her lips at him as she tapped her fingertips against the spot on her stomach that she had pressed down on earlier. “Right in here.”

“Yeah?” Harry smirked as he gripped onto her hips and angled them up just a little more. “Want it tucked up in there?”

“Mhmm,” (Y/N) hummed with a nod of her head. “I like it when it’s up there that far. It takes longer to drip out of me, and I like feeling it for as long as I can.”

(Y/N) could be dirty when she wanted to be, but he had never heard her say something like that to him before. Choking out a moan, Harry felt the warmth in his lower abdomen boil over, and before he could process it, he was shooting his load inside her slick pussy.

Biting down on her bottom lip, (Y/N) reeled from the feeling of Harry pumping his cum into her. He didn’t stop until he felt like he couldn’t hold himself up with his shaky arms anymore. He collapsed against her chest, and she wrapped her arms around him as they both continued to come down from their highs.

“I love when you wake me up in the middle of the night like that,” (Y/N) played with Harry’s curls as she spoke. “Can we fall back asleep like this?”

The last remnants of spring were being washed away with the droplets that cascaded from the heavens that night. He'd thought he'd been lucky enough to leave the rain behind when he moved to New York, but like his writer's block, it seems the heavy clouds followed him across the pond as well. He was in search of inspiration and his small English county could no longer provide that for him. He'd only been in the city for a week but had still yet to find his footing, his place. It was the very words of Ginsberg that brought him to the seedy, down-at-the-heels boroughs of New York City, that propelled him to get on that plane, that brought him to her. Whatever the poets of Gotham were smoking, he wanted in.

He'd been walking down Canal Street that night, the rain lightly kissing the tops of his cheeks, puddles flooding around the soles of his loafers. Why he'd decided to wear the dark leather footwear on a night like that night was beyond him. It was his first official night out in the city, so it could be said that he subconsciously wanted to look his best. He'd spent his first week in the city holed up in his apartment. A corner walk up in an old hotel that rented rooms by the month.

The Hotel Chelsea.

The heartbeat of the city located in its underbelly.

He knew it from literature, from music, from art. He was told it was where artists are conceived, born, and died in a never ending forest fire of pathos, ethos, and on very rare occasions, logos. Swimming in a pool of their own shit and only their own shit, and then somehow making it glitter like gold. He was told it was where the muses lived. Every single one, from every myth and every legend. He was just waiting to meet his own.

He ducks into a dimly lit concrete stairwell when the rain begins to pick up. Soaking through the unbuttoned-at-the-top shirt he'd been gifted by a friend before leaving home. He stands under the small coverage provided by the building above him. Watching as bright yellow taxi cabs wiz by, distorting the already distorted refraction of soft warm light that spilled from the street lamps above. He watches a couple kiss in the rain before departing and going their separate ways and yet, although he was in the presence of such a magnificent amount of pulchritude, Harry was still unable to string words together into a verse that would do it justice.

A muffled cheer sounds from behind a door he hadn't realized led to anything, catching his attention. He turns, peaking into the frosted glass window located in the center of the old wooden door, leaning so close his nose flattens against it and his breath fogs the glass beyond its frost. He squints, trying to get a peek inside when the door swings open. He steps back swiftly, heart pounding, lungs heaving for air, hand pressed to his chest. The culprit, standing in the doorway eyeing him. Platinum blonde hair is the first thing he sees, then a sharply arched eyebrow over icy blue irises, and a cigarette, pressed between two lips painted in a maraschino cherry hue.

Harry struggles to collects himself when she side steps and gestures for him to enter or leave, either way, the purpose was to get him out of her way. His eyes are still locked on hers, swimming the in whirlpool of her energy, feet about to touch the sandy bottom of the frozen ocean within her eyes.

A snap of her fingers in the space between them pulls him out of his liquid dream like a buoy pulling a drowning boy to safety.

"Move it or lose it, I haven't got all day."

Her voice is unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. Although she looked lithe and delicate, her voice held grit and power. With an edge Harry could only imagine the sharpness of.

He squeezes past her through the door, their chest brushing as he scuttles. He dwindles when he catches a whiff of her. Whiskey and cigarettes and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. Vanilla? Sandalwood? Whatever it was, he wanted more of it.

She scoffs as she pushes past him into the evening downpour, forcing him further than he'd planned on going. He turns quickly and watches her ascend the drenched concrete steps as the door closes, her tall, chunky heeled boots slapping against them like duck wings on water.

He stands there, staring through the small rectangular window at her blurred silhouette. It isn't until he's shoved lightly to the side, and then back, further into the bar by people trying to exit, that he realizes just how long he'd been standing there. In the process he loses sight of her.

The door opens again and Harry is pulled further into the small bar by a wayward group of people. He concedes in that moment, walking through the dive on at his own accord. His mind still spinning with a looped triptych of the encounter.

This was a new experience for Harry, the momentary loss of self in a stranger, specifically supernal, a particularly peculiar case of sonder. He'd had the luxury of knowing everyone in his small town and therefore had not been afforded the company of fresh faces and anomalous auras for the majority of his adult years of life. This was a feeling Harry wanted to relish in, to drink and be drunk on and its catalyst had just walked out the door to indulge in her nicotine laced vice, and in all probability, to not to be seen by him again. New York is a big city. All big, blinding lights and an even bigger populace.

That, however, didn't stop him from nursing an inaudible prayer on his lips as he ambles carefully through the bar, hoping, while trying to keep hold of realistic expectations, to catch a glimpse of the fair-haired sparkler one more time before he, himself, burned out.

The room, puzzlingly humid, dimly lit, and thick with people, carried the stench of old beer and rotting wood. A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke floats up from the crowd and threads through the dank wooden beams of the ceiling. The walls, covered in a deep red, are peeling and fading into a grimy brown, reminding Harry of the rust that sat on his neighbour's old chevy back in Cheshire. The floor, beer soaked wood that Harry was sure could give out at any moment if they weren't below street level.

Everyone in the room was gathered around a small stage made of old skids in the middle of the small space. A woman, small in stature with tousled brown hair tucked under a dark gray pageboy cap and black, thick rimmed glasses, stands on the stage in front of a microphone.

