#zclhes

London is burning hot. England has been caught in a heatwave for days, heat that makes the city feel unreal, buses shimmering at the edges, people moving slower and drinking water like it is a personality trait. Wembley has been prepared as well as it can be prepared, with extra water points, staff briefed, paramedics stationed all around the stadium, security told to watch the pits closely, but there's only so much anyone can do when the temperature has hovered around forty degrees all day.

Harry feels it already, sweat has gathered at the back of his neck before he has even sung a single note. The air backstage is better than outside, but not cool enough to make the beads of sweat disappear from his skin. He has already drunk two bottles of water, already had someone remind him about electrolytes, already promised at least three people that he will be sensible, though he's about to walk on stage and be very much not sensible.

His band gathers near the entrance, all of them in that charged little ritual they have built across the tour. Hugs, high fives, quick jokes, someone pats his shoulder, someone else tells him to “not pass out out there,” and Harry gives them a look that says he's not accepting that energy tonight, thank you very much.

Then he turns towards you. You're standing just behind him, phone tucked away for once, arms folded loosely over your middle. You look put together because you're very good at looking put together, but Harry has been watching you all day and doesn't fully trust it. There's a faint tiredness around your eyes that makeup hasn't hidden from him, and your smile, although warm, has arrived a second late more than once today.

He reaches for your hands. “You alright?”

Your answer is immediate and sounds almost rehearsed. “I’m fine.”

Harry lifts a brow.

You roll your eyes before he can say anything else. “Harry.”

“What?”

“You’ve asked me that forty-seven times.”

“Forty-eight now.”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you properly, thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. “Are you really?”

The crowd screams again, louder now as the intro builds, and behind him someone calls that they're thirty seconds out. Harry hears it, but his attention remains on you.

You soften a little. “Yes, I promise.”

He still doesn't look convinced, because his worry hasn't come from nowhere.

This morning, after lazy morning cuddles that had gone on too long because neither of you wanted to peel yourselves away from each other, after breakfast in the kitchen with every window open and the fan doing its absolute best, Harry had found you on the bathroom floor, bent over the toilet, throwing up and the image had scared him more than he admitted at the time.

You had been kneeling on the cool tiles, one hand braced against the edge of the toilet seat, shoulders trembling with the force of it. He had been beside you in seconds, gathering your hair away from your face and twisting it into a loose bun with the elastic he found on the sink, one hand steady between your shoulder blades as you brought breakfast back up into the bowl.

“Easy, love,” he had murmured, helpless in the way people are helpless when someone they love is sick and all they can do is stay. “I’ve got you.”

You had groaned when it finally stopped, pale and sweaty, cheeks damp, humiliated despite the fact that Harry couldn't have cared less about anything except whether you were alright. He had flushed the toilet, dampened a cloth with cool water and wiped your mouth and chin carefully, then pressed the cloth to the back of your neck while you sat against the bathtub with your eyes closed.

“You’re staying home,” he had said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just threw up.”

“It’s the heat.”

“It’s still throwing up.”

You had argued with him for twenty minutes then and Harry had literally tried everything: reason, concern, bribery, stubborn silence, the look he uses when he is trying very hard not to become controlling but absolutely would like you to listen to him before he loses his mind. You had insisted you were only overheated, that you would drink water, that Wembley had air-conditioned areas, that you had work to do, that staying home would make you feel worse because you would just worry from a distance.

He hadn't felt dramatic then and he still doesn't feel dramatic now. “You remember what you promised me?” he asks quietly.

Eventually, Harry gave in, but only after making you promise more things than he usually asks of you: breaks, water constantly, shade, air-conditioning, no standing in the sun, no pretending if you felt sick, no being brave for the sake of not worrying him. You promised all of it, kissing his worried mouth and telling him he was being dramatic.

Your expression softens further, some of the teasing leaving. “I remember.”

“If anything feels off, you tell someone. Jeff, Paddy, security, anyone. I mean it.”

“I will.”

“Don’t wait until you’re properly unwell.”

“I won’t.”

“Y/n.”

“I promise.”

His eyes search your face one more time, you step closer, lifting onto your toes to kiss him. “Go have fun out there.”

He kisses you back, brief but firm, as if he can press all the instructions into your mouth and have them stay there. “Take care of yourself,” he mumbles against your lips.

“You too.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Then someone calls his cue, the intro peaks, and Harry has to let go. He runs out into Wembley and the stadium breaks open for him the way it always does.

For the first hour and a half, the show is everything it should be. Hot, yes, brutally hot, to be fair. Harry is sweating through his stage outfit faster than usual, damp hair curling at the back of his neck, water disappearing from bottles between songs. He tells the crowd to drink and points out fans who need security’s attention. The heat adds a strange electricity to the night, a sticky, shimmering intensity that makes every movement feel slightly more reckless. But he's good. He's playful, loose, alive with the crowd. He dances, jokes between songs, catches a sign that tells him a girl sold feet pics to be here which, apparently, he did too.

And he keeps looking for you. You're in the north standing pit, to his left when he's on the main stage, exactly where you told him you would be. At first, he sees you often, tucked with a few familiar crew members and fans near the back of the pit, dancing, smiling, phone out occasionally to capture something for later. You lift your water bottle every time he glances over, as if to prove you are behaving, he points at you once after you do it, and you roll your eyes visibly enough that he grins.

Good, you look alright. He tells himself that and plays on.

By the time the main set reaches the song before the encore, the stadium has settled into that warm, emotional pocket that comes before the final release. Tonight’s surprise song is Love Of My Life. Harry has his guitar strapped on, standing at the mic on the main stage, the lights dimmed softer, the pits mostly dark except for phone screens and occasional reflections and the air feels a little cooler now.

He begins the song gently, and the crowd sings with him. He gets through the first verse, the first chorus, and is just leaning into the next line when something changes to his left. At first, it's only movement at the edge of his vision. Then lights, phone torches raised not in the soft way fans do during ballads, but frantic, waving, directed towards security. People are shouting, arms pointing into the pit, the energy around that area shifting from emotional to urgent in a matter of seconds.

The stadium quiets in uneven layers, confusion moving through the crowd as Harry walks to the edge, eyes fixed on the north pit. “Is someone down over there? Do we need help?”

Harry stops singing, his right hand stills on the guitar strings, the band notices immediately, the arrangement faltering, then cutting out as he lifts one hand. “Stop, stop,” he says into the mic, already turning towards the left side of the stage. “Hold on.”

The lighting director catches on quickly, and a followspot swings towards the area Harry is pointing at, bright enough to reveal faces turned inward around a small pocket of commotion.

“Yes!” several people shout.

“Paramedics!”

Harry steps closer to the stage edge, trying to see through the raised hands and heads. Then he sees you, and for half a second, his body forgets how to move. You're near the back of the pit, not standing so much as being held upright by three fans around you. One girl has an arm around your waist, another is supporting your shoulder, and a third is trying to keep your head from dropping forward. Your face is far too pale under the sudden light, your knees visibly unreliable beneath you, eyes unfocused and rolling before you sag again against the people holding you.

No. The word doesn't actually leave his mouth, but it's everywhere in him. Every instinct he has screams at him to jump down, to get to you, to take you from strangers’ arms and carry you out himself. It's immediate and physical, almost impossible to fight. For one terrible second, he’s not Harry on stage, he's just your boyfriend watching you collapse in a crowd.

So he grips his microphone harder and forces his voice to work. “Security, can we get help there now, please? Paramedics to north standing. Right there.” He points again, clearer. “Thank you. Everyone give them space, please. Step back if you can.”

Then training, responsibility, and the sheer impossible size of the stadium snap back into place. He cannot run down there in front of ninety thousand people, not like that. Not while everyone is watching, while cameras are on him, while the show still needs to be managed properly. If he panics, everyone panics. If he makes the situation about himself, he makes it harder for the people who can actually reach you.

His mouth is dry, his hands are sweating against the guitar as two Wembley security guards reach you first, moving with practised urgency through the crowd. They take over from the fans supporting you, guiding you carefully, one at each side. Your legs wobble again, and Harry’s heart kicks so hard it makes him feel briefly dizzy himself. Then three paramedics arrive, their high-vis catching in the spotlight, and the crowd parts as much as the barricades and bodies allow. One paramedic bends to speak to you, another gestures towards the exit route. The security guards help shift you to the side, your head dipped, one of the medics supporting your arm. You're conscious, Harry thinks. Barely, maybe, but conscious.

“Thank you,” Harry says into the mic, voice lower now, aimed at the fans who had held you up and called for help. “Thank you for helping. Really. Give them room, please.”

The crowd applauds softly, nervously, in that strange way a crowd does when concern needs somewhere to go.

Then he starts Love Of My Life again. He sings it carefully, and if his eyes keep flicking to the stage exit, if his hand grips the pick a little too tightly, if the line between performer and terrified boyfriend feels thinner than it has ever felt in his life, the crowd doesn't need to know all of it.

Harry closes his eyes for one second, then he walks back to the mic stand. The guitar feels wrong in his hands now, the song feels impossible, but he has to finish. He has to trust the people around him to do their jobs, because the alternative is falling apart in front of an entire stadium and leaving everything less safe for everyone. He takes two deep breaths. “Alright,” he says, voice steady through sheer will. “We’ll keep going. Please look after each other tonight, yeah?”

Between the surprise song and the encore, the strings take over as usual, filling the stadium with a few minutes of the instrumentals of One Direction songs while Harry steps off to recover, drink water, and prepare for Sign Of The Times. This time though, he doesn't recover. He hands the guitar to a waiting crew member and heads straight for the side-stage entrance, almost running. Paddy is there, stationed where he usually is, eyes already alert because he saw the same thing everyone saw.

“Where is she?” Harry asks.

Paddy shakes his head. “They took her backstage. I saw them move her, but I don’t know where.”

Harry drags a hand over his face, trying not to let the panic push his voice too high. “Can you find her? Please. Stay with her until I’m off. Just—make sure she’s got someone familiar.”

“Of course,” Paddy says immediately.

“If they need anything, if she needs anything—”

“I’ve got her.”

Harry nods once, sharply, because gratitude is there but there's no time to say it properly before he has to go back.

Sign Of The Times feels endless, As It Was feels even longer, despite the dancing and running, despite the lights, despite the crowd giving him everything. He performs because he knows how to perform under pressure, but every part of him not required for singing is somewhere backstage with you. The lap around the stage, usually his final burst of release, becomes a route he needs to finish as fast as humanly possible and the moment the last line leaves his mouth and the outro carries him towards the exit, he runs off stage. He pushes the mic into the hand of the first crew member who appears, not even sure who it is, and sprints into the backstage corridors.

The closer he gets to his dressing room, the more he hears voices. Paramedics, Paddy, someone else speaking quietly. Harry reaches the door, pushes it open and relief hits first because you're there.