Harry heads to what he assumes could only be the bar. As if the rows of liquor bottles located behind a very well groomed young man hadn't been a clear enough indicator. His look, a stark contrast to the dwellers in the bar. A crisp white short sleeve button up, tucked into a pair of sharp black trousers, held in place with a black belt, silver buckle.

"What can I get you?"

Harry looks up at the bartender, then over to the bottles of liquor on the wall. A decent sized plank of driftwood sits snug in the center of the middle row of bottles. 'The Sick Rose' it read in a delicate, hand-painted cursive, the same red that dressed the walls.

He looks back over at the bartender who is watching him, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Whiskey, neat."

The bartender smiles before turning to grab the bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind him. He grabs a glass from under the bar top and place it in front of Harry before pouring.

Harry watches him intently, taking in every detail. From the way his brows furrow when the liquor splashes up against the side of the cup and onto the bar to the 'nectar of the gods' glisten of the liquid in the glass.

With a tight but genuine smile, the bartender pushes the glass towards him. Harry reaches into his pants and takes out a balled up fiver. He flattens it out on the bar top, a light, embarrassed chuckle leaves his lips before he hands it over, returning the smile with a curt nod.

Feedback bleeds momentarily over the sound of soft conversation drawing Harry's attention. He picks up his drink and turns his attention to the stage.

She's seated on a high stool, the woman on stage, and has a cigarette pressed between her middle and index fingers, the smoke cascading up to join the rest of the crowd's. In her other hand, an old, black and white school jotter with several coloured post-it notes sticking out of every side.

She gets off the stool and steps towards the mic, poised with her book open and resting on her forearm, against her chest. She speaks with candor. Her tone rhythmic, almost musical.

She pauses and the verse rings in Harry's ears. A dull ache pulses through his chest. The tips of his fingers tingle. There's an itch trickling up from under his skin that grows with every word, every pause, every breath.

This is what he'd been looking for. What he had come to New York for. To live and exist as the wordsmiths before him. In a dark dingy basement bar, last legs, glass of whiskey in hand, cigarette smoke clinging to every space. No more thicker than the voltaic energy that has the hair on his arms standing at attention. The baring of souls in stanza, in verse, in caesura, in rhyme. A chorus of pain and lust and life, oh to live a life like this. And now it was his.

He rubs his arm but knows that that isn't what will satiate his craving.

That the only cure lies within the keys of his typewriter and alabaster sheet of 8 ½ by 11.

Harry takes another generous sip of his drink with peeled ears and attentive heart. Hoping that the ability to write something, anything, would strike him like the lightning that had been streaking the sky that night.

He'd almost forgotten about her in the hurricane of poems and poets that swept on and off stage throughout the night. But when he sees her again, hours later, the initial rush of titillation he had felt returns like an unexpected punch to the gut.

He's three glasses of cheap whiskey deep, leaning against the small bar top. The crowd in the bar had gotten boisterous, rowdier, and now instead of poets baring their souls to the patrons, there's a louder than hell band on stage. He's sure they have no idea how to play their instruments but the magnanimity of their outrageous on stage antics made them entertaining enough to watch. The lead singer had broken a bottle over his head and made out with three different women on stage within the span of ten minutes and yet, once Harry had caught sight of the platinum stick of dynamite, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

She's seated in a worn leather booth at the far end of the room. And although there were copious amounts of intoxicated people standing between them, Harry had managed to maintain a clear and direct line of view.

The first thing he noticed was the smug smirk that never seemed to leave her lips. It was as if she was holding onto a secret that no one, not even herself, knew. The second was that she wasn't alone.

Next to her in the booth sat two people, a man, neck full of tattoos and decked out in leather. His dark, shoulder length hair looked as if it hadn't seen a wash in weeks but Harry could admit that the man was quite handsome, in a dangerous, "I'd steal your car" kind of way. The other, a woman, wild curly hair, tucked under a black beret. Her dark skin shown against the dim lighting in the bar and was a stark contrast to the bright red, latex dress she had on. The outfit was soaked in intimidation but the smile she had affixed on her face as she whispered to the object of Harry's full attention, was soft and genuine.

The blonde head of hair whipped around in Harry's direction and their eyes catch each other's.

In a movement too swift for him to register himself, he turns to face the bar, an embarrassing warmth making its way up his neck. He orders another drink even though he already has a full one in his hand. He throws it back, finishing it before the bartender could put the new one in front of him. Harry takes in a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves before turning back to catch one more glimpse of the blonde matchstick before calling it a night, but just like before she'd disappeared. In fact, the only person sitting there was her female friend, the male compatriot had disappeared as well.

Harry can't help but wonder. Had she gone out for a cigarette, or had she decided to take the brooding tattooed man back to hers. Maybe she'll be back. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she was still here.

He scans the room before his body propels him forward, a heart over head start of an active search, removing him from the bar and into the crowd on people. Popping up every now and then to see over the sea of heads.

When he finally does spot her again, she and neck tattoos are wedged in the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. Their chests pressed together as they speak in hushed, harsh voices.

"Neck Tattoos" holds a small plastic bag above her head, a frown etched deeply in the curve of his brow and the edges of his lips. Harry watches as she attempts to grab the bag back from the man but fails, falling into him, her head turning and immediate locking eyes with Harry's curiously impeding stare. Her eyebrows furrow and her lips pucker. Her gaze is intense, hard but it sends a neon jolt of electricity through Harry's body.

She looks away, pushing herself away from "Neck Tattoos'" chest, as she makes another attempt to grab the baggy from him by propping herself up onto her toes. His large tattooed hand wraps itself around her wrist tightly and her eyebrows furrow in pain as he leans closer to her. Harry's body jerks forward as her eyes drift back over to his. His legs move to carry him closer but halts momentarily to size up the situation.

He'd always been someone who thought about actions and their consequences before making rash decisions. Logical and reliable were words that could be said to be synonymous with Harry Styles.

Heck! The most impulsive thing he'd ever done was what had brought him into this very situation. He didn't think a bar fight would be in the cards for him, ever. But he figures there's a first time for everything.