Then worry follows so closely it nearly knocks the relief away. You're on the sofa, half-reclined, legs elevated and supported by one paramedic while another adjusts the line connected to an IV cannula in the back of your hand. Paddy stands nearby holding the bag of clear fluids up, looking very serious and very steady. A third paramedic checks the monitor beside you. ECG electrodes are attached to your chest, wires leading to the portable monitor, a pulse oximeter clipped to your finger. Your skin is pale, a little clammy, your eyes open but hazy in a way that makes Harry want to be sick. He crosses the room immediately and drops to his knees beside the sofa. “Hey,” he says, taking your hand. “Love, look at me.”

Your eyes move towards him slowly, too slowly, but they find him eventually. “Harry,” you murmur.

“I’m here. I’m here, baby.” He brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles because he needs to do something with the fear. “How are you feeling?”

You blink at him, unfocused but trying. “I’m okay.”

Harry almost laughs, but it comes out wrong. “You are absolutely not okay, love.”

You make a tiny sound of protest.

He turns to the paramedic nearest him. “What happened? Is she alright?”

The paramedic, a woman with kind eyes and a calm voice, keeps her eyes on the monitor screen. “She’s stable at the moment. Looks like a collapse from heat exhaustion and dehydration. Her blood pressure was low when we got to her, heart rate high, she was very faint and disorientated, but she’s responding to fluids. We’ve got her on monitoring now.”

“She was sick this morning,” Harry says quickly. “Vomiting, after breakfast. I wanted her to stay home, but she said it was the heat.”

The paramedic nods. “Vomiting can happen with heat illness, but it could also be a stomach bug or food poisoning that’s made the heat harder for her body to tolerate. If she hasn’t kept enough fluid down, standing in a warm crowd would make fainting much more likely.”

Harry looks back at you, thumb rubbing over your hand as he asks further. “Is it serious?”

“From what we’re seeing right now, there’s nothing immediately alarming, but I would strongly recommend we take her to A&E for assessment, bloods and monitoring, especially because she had vomiting this morning. We can’t rule everything out here.”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately. “We’ll go.”

“No,” you mumble.

Harry looks at you, clearly surprised by your protest.

Your eyes are more focused now, which is both comforting and deeply inconvenient because it means your stubbornness has also recovered enough to participate. “No hospital,” you say.

“Y/n.”

“I want to go home.”

“You fainted.”

“I know.”

“You need to be checked properly.”

“I’m being checked.”

The paramedic gives Harry a sympathetic look, then addresses you. “We can’t force you to go if you have capacity to refuse, but given what happened, it would be safest to be assessed in hospital.”

“I understand,” you say, voice weak but clear enough to make Harry’s hope collapse slightly. “I don’t want to go.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut for half a second. “Love, please.”

You turn your head towards him. “Harry.”

“Don’t Harry me right now.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“I don’t care if you hate hospitals.”

“I want to go home.”

“I want you safe.”

“I am safe.”

“You collapsed in a pit.”

“And now I’m on a sofa.”

“That is not the argument you think it is.”

She understands. “We’ll finish the fluids and reassess. If she continues refusing transport, we’ll give you advice on what to watch for overnight. But if anything worsens, confusion, repeated vomiting, fainting again, chest pain, severe headache, difficulty breathing, anything like that, call emergency services immediately.”

Your mouth flickers like you almost smile, but you're too tired for it. Harry looks at the paramedic again, silently pleading for backup.

Harry nods, jaw tight. “I will.”

You close your eyes, exhausted by the conversation and Harry stays on his knees beside you while the IV runs. He asks twice more if you will please reconsider and you say no both times, once barely louder than a whisper. He wants to argue, properly argue, but you look so drained that he cannot bring himself to push hard enough to distress you further.

Eventually, he leans close to you. “Can I change quickly? I’m still in stage clothes. I’ll be two minutes.”

Your eyes open halfway. “Go. I’m fine.”

He really doesn't like those words tonight.

Still, he stands, squeezes your hand once, and disappears into the connected bathroom. He changes faster than he has ever changed in his life, stage outfit off, t-shirt and shorts on, a quick splash of water over his face because he looks wild even to himself in the mirror. His hair is damp, skin still flushed from the show, but none of it matters.

Harry immediately moves closer once you're helped upright, and the moment your torso lifts, your eyes close again. Harry’s hand goes to your shoulder. “Hey.”

When he comes back, the fluids are nearly finished. The paramedic removes the ECG leads and unclips the pulse oximeter, then, once the bag is empty, carefully removes the IV cannula from your hand, pressing gauze over the site before securing a small dressing. “We’re going to sit you up slowly,” she says.

“Dizzy,” you whisper.

“That’s expected with low blood pressure,” the paramedic says calmly. “Keep your head still, take slow breaths.”

You do as she says, breathing carefully through the wave until it eases. When you open your eyes again, they are still tired enough that Harry makes a decision without discussion. “You’re not walking.”

You look at him.

“No arguments,” he says.

You don't argue, and that frightens him more than if you had.

He crouches slightly. “Arms around me.”

You sigh against his shoulder when he lifts you bridal style, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. Your head rests against him immediately, and he feels the full weight of your exhaustion in the way your body gives in.

Paddy opens the door before Harry even turns. “Car’s ready,” he says.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs.

The journey through the backstage corridors feels strange, too quiet now that the show is over. Paddy walks ahead, opening doors and clearing the path, making sure no one stops you, no one asks questions, no one tries to turn a worrying private moment into something public. Harry carries you carefully, feeling your breath warm through the fabric of his t-shirt.

At the car, Paddy opens the passenger door and Harry lowers you into the seat with impossible care, buckles your belt, then checks it once because he needs his hands to be busy or he will start shaking.

Before he walks around the car, he turns to Paddy. “Thank you, really.”

Paddy nods. “Call me if you need anything. Any time tonight.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

Harry nods again, gratitude heavy in him. “I know.”

The drive back to Hampstead is mostly quiet, Harry only asks once, “You alright?”

You nod, eyes on the window, face turned towards the dark blur of London. He wants words, but he can see how tired you are, so he rests one hand on your knee instead, warm and steady, and keeps it there the whole way home.

By the time he pulls into the driveway, you're half-asleep. You try to stand when he opens your door, but he gives you a look. “No.”

“I can walk.”

“No.”

“Harry.”

“I said no.”

There's no sharpness in it, only an absolute decision that makes you let him carry you.

He carries you through the front door, up the stairs, and into the bedroom, setting you down on the bed as if you might bruise from the mattress. He kneels to take off your shoes, then helps you out of your clothes with a gentleness that makes your eyes sting all over again. You're not sad of course, but being cared for so completely sometimes feels like its own undoing.

He pulls one of his soft shirts over your head, guiding your arms through, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs. “Bathroom?” he asks.

You nod and he carries you there too. Usually, you would complain. Usually, you would tell him you have legs, that you're not a Victorian consumptive heroine, that he cannot carry you around every time you look slightly tired. Tonight, you only lean into him and let him place you on the edge of the bathtub.

Harry gathers what he needs from memory. He reaches for your cleansing balm first, not the wipes you only use when you're desperate, scooping a small amount into his fingers and warming it between them like he has watched you do a hundred times. He crouches in front of you, careful and slow. “Close your eyes for me, love.”

You do and his fingertips move over your face with astonishing softness, dissolving makeup from your skin, around your eyes, over your cheeks, along your jaw. He's so focused that you almost laugh, except you’re too tired and too touched.

“Am I doing it right?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

“Don’t lie to spare my feelings.”

“You’re doing it right.”

“Good.”

He wipes the balm away with a warm damp cloth, rinsing it twice, then helps you wash your face properly over the sink, one hand steady at your waist in case you sway. He squeezes toothpaste onto your toothbrush and hands it to you, then stands close while you brush, ready to catch you if dizziness returns.

Afterwards, he pats your face dry with a towel. “Night cream?” he asks.

You blink at him. “You know which one?”

Harry looks mildly offended. “I’m not an amateur.”

He opens the cabinet and chooses correctly and then you watch, almost deliriously fond, as he dots moisturiser over your forehead, cheeks and chin, then smooths it in with careful upward strokes, copying the way you do it at night.

“You’ve been studying,” you murmur.

“I’m very observant.”

“You use too much of mine.”

“I’m learning portion control.”

“You better.”

He smiles faintly, then reaches for your hairbrush. “Hair?”

You nod, too soft to tease.

He stands behind you and brushes your hair slowly, starting at the ends because he knows you once scolded him for beginning too high and pulling through tangles like a caveman. Tonight, he's patient, gentle, one hand holding the section above the brush so it does not tug at your scalp. When he finishes, he ties it loosely the way you like for sleeping.

Then he looks at you in the mirror. “There,” he says quietly. “Beautiful.”

You look pale and exhausted, eyes heavy, borrowed shirt slipping off one shoulder, but the way he says it makes you believe him for a second. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Harry presses a kiss to your temple. “Always.”

He takes you back to bed, tucks you in properly, then opens a bottle of water and hands it to you. “Small sips.”

You obey.

“I’m going to shower quickly,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

He looks at you for a moment, then leans down and kisses your forehead. “Two minutes.”

It's closer to seven in the end, but you don't hold it against him.

When he comes back, freshly showered, hair damp, skin smelling like soap and him, you're still awake. He switches off the main light, leaves the small bedside lamp on low, and climbs into bed beside you. The mattress dips, and as you shift towards him automatically, he gathers you into his side. You rest your cheek against his chest, one arm draped carefully over his stomach while his hand moves to your back, slow and soothing.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks.

“Tired.”

“I know.”

“But better.”

“Nauseous?”

“A little. Not awful.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Small.”

He kisses your hair. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not saying it to make you sorry.”

“I know.”

“I just need you to know.”

You press your face closer to him. “I know.”

For a few minutes, the room settles. The window is cracked open, but the air outside is still warm. Harry’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear. But then it changes, just a little quicker, then quicker again. You frown against his chest, eyes opening. “Harry?”

“Hm?”

“Why is your heart racing?”

He is quiet for a moment too long, so you lift your head slightly, looking at him in the low light. “What?”

You blink. “What?”

He stares at the ceiling for a second, then looks down at you. There's a new expression on his face now, one you cannot quite place. Nervous? Careful? As if a thought has just arrived and he doesn't know where to put it. “What if you’re pregnant?”

Harry shifts slightly, not away from you, just enough to look at you properly. “I know you probably aren’t. I know. But the jacket potato thing the other night, the weird craving, then being sick this morning, fainting tonight…”

You stare at him. “I have the implant,” you say.

“I know.”

“It’s very effective.”

“I know.”

“Very.”

“I know, love. But not one hundred percent.”

Everything goes very still around the possibility, and you look away first. “I don’t think I’m pregnant.”

Harry watches you carefully. “When did you last have your period?”