Harry makes his way over to them as quickly as he can, bobbing and weaving through the crowd, trying to keep an eye on the situation all the while trying to figure out how he was going to incapacitate "Neck Tattoos", who looked to be about a whole head taller than him.

The crowd seems to be fighting against him, trying to keep him away but he fights against it anyway. In that moment, Harry likens himself to salmon swimming upstream in the frigid autumn waters. A dangerous journey but to give up would go against their nature. Fight, however, was not in his nature but he thought himself fiercely passionate and empathetic which could be the same, he thinks. Harry finally breaks through the crowd and is within spitting distance of the two just as the snowy haired firecracker winds up and socks "Neck Tattoos" square in the nose.

Harry's eyes widen as "Neck Tattoos" falls, landing at his feet. He stares at the man on the floor before trailing his sights up to the woman who'd mystified him the short time they had been aware of the other's existence.

Her hand whips up and down as if shaking it will rid it of the throbbing that had begun to consume the limb. She bends down over "Neck Tattoos", retrieving the reason for the abruptly violent situation that oddly enough, no one else in the small bar acknowledged. She pats him on the shoulder comfortingly, her smirk returning to its place between her lips.

"Probably should get that checked out John. Broken nose wouldn't do that pretty face any favours."

Her words are firm but underneath it, there was a hint of something that told Harry that she actually was friends with "Neck Tattoos". That she cared about him, although her actions seemed to say otherwise.

She stands, and in the process notices one of her bruised knuckles bleeding. She brings it to her mouth, and it's all Harry can stare at, eyes still as wide as a deer in headlights.

Her icy blue orbs move up from the floor to Harry's face and he melts.

"Thanks for all the help man."

Her blood stained lips spit the sarcastic benediction with the prick of a sharp dagger.

Harry blinks. He opens his mouth and finds it hard to form words with the amount of indescribable feelings rushing through his blood stream, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, and pushes past him, stepping over "Neck Tattoos", to a door adjacent to them. Harry twists his head to follow her, in a daze. It isn't until a loud clang sounds, the door closing, that he snaps out of it.

The spinning in his head comes to a standstill but the bubbling in his veins is far from subsiding.

His body is moving towards the door before his head can even fathom it. The pull is so magnetic. It's as if his soul had left his body and is pulling him along by hand, it's celestial.

He moves quickly, almost a blur, as he jogs out of the bar and into a dark lit alley. The rain had stopped and had left behind tiny reflective orbs of liquid on every surface that sparkled even in the darkness. He spins to his left, then his right in search of a halo of bleached tresses but comes up short.

A weight lands on his chest and trickles down to the pit of his stomach.

Regret, maybe. Nausea, definitely.

Should've said something.

He spins on the heels of his now drenched loafers with the intention of heading back inside to grab one more drink and quell his overstimulated mind and heart. He reaches for the large metal handle, when something catches his eye. A spark, several. Flickering and flashing to an off kilter beat. Small but bright in the darkness of the alley.

He closes his eyes and takes in a breath before letting go of the door handle. He takes a step away from the door, relieving his filled lungs with an aggressive puff. He's already been reckless thus far tonight, what's one more ill informed decision.

He opens his eyes and takes a few cautious steps towards the continuous tiny combustion. Slowly, hands curled in tight fists in case something or someone jumped out at him. In case he met one of those colossal rodents that New York was so famous for.

When he gets closer and his eyes adjust to the low light, he sees her. Leaning up against the grimy, graffiti filled, brick wall of the bar, cigarette between her lips, lighter in her bruised hand, pint glass filled with beer in the other. A brisk breeze flows through the wind tunnel alley way as she struggles with the lighter. A slick curse passes her lips every time the lighter goes out without lighting the cigarette.

Harry walks up to her, still cautious but fists unclenched.

"Need help?"

Harry chokes out the words but it's enough to cause her eyes to flick up, landing on the smile he struggles to keep soft. He doesn't wait for an answer, instead he steps forwards, cupping his hands around the lighter when she tries to flick it again. This time, the cigarette lights and she breathes out an audible sigh that dances around the smoke as it leaves her lips and Harry finally finds his voice.

"Y'alright?"

His eyes trace the lines of her face that are faintly illuminated by the end of her cigarette. Her soft lines a stark contrast to her hard glare. The corner of her lips fixed in a subtle scowl.

"Could be better."

Harry nods. He racks his brain for something to say. Anything to hold her attention for just a little while. Anything to keep this energy, au courant, from fizzling out.

If words came easier to him he wouldn't be in this alley. He'd be back in Holmes Chapel, in his makeshift cave of books and trinkets and old wood. With candles that smelt of Christmas and full body warmth, and his family would be just a quick jaunt away.

"You like poetry?"

Idiot.

He mentally curses his inability to come up with something less benign but stops when she lets out a loud, choking laugh. Her head tossed back in sweet amusement.

"Do I like poetry?"

She forces out through her chuckles.

"Is that a line?"

Her eyebrow peaks as she takes another drag of her cigarette then blows the smoke in Harry's direction. He blinks rapidly, the smoke causing his eyes to gloss over.

"You don't have to try so hard. If you wanted to take me home then all you had to do is ask. You're pretty and honestly I'm not picky."

Harry's eyes widen as he shakes his head, his eyes darting to a piece of soaked garbage on the cement, a candy wrapper.

Never had he met a woman so forward, so unapologetically crass and yet, still so enthralling.

"S'not what I want," he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. His front teeth press down so heavily he thinks he might've drawn blood.

"Really?"

She flicks the ash of her cigarette and brings it back up to her lips. A crooked smile cause the smoke to exit her mouth from the side rather than in Harry's face. He nods, it's subtle, but she acknowledges his answer.

"Doesn't seem like it. You've been watching me all night and when people do that it usually means one of two things. One, you want to fuck them or two," she take another drag, "you're a perverted stalker."

Harry's attention snaps back at her.

"M'not a stalker."

She steps closer to him, her body flush with his.

"I believe you," her voice is soft as her hand runs down Harry's shirt collar, fingers hovering just above where his exposed skin starts and not stopping its descent, "and that's sad because I'm sure we would've had a good time. Never done it with one of the Queen's sons before. Guess I won't be crossing that off my bucket list tonight."