You hesitate and that hesitation answers more than you want it to. “I’m due,” you say.

“Due now?”

“Around now.”

Harry doesn't say anything immediately, neither do you.

The fear that moves through you isn't simple. It's not a no, not exactly, but it's not a yes either. It's the size of the question, the way it opens a door you and Harry have stood near but never properly walked through. You have talked about children, briefly, tenderly, in the abstract way couples do when they're in love enough to imagine futures but not yet ready to schedule them. You know he wants a family one day, you know you do too. But one day is very different from right now.

Now there's a world tour waiting after London. Your work, his work, your life moving at a speed that already feels barely containable. The thought of a positive test lands in you with both wonder and terror, and you hate that terror is there at all.

Harry sees it flickering across your face, of course he does. “I’m not saying you are,” he says softly. “I just think we should check.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe that you don’t think you are.”

You huff weakly, but there's no real irritation behind it.

He touches your cheek, thumb brushing gently. “We’ll buy a test in the morning. Just to rule it out.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know if I want to know.”

Harry goes quiet for a beat, then he pulls you a little closer. “Whatever it says, we’ll be alright.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Harry.”

“I do,” he repeats, not forceful, just steady. “If it’s negative, we deal with whatever actually made you faint and make sure you’re better. If it’s positive…” He pauses, because even he seems to need a second with that word. “Then we breathe, and we talk, and we figure it out together. Not all at once, but together.”

Your eyes sting again. “I’m scared,” you admit, so quietly it almost disappears into his shirt.

Harry kisses your forehead. “I know.”

“I don’t even know what I’m scared of.”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t…” You stop, unable to finish.

“I know,” he says again, and somehow he does.

His hand moves over your back, grounding and familiar. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “We’ll just start with tomorrow.”

“In the morning.”

You nod because tomorrow is small enough to hold. For tonight, there's only your bed, his arms, the low bedside light and the heat pressed outside the windows. Your body feels emptied out and heavy, but safer now, wrapped around his warmth. “You’ll buy a test?” you ask sleepily.

“And if it’s nothing?”

“Then I’ll still fuss over you for at least three days.”

You manage a faint smile. “Only three?”

“Five if you’re difficult.”

“I’m always difficult.”

“Then make it a week.”

Your smile fades into a yawn, Harry kisses you gently, careful not to ask too much from your tired body. “Sleep now.”

“Love you,” you murmur.

“I love you too.”

Your eyes are already closing when he adds, voice low and full of the softness he has kept for you all night, “Goodnight, my sweet love. I’ve got you.”

You're asleep before you can answer.

Harry stays awake a while longer, one hand resting against your back, counting the steadiness of your breathing, listening to the warm London night outside and the quieter, more frightening possibility now lying between you. Whatever tomorrow brings, he keeps you close, and he won't let go.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

You're somewhere out in the stadium filming content, probably walking through empty seats, catching details no one else thinks to look at until you point a camera at them. Harry had seen you briefly before soundcheck, phone in hand, hair slightly wind-tossed from one of the open concourses, your focus already somewhere between captions, angles and timing. You had smiled when he passed, but it hadn't quite reached your eyes the way it usually does and he knows exactly why.

He has watched you move around Jeff for two days like there is an invisible line between you and him. You're not acting dramatic, or childish, you're too professional for that, but you're careful and quietly avoidant. If Jeff enters a room, you find a reason to leave it. If his name appears in a group chat, you answer only what is necessary. If schedules require the two of you to communicate, your replies have the clipped politeness of someone who refuses to be rude but no longer feels safe being open. And Harry understands that, but he also hates it, because it should never have gotten this far in the first place.

Jeff sits at one of the tables near the back of the catering lounge, MacBook open, coffee beside him, phone face-down but never truly ignored. He looks the same as he always does on show days, busy in the way only Jeff can be busy, as if every email is either urgent or at least pretending to be. His fingers move across the keyboard, quick and practised, and he glances up only when Harry comes through the door.

“Hey,” Jeff says.

“Hey.”

Harry crosses to the bean-to-cup coffee machine, places a mug beneath it and presses for a black coffee. The machine grinds loudly, filling the small pocket of silence between them with a mechanical hum. It's not an awkward silence, not exactly. They've known each other too long for proper awkwardness, thirteen years of history woven through friendship, business, arguments, success, bad flights, late nights, enormous rooms, difficult decisions. Jeff has been his manager since Harry stepped into his solo career in 2016, and by now the two of them have survived enough disagreements to know a single fight doesn't collapse the whole structure. But this one hasn't been shelved yet, this one is still sitting in the room with them.

Harry takes his mug, sits opposite Jeff and for a minute, Jeff keeps typing, and Harry lets him. He takes one sip of coffee, bitter and too hot, then sets the mug down with a small click. “Have you talked to her?”

Jeff doesn't look up immediately. “Y/n?”

“Who else would I mean?”

The typing slows, then resumes. “No.”

Harry waits.

Jeff sighs through his nose. “She hasn’t exactly been interested in talking to me, has she?”

Harry scoffs, a short sound without humour. “Can you blame her?”

Jeff’s fingers pause again. “I haven’t had the chance.”

“You’ve had two days.”

“She’s been avoiding me.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning back slightly. “Because of how you spoke to her.”

Jeff’s mouth presses into a line, his eyes still on the screen. “It really wasn’t that deep.”

Harry goes still, then he reaches across the table, and closes Jeff’s MacBook firmly enough that Jeff’s hands pull back quickly and his eyes finally lift. “What are you doing?”