She steps away from him and flicks her cigarette. It hits the wall causing the cherry to burst and glowing ash to trickle down like fireworks on the fourth of July. She walks past him towards the door but pauses before opening it. Looking over her shoulder at him, she shakes her head and laughs before disappearing into the building.

Harry stands alone in the alley. His body quivers with shock, with fear, with sheer excitement.

His heart was beating in his ears. His head, a spinny, dizzying top, unrelenting in its momentum.

He attempts to steady his breathing as he leaves the alley, stepping onto the sidewalk. The streets no longer bare as the patrons of bars and clubs alike pour out, where they'd follow the call of the rest of their night. An after party here, a quick, regrettable in the morning fuck there.

Harry bobs and weaves through people, still high off of the sheer aura of the woman. Missing a step and nearly eating shit as he descends down the stairs into Canal Street station.

He dawdles through the station, stopping to take a look at some of the musings of urban philosophers in permanent marker on the walls. Declarations of love and lust, names of places and people, numbers if you're in need of a good time.

"I'm sure we would've had a good time."

He checks his pockets for his wallet or some change when he gets to the pay toll but comes up short. He throws his head back and sends a curse out to the universe.

A chime sounds and Harry double times his pace, looking left and right before hopping over the turnstile. All but flying down the steps, he glides into the train just as the doors begin to close, narrowly missing his torso.

He catches his breath as he looks around the near empty train car for a seat. An elderly woman with a small buggy filled to the brim with groceries offers him a soft smile to which he returns as her makes his way to the far end of the car.

He takes a seat, his back to the window. He clasps his hands together as the train enters the tunnel. His body shakes and rumbles with the movements of the vehicle as a loud, low whistle fills the space around him.

He leans back, resting his head against the glass with eyes closed. Words bloom behind his eyelids like spring flowers but refusing to link together like a daisy chain to create anything worth writing down. His lips part as a heavy sigh floats past them. The train comes to a halt as his eyes open with the door.

His eyes shift to the doors as the elderly woman makes her way slowly off the train.

She passes and when she's clear of his line of view, a glimmer of pale blonde catches his eye.

A few blinks and a double take help clear his vision.

There she is. Sitting at the other end of the train, head bobbing back and forth to the tempo of whatever tune is floating through the headphones that are snug around her ears. A bright red portable cassette player rests on her lap, legs clad in houndstooth.

Although she was quite a distance away from him, he could see her now. Really see her. Her hair glows in the fluorescent subway lights and Harry is like a moth to a flame.

When she stands to get off the train, he does as well. Stepping out of the train a few doors down from her. On the wall, in mosaic tile is the name of the station, his stop. He heads towards the stairs, staggering his pace to stay a few feet behind her.

She walks with purpose, with power. A strut that says stay the fuck out of my way.

When they make all the same turns Harry chalks it up to more than coincidence.

Divine intervention maybe? Not likely.

As they both close in on the hotel, Harry decides that he's going to say something. But when she stops abruptly in her tracks, it throws him for a loop. His legs, not quite registering what was happening, continue to bring him forward and closer to her than he'd planned. She spins around quickly, her eyes landing directly on his as he stops a few steps away from her.

"Are you following me?"

She points a sharply manicured finger at him. Harry steps back, shaking his head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

"M'not. I swear, it's just a-"

"Pervy stalker," a sing-song lilt carries the accusation from her mouth to Harry's ears.

Harry's eyebrows furrow.

"I live here?" It's a question more than a statement. He points to the building.

"You sure? You don't seem so sure."

Harry clears his throat as his hands fall to his sides.

"I do, I live here."

She raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Where's your key?"

Harry sighs, defeated.

"Was in my wallet, but I lost it."

"Your key?"

"My wallet."

She hums, nodding slowly. Her eyes narrow as she leans forward. She steps back and turns on her heel.

"Sucks."

She approaches the front door of the hotel, putting her key in the lock. She pulls it open with brute force before looking over at Harry, who's standing in the middle of the sidewalk, alone.

"Well are you coming or what?"

He nods quickly as he breaks into a light jog. Slipping past her through the door she'd holding open with her back.

As they begin their ascent up the main square spiral staircase Harry can't help but let his mind wander. Questions bounce around his mind and on to his tongue like a diving board. A deep dive, cannonball wave pool displaces his quietness.

"What's your name?"

It's soft but she hears him.

"Noise."

Her voice echoes off the walls, stinging like a sour note.

"Noise? Your parents couldn't have possibly-"

"They didn't," she cuts him off with an over shoulder smirk so devious Harry could swear for a split second he'd seen the devil himself. Afraid to ask anymore questions he stays quiet.

They reach the 4th floor and she stops, turning around the face him.

"This is me," she points to a bright teal door, the number 412 affixed to the center in bold brass.

Harry nods.

"Where're you headed?" She asks.

"512," his answer is curt as he keeps his eyes on the ground.

"Not sure how you're gonna get in without a key. You might just have to sleep in the hallway until maintenance comes in the next few hours."

Harry groans but nods, wishing her a goodnight, frustrated that he wouldn't he able to sleep in his own bed tonight.

He turns and begins to continue up the stairs.

"Hey 512," Noise calls out. Harry stops mid step and turns around to a mound of black leather being tossed in his direction. He fumbles when it hits his chest but catches it, his wallet.

"Welcome to New York."

Cayden’s face was bright red.

He knew that much. Even as he stood in the dark, coat closet, unable to see the hand raised in front of him, he could feel the heat radiating from his face. Beside him, Maggie was frozen, stiff and unmoving.

“Maggie, I–”

“Don’t,” she hissed. “For the next seven months, you are no longer allowed to talk to me.”

Cayden looked over at her–well, the dark outline of her–and sighed. “Maggie, it’s not that big of a deal.”

He paused for a moment, waiting for her response. But before she could respond, he said, “Wait, why seven months?”

Cayden flinched as she felt the vicious glare that was suddenly sent his way. “Eight months now.”