“Getting your attention.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Good.” Harry leans forward, forearms near the edge of the table, gaze steady on Jeff’s. “You don’t get to decide whether it was deep.”

Jeff stares at him now.

Harry’s voice is calm, but the calm has edges. “You hurt her. That makes it deep enough.”

Jeff looks away first, jaw shifting slightly. “I was angry.”

“I know.”

“She made a decision she wasn’t authorised to make.”

“I know that too.”

“She moved forty-five people from upper-level seats into a front pit with VIP lanyards, without clearing it with me, security management, ticketing, or the venue. That's not a small thing.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then you understand why I was pissed.”

“I understand why you wanted a professional conversation,” Harry says. “I understand why you had concerns. Security, capacity, precedent, fans complaining because someone else got upgraded, venue responsibility, all of it. You’re allowed to question the decision. You’re allowed to tell her it should’ve been escalated.”

Jeff’s expression tightens, as if he is waiting for the but and of course Harry gives it to him. “You were not allowed to say what you said.”

The lounge feels smaller suddenly, even with people moving around the far side of it. Jeff glances down at his closed laptop, then back up. “I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

Harry’s laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “How else could it sound?”

“I was making a point.”

“No, you were taking a shot.”

Jeff’s eyes narrow. “She overstepped.”

“And you could’ve said that. You could’ve said exactly that. You could’ve said, ‘You overstepped, we need a clear escalation process, don’t make that call alone again.’ Fine. That’s work.” Harry’s fingers curl loosely around his mug, though he doesn't lift it. “The second you said she was making decisions because she’s sleeping with the artist, it stopped being about tickets.”

Jeff’s expression shifts, irritation flickering with discomfort.

“It became about whether she belongs here,” Harry continues. “It became about her relationship with me being used against her. It became about you reducing her job, her judgement, her entire place on this team, to the fact that she shares my bed.”

Jeff leans back in his chair. “I know she’s good at her job.”

“Then why didn’t you speak to her like someone who knows that?”

Jeff doesn't answer quickly enough and Harry lets the silence sit, then he says, lower, “Do you realise what that sounded like? Not just to her, to me as well.”

Jeff’s brows draw together. “To you?”

“Yes, to me. Because you didn’t only insult her. You implied I can’t separate my personal life from business. You implied I’d hand someone this much responsibility because I’m sleeping with her, not because I trust her to do the job.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“Then don’t say things that mean that.”

Jeff exhales, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You know why she got this specific job, H.”

Harry’s eyes harden slightly, but he keeps his voice even. “Say what you mean.”

“You wanted her on tour,” Jeff shrugs. “You wanted to be with her. You trusted her, yes, and she had experience, but let’s not pretend the relationship had nothing to do with her being here.”

Harry nods once. “Of course it did.”

Jeff seems thrown by the immediate agreement, but Harry continues before he can use it. “I opened the door, I know that. She knows that too, probably more than anyone. But there’s a difference between how someone gets into the room and whether they deserve to stay there.”

Jeff says nothing.

“She has proven she deserves to stay there,” Harry says. “Every day. Through her work, the accounts are alive again. The fans feel included without my life being turned into a circus. She knows what to post, what not to post, when to make things funny, when to let things breathe. Anthony trusts her eye, PR trusts her instincts, I trust her with parts of me I don’t hand to most people.” His voice warms despite the anger beneath it. “That’s not because she’s my girlfriend, it’s because she’s good.”

Jeff looks at the table and Harry keeps going, because he's had two days to think about this and every version of the conversation has led him back to the same anger. “You accused her of abusing her closeness to me while using your own position to make her feel small,” he says. “You’re my manager, you’ve been here longer than almost anyone. You have authority, history, power in the team, and when you tell her she’s only here because of me, you’re not just being rude, you’re telling her this place can turn on her whenever you decide she’s stepped out of line.”

Jeff’s eyes lift again, but the defensiveness is less sharp now. “That wasn’t my intention and you know it.”

“I believe that,” Harry says, which seems to surprise him. “But intention doesn’t clean it up. You don’t get to hurt someone and then decide it wasn’t serious because you didn’t mean to cut that deep.”

Jeff rubs his thumb over the edge of his laptop, restless now without typing to hide behind. “I was blindsided,” he says eventually. “The videos were everywhere, and suddenly there were new videos of fans saying your girlfriend moved them to pit. Not management, or the venue, her. I had venue people asking who signed off on it, ticketing asking what they were supposed to tell other complaints, security asking why extra lanyards had gone out. I’m not saying the original problem wasn’t real, but I had to deal with the fallout.”

“I understand that.”

“And I was angry because it looked like she acted first and expected everyone else to catch up.”

“That’s a fair concern.”

Jeff looks at him carefully and Harry holds his gaze as he speaks. “It absolutely is, we can deal with that. We should have a process for it. If something like that happens again, she needs to know who to call, and whoever’s responsible needs to actually answer before it becomes a PR fire.” He pauses. “But none of that explains why you made it personal.”

Jeff’s shoulders lower slightly and for the first time since Harry sat down, he looks less like a man arguing his case and more like a man replaying his own words properly. “I was out of line,” he eventually says.

Harry nods firmly. “Yes.”

Jeff swallows, glancing towards the catering entrance as if half-expecting you to appear now that the conversation has finally reached the point it needed to reach. “I know she works hard,” Jeff says, quieter. “I do. And I know she’s been good for the tour. For you, for the accounts, for the fans. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“No,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t have.”