“Again, why–”

Maggie’s head fell into her hands, groaning. “I swear to God, Cayden, if you don’t stop talking I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

Cayden’s eyes began to adjust to the lack of light. Maggie’s dark hair was quite frizzy, and something pricked in Cayden’s stomach, knowing his hands caused the disarray. He knew that if Maggie looked at him, her lips would be bright red and slightly swollen. Again, his doing. But most importantly, he knew her eyes would be bright, the light brown nearly shining. Suddenly, Cayden wanted her to look up at him desperately. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out.

As if Maggie could sense Cayden’s thoughts, she peeked through her fingers.

“Don’t touch me,” she warned. Cayden smiled despite himself.

“Maggie,” he said softly, not daring to reach out. “I know you’re afraid, but we can’t hide in this closet forever.”

“He’s not wrong!” Cayden’s dad suddenly called in a sing-song voice from outside the door.

“Oh, my God!” Maggie called in distress.

“Dad,” Cayden called, “can you just give us a moment, please?”

“Sure, mate,” Harry snickered. Footsteps soon followed.

Cayden turned to Maggie, who had turned to burrow into the wall, possibly hoping it would consume her. Cayden was only guessing.

“Darling,” Cayden tried to placate. A little tension eased from her shoulders, and Cayden smiled softly. “We can’t hide in here forever. My dad knows we’re in here, and it’s also a bit odd.”

“He saw us,” she spoke into the wall. The pout was clear in her voice.

He couldn’t help it. A smile curved his lips.

Why is she so damn adorable?

“We were just kissing,” Cayden reminded her.

“Still!”

“You know, it is a bit criminating. Dragging me into a closet and hiding. What if he thinks we’re fuc–?”

“Okay!” Maggie jumped back from the wall. Cayden had to take a wide step back to narrowly miss being punched in the gut. “We’ll go back out.”

“Good.” He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She scowled for a moment, but Cayden could see the lilt of her lips. “Let’s go, darling.”

Slowly Cayden opened the door, squinting his eyes as the light assaulted him. He tried to grab Maggie’s hand, but she swatted him away. Cayden chuckled under his breath.

Harry was sitting on the couch, sipping a pint. He looked up at the sound on the door opening, smirking.

“Well hello, lovebirds,” he said teasingly. Cayden rolled his eyes, but he felt Maggie flinch.

“Dad,” he said in warning.

Harry just chuckled, placing his pint down and standing up. “Look, kids, I’m glad you guys are young and in love–”

Cayden flushed brightly.

“­–and I am rooting for you both. But Cayden, please just let me or Mum know when you’re ready to have se–”

“Dad!” Cayden exclaimed, suddenly unable to make eye contact with either Harry or Maggie. “Please, don’t!”

“Cayden,” Harry seemed suddenly serious. “It’s important that we discuss these things. If you’re thinking about having sex–”

Maggie whimpered as if in pain. Cayden’s cheeks were radiating heat.

“–you need to be safe. Mum and I can help, mate,” he said, smiling. Apparently, completely unaware of the pain he was putting two teenagers through.

“Oh, my God,” Cayden moaned in distress. “It was our first kiss, for Christ’s sake!”

“It was?”

“Yes, Dad!”

“Huh,” Harry looked perplexed. “From the horizontal tango I walked in on, it didn’t seem like your first kiss.”

“OH, MY GOD!” Cayden screeched. Maggie looked as if she might pass out.

Cayden didn’t think he’d ever seen his dad look prouder of himself. He shrugged, smirking.

“No glove, no love, kiddos.”

When Cayden looked over at Maggie, her eyes were up towards the ceiling, face permanently red. She looked beautiful, but he didn’t think it was appropriate to say with his dad standing there, especially given the circumstances.

“Well,” Cayden murmured under his breath, “at least, our first kiss was memorable.”

And the way Maggie looked up him made up for the sex talk he inevitably had with his parents after she left. Her eyes were shining, just as brightly as he knew they would be earlier. He smiled widely at the sight.

Niall:

Great Expectations- @stylishmuser 

At 24, Gia Malhotra is absolutely sure of two things in her life: she will never live up to her mother's overbearing expectations and she is damn good at her job. Being one of the best event planners in Hollywood is who she is and because of that, Gia doesn't take risks. Ever. Until one particularly nasty fight with her parents and a bottle and a half of champagne later, she ends up sleeping with a guest at her latest event - who just so happens to be, yes, the Niall Horan. Gia never expects to see Niall again, until her best friend looks at her nervously over a positive pregnancy test two months later in her bathroom. A story about an unexpected pregnancy, what it means to be a mother and a daughter, and the understanding that expectations are almost never meant.

Everything that P writes is a masterpiece but this is probably my favorite! Her attention to detail is incredible and she writes her characters in a way that allows you to truly get to know them. Niall and Gia are the most adorable couple and you’ll find yourself rooting for them from start to finish!

13 Versions of A Heart- @wokeuptired 

Mim Marcus hasn’t written a word since the day Niall Horan broke her heart. Niall, on the other hand, has done nothing but.

I remember reading this fic long ago and falling in love with it and then rediscovered it a little over a year ago. I love the unique writing style and clever story line! And if you think Niall is a beautiful songwriter, just wait til you imagine him as an author *wink wink*

Why Do We Climb to Fall So Far- @niallismymuse

After completing his third wildly successful solo world tour, Niall Horan wants nothing more than to go home and relax. His wife, Elise, has something else in mind: a surprise vacation to Hawaii. Even though they normally plan all of their trips together, Niall shrugs it off – because how can he possibly know what’s hiding beneath the surface?

Looking for a tearjerker? This story made me ugly cry but is beautifully written! Binge read it in one night...just make sure you have your tissues handy.

Harry:

You’ve Opened Up My Heart- @harrysdodgyankles

In which the holidays, the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, and one Physician Assistant’s heart of gold are enough to make Dr. Sofia Riaz, MD realize what she’s been missing all along.

I may be a little biased putting this on here considering Harry has my future career in this fic, but this absolutely filled my medical AU kick. Plus, Harry with children? It’s a must read!

Kismet- @peanutboyfriend (Wattpad)

Taking place in a dystopian future, Harry lives a secluded life with an affliction that he loathes and keeps him from sleeping at night. In order to survive the treacherous world he's forced into, his only choice is to suffer silently inside of his own mind... until he finally meets the one person he's dreamed of for his entire life and then everything changes completely.

Trust me when I say, you’ve never read a story quite like this one. This fic will keep you on the edge of your seat, and is the perfect mix of action and romance. If you love dystopian novels, this ones for you! (This fic is on Wattpad)

Matchmaking For Experts- @booksncoffee

Harry and Maia work at a dating agency. Everyone they have set up is perfect together but the only people they refuse to match are themselves. Despite the glances, the casual touches and the subtle (and not so subtle) flirting, Maia and Harry are strictly platonic. At least that's what they tell everyone and it's what they tell themselves. 

"SYDNEY!"

"I'm COMING!"

Yes, that's me: i'm Sydney and this is my life! What I probably should have further explained is that I am Alice's assistant. So, while the orders come in for all of the shopping that we have to do, she prints me off the list, I take the keys and I go about my marry way, shopping for Beverly Hills finest people. As much as I would love to say I hate this job, it does have it's perks.

Sometimes, I get paid huge tips; especially from people like Mr. Bugetti who tips me $100 for every time I bring him a new suit. Or how about Rose? The lovely lady who can't seem to stay away from any lavender dress on the planet. However, she never tips me in money but she has phenomenal banana bread and I get a loaf every time.

Another perk to this job is that if someone doesn't like how they look in a piece of clothing, I get to take it home! Does that necessarily mean that I will get to fit into it? No, but I have friends who might be able to and who doesn't love free clothes? I know I do!

As I approached the counter, I took a deep breath, knowing I was about to be given another run for my money but I was going to make it count because it was my last run before finally going on lunch.

"Hit me." I tell her, leaning over to read over this list.

"So, this one is for someone we've never shopped for before." Alice said as she handed it over.

"Hector Sears?" I asked, raising a brow as I looked at the list. "Particularly white Vans, Calvin Klein's white and yellow pinstripe pants, a white newsboy hat, and a vintage white t-shirt-- I'm sorry. Does this guy know this is a recipe for disaster?"

"Now, Sydney, you know we do not judge our clients. I really need you to make a good impression so that he keeps us around."

I sighed, knowing that I would not be able to keep the judgement out of my face but I did my best to fake a smile.

"As you wish!" I assured her, taking the list and heading right back out of the door I had originally come in.

Thankfully, the stores I was shopping in were back to back and all located at the local strip mall just half a mile up the street from the office. My only fear was: what do we do if they don't have these particular items? On the list, it specifically said not to substitute for anything. So, you already know my anxiety was pretty high. I didn't even know who this guy was and he already sounded like a pill. But, it as time I make the most of it.

Getting out of the car, I made my way right into the Vans store and smiled at the cashier, approaching her so I wouldn't have to do the digging myself.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, but can you tell me where I can find a size 10 in mens, pure white Vans?"

"Are you here for Hector Sears?" She asked, a light in her eyes.

I frowned. How the hell did she know that?

"Yes? Why?"

Laughter poured from her mouth because she could see how confused I was and I only knew to squint at this reaction.

"Sorry, I can tell you're confused. He called ahead."

"Ah!" I said, nodding and giving a partial smile, not understanding what the hell was so funny but I wasn't going to show that in my face. "Well, if you could just grab those for me? I have to drop them off by 11."

"Of course! Just give me a few minutes! I'll be right out!"

I nodded, taking a deep breath as I wondered if every stop would be like this. It was kind of nice, not having to search for the items myself. It saved time and it would help to get the job done a hell of a lot faster. Maybe this guy wasn't such a pill after all.

"Here you go!" She said, handing me the bag and I quickly gave her the company card to pay for them.

"I hate to ask but are you familiar with this name?" I asked. "It's just, he's a first time client for us; kind of trying to feel him out and see how his attitude is like."

She shook her head. "Not that I know of, but it's possible others have worked with him before."

"Thanks." I said, smiling and taking my card back. Interesting to think that maybe he wasn't that frequent.

You're probably wondering why I asked such a specific question but truth is because most of our clients are well known by the places they shop because they made appearances long before we would do it for them. However, I can't argue that Vans is a popular brand and this person has probably visited at least five different locations so, I'm not sure why I expected much.

Moving on to the next few stores, just as I thought, Mr. Sears had already called ahead, making my job ten times easier than most runs. It was simple: I'd say his name, they'd grab his order from the back, I'd pay and leave. I'm sure Alice will be appreciative of this and maybe I could pitch this as an idea to her to make errands run a little smoother; but knowing her, she won't budge. Now all there was left to do was to drop the clothes off.

The address that was given to me was in a familiar spot but it wasn't in the usual spot of where we normally drop off clothes. On a normal basis, we would drop off clothes to huge mansions the size of a mountain, but this particular street didn't have houses like that. The houses on this street were nice but they were much smaller, and to be quite frank, not anywhere I'd expect someone rich to live. But, who am I to judge? Like Alice said, I need to make a good first impression. So, that's exactly what I am going to do.

After about 15 minutes worth of driving, I finally pulled up to the house and just as I thought, it was nice but quite small! However, it had some pretty cool features and I could definitely see how someone rich could live here. There was a balcony practically the whole way around the house, and I'm almost positive it had a pool. But, now was not the time to scope the place out. I just needed to drop off the clothes so I could leave and go grab my lunch.

Upon approaching the door, I wasn't sure if anyone would actually be home. It was so silent and the only sounds filling the air were the sweet nothings of wind chimes and the ocean breeze. It almost felt like an awkward silence as my heels clicked across the porch, leading to the door way. Grabbing the door handle, I gave the door three knocks and one touch of the doorbell.

"H-Hello?" I called out, waiting to see if anyone was home.

"One minute!" I heard someone say. It seemed a little distant and it almost sounded as though there was a bit of an accent but I wasn't going to think anything of it because this is California: no surprise.

As I heard the door getting unlocked, I took a step back so I wouldn't be right in the person's face as they answered.

"Hi, I'm here for a Hec-" I paused. The person that was coming out of the doorway was by no means a Hector Sears. He stood there, gym shorts, nike shoes, and a tight white t-shirt with brown locks just taking over his head. He looked just like I had always seen him in magazines; but this time, this wasn't a photo op.