Jeff nods once, a small, reluctant concession. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You need to apologise to her.”

“I just said I’ll talk to her.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Jeff’s mouth almost twitches, not with humour exactly, more with recognition that Harry isn't letting him have any of the easy doors. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

Just then, the catering lounge door opens and you step inside with your phone in your hand, still in work mode, eyes on the screen for half a second before you glance up and see them both, which makes you stop immediately. Harry sees the calculation pass across your face. Jeff at the table, Harry opposite him, the closed laptop, the air between them no longer casual. Your hand tightens faintly around your phone, and your expression shifts to polite and guarded. “Oh,” you say. “Sorry. I didn’t realise you were in the middle of something.”

You take half a step back, already preparing to leave but Jeff stands and that stops you more effectively than anything Harry could have said.

“Y/n,” Jeff says. “Stay. Please.”

You look at him, hesitant, then at Harry. Harry’s expression is soft now, careful with you in a way he isn't always careful with others. He gives you a small nod, not pushing, not deciding for you. “It’s alright, love,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

You stay by the door for another second, then you come closer, slowly, and sit at the table, leaving one chair between you and Jeff. Your phone rests face-down near your hand, and Harry can see the tension in your shoulders, the careful stillness of someone waiting for a blow even when the room is quiet. He stands before the silence can become too much. “I’m going to get us some food.”

Your eyes flick up to him, uncertainty crossing your face.

“I’m right here,” he adds gently.

You understand what he is doing then. Giving you and Jeff space without leaving you alone in it and so you nod.

Harry walks over to the catering counter and busies himself with more concentration than a smoothie and two yoghurt bowls require. He picks the fruit you like, adds honey to one bowl but not too much, keeps one ear turned towards the table without making it obvious.

At the table, Jeff sits down again and the first few seconds are awful. You keep your hands in your lap now, fingers folding and unfolding around each other, and Jeff looks down at the table as if admitting fault might require reading instructions first.

Finally, he speaks. “I owe you an apology.”

You look up in surprise. He doesn't look at Harry, he actually looks at you.

“I was angry about the decision you made with the fans in section 551,” he says. “And we do need to talk about process at some point, because moving people into pit, especially with VIP lanyards, needs to go through the right channels. There are safety counts, venue sign-offs, ticketing issues, other fans who might complain. That part is real.”

You nod once, guarded but listening.

“But what I said to you in the tunnel was unacceptable,” Jeff continues. His voice isn't polished enough to sound rehearsed and that helps. “I didn’t just criticise the decision, I attacked you. I reduced your work to your relationship with Harry, and I implied you hadn’t earned your place here. That was insulting and unfair.”

Your fingers still and Jeff takes a breath. “And it was sexist,” he adds, with obvious discomfort, but he says it anyway. “Whether I intended it that way or not. If someone else on the team had made that call, I would’ve called them reckless or out of line. I wouldn’t have brought who they sleep with into it.”

You look down at the table for a moment, trying to organise the feelings that rise too quickly. Relief, hurt, embarrassment, anger you didn't let yourself feel properly before because being angry at Jeff felt too dangerous and too professionally messy. “I didn’t move them because I wanted attention,” you say.

“I know.”

“I didn’t do it because I thought being with Harry meant I could do whatever I wanted.”

“I know that too.”

“I saw a problem, I checked the tickets, I spoke to Leah about capacity.” Your voice stays steady, but Harry can hear the effort it takes you even from across the room. “I wasn’t trying to go around you. I was trying to stop the situation getting worse before the show started.”

Jeff nods. “I can see that now.”

“You could've been angry about the process,” you say. “I would have understood that. I can accept being told I should have escalated it or called someone first. I can accept making a mistake.” You pause, because this part is harder. “What hurt,” you say, quieter, “was that you made it sound like the mistake was me being there at all.”

Jeff’s expression changes, but you keep your eyes on the table when you continue because looking directly at him would make it worse. “I know Harry is part of why I got this opportunity, I’m not stupid. He trusts me, and yes, our relationship made it possible for me to be here in a way another job might not have. But I studied this, I worked before this tour. I’ve done this job every day for years. I’ve tried very hard not to make people feel like I’m just… tagging along.” Your mouth presses together for a second. “When you said that, it made all of it feel like it disappeared.”

Jeff does not interrupt, and that, too, helps.

“It made me wonder if everyone thinks it,” you admit. “If they’re all just being polite because of Harry. If every decision I make is going to be judged through the fact that I’m his girlfriend. If I stay quiet, I’m useless, and if I act, I’m overstepping. There doesn’t seem to be a version where I’m simply allowed to be good at my job.”

The honesty sits between you and Jeff looks properly ashamed now. “I don’t think you’re useless,” he says.

“I know you probably don’t.” You finally lift your eyes. “But for a moment, you spoke to me like you did.”

You study him for a moment, looking for the easy escape, the hidden excuse, but you don't find one. “I accept your apology,” you say.

He absorbs that, jaw working slightly, then he nods. “You’re right.” Jeff leans forward, leaning on the table. “You’ve done good work here, really good work. The accounts are better because of you, the fan engagement is better, and Harry’s more comfortable with it because it’s you handling it. I should've separated the professional issue from the personal one. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

Jeff looks relieved, though not proud of himself. “Thank you.”

“I still think we should have a proper process for fan issues like that,” you add, because the professional part of you has apparently survived the emotional one.

Jeff’s mouth lifts faintly. “Agreed.”