"You're....not Hector." I spit out.

"You're right, I'm not." He chuckled. "M'Harry! Lovely to meet you."

Offering his hand, I felt dumb as I glanced at it and then back up to his face before hesitantly offering my hand over and shaking it slowly.

"I'm uh... Sydney. D-Does a Hector live here?" I managed to ask.

"Mm'no. It's just me! I mean, I have a few roommates but none are Hector. I'm Hector."

I nodded. "Wow."

Another chuckle passed his lips. "I'm sorry to have startled you! I just knew that had I used my real name, it could have easily gotten me into quite a bit of trouble, you know?"

"I mean, yeah! You're Harry Styles for Christ's sake." I blurpped out, gasping at how rude that may have sounded. "I'm so sorry. It's just...kind of been a fan of yours for like...10 years almost? And never in my wildest dreams would I ever expect to stumble upon you, let alone, your house to drop off your clothing order."

Harry rocked back on his heels. "Yeah, that's essentially why I used an alias. I don't need people to really know where I'm living and hopefully, it won't get out!" He smirked, a playful brow rising on his forehead.

"Oh, nonononono. We have a very strict policy that all clients information remains confidential." I assured him and then handed him his bags.

"Well, I appreciate it!" He smiled, taking the bags from me and signing off on his receipt. "Um, before you go, are you busy?"

I frowned. Surely Harry Styles isn't asking me if i'm busy, right? There's no way.

"Uh, I, No! I was just about to go on my lunch break, actually!"

Harry Nodded. "Well, if you don't mind, I would like to take you for lunch as a way of thanking you for your services."

No...this is a real ass hoax.

"Oh, you really don't have to--"

"No, I insist!" He smiled, shutting his door behind him and locking it. "I have been stuck in this house since this morning working on music and going through meetings. It's about time I grab myself a bite too. Please, join me."

Alice's rule was to make a good impression. If turning Harry down meant ruining that for us, then that would be a bad idea right?

"O-okay!" I said to him but this would be the ONLY TIME I would agree to this.

Needless to say, I'm 100 percent scared but I'm ready for whatever this lunch, and time, with Harry might bring me.

Terrified didn’t quite cut it.

All that was running around Molly’s head was Harry’s voice, the words that he never wanted children. Molly stared at the two red lines and bit her jaw tight together. She tried to refuse to have any feelings about it until she’d told Harry. She didn’t want to be happy for him to have negative feelings about, she didn’t want to feel scared for him to be overjoyed. She didn’t want to get anything in her head until she’d told Harry and knew how he felt. 

Of course that didn’t mean she didn’t have an initial gut reaction. Before the terror and fear kicked in, there was a buzz of excitement. But then it all sunk in, and she began to get scared and anxious. Not necessarily because she didn’t want to be pregnant, just that it was a scary though, made scarier by the fact her and Harry had always said they didn’t really want children of their own. Molly had no maternal desires, she always thought herself too selfish, and even though he was doing great as the godfather of Lola, Harry still believed he’d never be able to raise a child of his own. 

And anyway, they had Lola, they looked after at least once a week, and often more than that. Molly would pick Lola up from school, take her for a treat, and then take her home. They’d have her over night and watch movies and eat popcorn and treat her to all the things she wasn’t normally allowed, and let her stay up a little later, and take her to the zoo or the gardens or wherever she wanted to go, and then Shane and Ellie would pick her up and they’d go back to being Molly and Harry.

Molly supposed that was entirely the point. No one took her child away at the end of the day, she didn’t get to drop her child off with someone else when they were ready for bed. It wouldn’t be just her and Harry. It would be her, and Harry, and their baby. It warmed her, but it scared her. 

Of course Molly and Harry had spoken about their future, and their relationship, many times. They’d been together nearly seven years it would be weird if they hadn’t talked about it. It never involved children. It never involved them getting married. Maybe marriage was woven between the promises of forever, but neither of them felt the need to really do anything about it. Molly was secure. Harry was secure. Mostly. Though he still had his moments where he questioned everything and got himself convinced he wasn’t good enough for Molly. They were getting less frequent though, and easier to talk him down from.

Life was going so well. They’d just bought a house. It needed work, but they were both loving putting their spin on it. They both had the stable jobs they wanted. Molly got to work from home three days a week and the bigger of the spare room was slowly turning into a studio for her. That might have to change now, she realised. And she knew she had to talk to Harry. She was getting ahead of herself already, and they didn’t even know what they were doing yet. Harry didn’t even know yet. 

Talking to Harry proved harder than it should have done though. 

At five thirty, normally the rough time he walked through the door, Harry called to say he’d be late. He had to pick something up from Shane’s and the traffic getting through town was insane. Normally Molly wouldn’t even have flinched, it wouldn’t have bothered her at all, but for obvious reasons it did, and Harry obviously picked up on the sudden tension down the line.

“I’m sorry baby, hey I’ll pick up Thai food and a bottle of wine on the way home,” He suggested and Molly felt herself swallowing down something that taste bilous. 

“Don’t worry about the wine, not really in the mood,” Molly lied, before biting down on her bottom lip. “Thai food sounds good though,” She tried to assure. But then she panicked, was she allowed to eat Thai Food, was spice ok, would it hurt the baby, and there was definitely something about fish she knew it. “Can you just get me something with chicken though please?” Molly added quickly, hastily.

“Ok,” Harry chuckled. Molly’s head was spinning, perhaps she was getting ahead of herself again, being overly precautious for something that might not come to be, but if it did, she had to start thinking of more than just herself. No matter how much she really wanted Prawn Pad Thai. “Well I’ll see you in a bit, I love you,” Harry told her and she settled for a second, telling Harry she loved him too before hanging up the phone and trying to ignore the nausea that was yet to fade. Molly wasn’t sure if it was just nerves or if it was some sort of pregnancy thing. 

All day she’d been pretending to be focused on was the new season look books that had come in the mail, but really all she’d been thinking about was Harry, and her, and their unborn baby. Again she skipped over the lookbook to her laptop and google pregnancy and fish. 

“Fucks sake,” Molly hissed, finding out it was raw fish that was to be avoided. For a minute she just stared at the picture of the woman on her screen, the stock photo that seemed to have been on every website she’d been on that day, her stomach swollen, her photoshopped skin glowing, her hair neatly tied back into a sweet little bun. Already Molly knew it wouldn’t look so perfect on her, she just felt it in her bones, she was scared of it, and perhaps pregnancy was like a horse, it would be able to sense her fear and treat her accordingly.

Of course Molly knew how ridiculous that all was. For all she knew she might have the most blissful pregnancy, minimal morning sickness, pain free, a perfect little bump. But at the same time, for all she knew, it might not get that far. It was a conversation they had to have, Molly knew that. It wasn’t a decision Molly could make, either way, alone. She needed Harry, because it was his too, and she need to know what he thought, how he felt, see his initial gut reaction when she told him. 

There was no way Harry would force his opinion on Molly any which way. If he wanted the baby, he wouldn’t make her keep it, if he didn’t want the baby, he wouldn’t make her get rid of it. But she still needed to hear what he had to say, she still needed to see how his face flinched and moved, and what his eyes did when she told him. Deep down Molly knew what she wanted, deep down she knew how she wanted Harry to feel about it, and what she was more scared of than anything else, than an ugly bump, than swollen ankles and horrific pain, was that he would want the other. 

Eventually, he walked through the door and Molly looked up from her laptop were she’d was looking at the same empty page of lookbook notes that she’d opened hours earlier after throwing the test in the bin. 

Molly heard the secondary voice and her tummy tightened. She knew she’d always recognise Shane’s voice for the rest of her life. It was stuck in her head from seven years of wise words and advice. It made her laugh to think she’d been scared of Shane when they first met. Now he was like the big brother she’d never had, but had seemingly always wanted, or at least needed. It was ironic that she would undoubtedly be going to him for advice in a couple of days time, but right now, she wished he wasn’t there. 

“Hey, I’ve got dinner, Shane just wants to grab that contract, where did I put it?” Harry’s greeting and questions came all at once, before he’d even made it to the dining room where Molly was sat. She closed the lid of her laptop and smiled as Harry wandered towards her and kissed her head. 

“In the drawer,” Molly told him waving her hand towards the top drawer of the cabinet against the wall. 

“Hey Mol,” Shane smiled lingering in the doorway, Molly smiled back at him leaning back in her chair. “You ok sweet? You look a bit pale,” Shane pointed out, concern in his tone as he straightened and creased his brown at Molly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Harry look up from the drawer of paperwork to her, a similar frown on his face. Molly just smiled bigger, ignoring the knot it her stomach and the lump in her throat and the sickness she was feeling.

“I’m fine, been staring at a screen all day is all,” Molly shrugged.

“You eaten?” Harry asked. Molly nodded, but she hadn’t. She’d felt too sick, had no appetite, and to be honest making any kind of food was the last thing on her mind. “Why haven’t you eaten?” Harry asked, as always seeing straight through her.

“Just haven’t, I’ll eat now, you found that contract?” Molly pushed, sliding her chair back, getting up slowly. She didn’t feel dissimilar to how she’d felt in Harry’s bathroom all those years ago, just before she blacked out and he rushed in and made her feel better, and she wondered if he’d ever stop making her feel better. She didn’t want a repeat, that surely couldn’t be good. So she was careful and slow when she got to her feet. 

“There you go mate.” Harry spun and handed shane the stapled together documents for the latest property they were buying to develop together. It made sense, they were practically family, and when Harry’s uncle announced he was taking early retirement, Harry couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather have by his side in business. Sometimes it was tense, mostly it was a breeze. 

“Sweet, I’ll see you tomorrow then, feel better soon Mol,” Shane quipped, Molly just rolling her eyes and flicking Shane her middle finger. She heard him chuckle as she turned for the kitchen and he headed to the front door with Harry. Molly stood at the kitchen side, getting plates had been on her mind, but that was removed by the fact that she now had to tell Harry, there was nothing in the way now. 

“Right.” She heard Harry start, the sound of his feet marching back towards her, Molly turned on her heel to face him. “What’s going on? You haven’t eaten, you look pale as anything, you don’t want wine, are you ok? Don’t just fob it off, I want an-”

“I’m pregnant,” Molly blurted out suddenly, and she held her breath watching it wash over Harry. His nostrils twitched and it took a second for anything else to happen. She saw the corner of his mouth lift but fall again quickly, and they his eyes started too look wetter.

“You serious?” He asked quietly. Molly nodded. A tear leaked out of his eye, he didn’t flick it away. Molly bit the inside of her cheek. “You’re sure?” Molly nodded again. Harry laughed, a sticky, wet laugh, but his smile was undeniable and Molly felt something like relief. “You gonna have my baby?” Harry asked stepping forward, and Molly nodded again, smiling herself. “Holly fuck, you’re gonna have my baby, we’re gonna have a baby, shit,” Harry laughed, stepping foward and pulling Molly tight to him. “You do want this yeah?” Harry asked quickly, mumbling into her hair. “Cause I know we said it wasn’t for us, and I thought that was true, but now you’ve said this, and I think I really do want it, if you do too though?” Harry explained and Molly marvelled and how much that resonated. She’d never wanted kids, until she looked at the two lines on that white plastic stick, and suddenly that was exactly she wanted. A baby, a baby that was her and Harry’s, and theirs forever. It was different for everyone, and perhaps anyone else would be freaking out, but for and Harry, suddenly it made perfect sense, so that was ok. 

“I do too,” Molly told him, pulling back and smiling up at him. “We’re gonna have a baby,” Molly whispered, almost giggling with giddy glee. Harry chuckled.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” Harry affirmed. He kissed her then, firm and gentle all at once. The ocean and the boat upon it, keeping her safe. The way it had always been. The way it seemed it always would be. Harry let go, and slipped down onto his knees. “Hey baby,” Harry whispered, kissing Molly’s tummy. “I’m your daddy, I can’t wait to meet you, me and mummy are gonna love you so much,” He kissed Molly’s tummy again, breathing her in before he got back up to his feet. Molly had never felt herself smile like it. Everything shifted suddenly, jolted into place, but it all seemed to make so much more sense than it had before, like the world was on the right axis. Perfect now.