“And I’d like to know who to contact if something similar happens again.”

“I’ll sort that.”

“Okay.”

Harry returns then, setting a smoothie carefully in front of you and placing one yoghurt bowl near it. He sets the other in front of his chair and sits down again, glancing between you both. The mood is lighter now, not yet healed back into easy friendship, but it has changed for the better.

Jeff’s phone rings before anyone can say much more, he looks at the screen and sighs. “I have to take this.”

Of course he does, Jeff is Jeff, and on show days somewhere in Wembley, something always needs his attention. He stands, picks up his coffee and tucks his laptop under one arm. “We’ll talk process tomorrow,” he says to you.

You nod. “Okay.”

He looks at Harry. “I’ll find you later.”

Harry nods back. “Yeah.”

Jeff answers the call before he has fully reached the door, already slipping back into manager mode as he disappears into the corridor with his coffee, laptop and apology trailing behind him.

For a few seconds after he leaves, neither you nor Harry speaks. Harry picks up his spoon, tries a bite of yoghurt, then speaks to you. “I’m glad you two could talk.”

You don't answer him and that makes him look at you. You haven't touched the smoothie, and you haven't picked up your spoon either. Your hands are in your lap again, fingers kneading together, head slightly lowered. You look very still, but not at all calm, so Harry sets his spoon down. “Love?”

You inhale, careful and shallow, then wipe quickly beneath one eye before he can see it, but he sees anyway. His chair moves back at once. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly.

Harry’s voice softens. “Baby.”

That is all it takes, your eyes fill properly, and the first tears fall before you can stop them. You look embarrassed immediately, turning your face away, wiping at them with impatient fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.”

Harry is already moving. “C’mere.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. He apologised, it's fine.”

“C’mere,” Harry says again, gentler this time, but with enough certainty that you finally let him take your hand.

He guides you up from your chair and onto his lap, one arm around your waist as you settle across him, your knees on either side of his thighs. It's not something you would usually do in catering, not with people coming and going, but the table is tucked far enough back, the lounge quiet enough in this moment, and Harry holds you with such uncomplicated care that your embarrassment has nowhere to stand. So you fold into him, your arms slip around his neck, face buried against the warm skin just above his collar. He gathers you close until your chest is pressed to his, one hand secure at your back, the other moving to the nape of your neck where his fingertips begin the slow, familiar caress, gentle circles through the fine hairs at the base of your skull, exactly where he knows it settles you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”

“I thought I was over it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You huff a tearful little breath against him. “Maybe not.”

“It hit you again,” he says. “That’s allowed.”

“I don’t want to cry over it.”

“Then don’t want to,” Harry says, lips brushing your temple. “But if you do, you do. You don't have to make it small.”

For a little while, you just let him hold you. The tears are quiet, more release than collapse, but they carry more than you realised you had been holding: the tunnel, Jeff’s voice, the way you froze. The videos of happy fans afterwards that should have made you proud but got tangled with the fear that you had gone too far. The two days of being professional while feeling a little less solid inside your own role.

Harry’s hand never stops moving, but eventually, he asks, “Can you tell me what’s in your head?”

You close your eyes and sigh against his neck. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me.”

“You’ll tell me I’m wrong.”

“I might,” he says softly. “But I’ll listen first.”

That makes you smile faintly despite everything and you lift your head enough to speak, though you don't move off his lap. “I know Jeff apologised,” you say. “And I know he meant it. But it just… confirmed something I was already afraid of.”

Harry’s thumb moves slowly over your side. “That people think you’re only here because of me?”

You nod. “I know it’s not that simple,” you say. “I know I’m qualified, I’m not completely insecure about my work. But I also know I wouldn’t be here, in this exact job, if you and I weren’t together.”

“That’s true.” He brushes a tear from your cheek. “But keep going.”

“And because it’s true in one way, it makes it harder to argue against when someone twists it,” you say. “You did hire me partly because you wanted me on tour, and I wanted to be here with you, and I love the job, but then I feel like I have to prove every day that I didn’t just walk in because I’m your girlfriend.”

“You have proven it.”

“I know.” Your voice trembles slightly. “But what if one mistake is all it takes for people to stop seeing the work? What if they’re just waiting for proof that I never should’ve been here? I moved those fans because I thought it was right, and part of me still thinks it was right, but now I keep wondering if I should stop trusting my instincts.”

Harry shakes his head before you finish. “No.”

“But—”

“No. We can build a better process, and you can call the right people next time, but don't stop trusting your instincts. Your instincts are why those fans had a good night instead of leaving Wembley feeling cheated. Your instincts are why the story online turned from ‘Harry’s team sold us bad seats’ into ‘someone fixed it.’ That matters.”

You look down, but he tilts his head, trying to catch your eyes again. “And listen to me. You didn’t get this job because we fuck. Though I have to say, we do that wonderfully.”

A startled laugh breaks through your tears and Harry’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “Sorry, but you really didn’t. You got access to the conversation because I trust you and love you and wanted you here. You got the job because you can do it. You kept the job because you do it well.”

You wipe under your eye again. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple to me.”

“It doesn’t feel simple.”

“I know.” He presses his palm flat against your back, grounding you. “Because you’re the one who has to walk into rooms where people might make assumptions. You’re the one who has to carry both titles at once. Girlfriend and social media manager, partner and employee, person I love and person on the team. That’s not always fair to you.”

You swallow. “I don’t want people to think I’m using you.”

Harry’s face scrunches with immediate pain. “Love.”

“I don’t–”

“No, stop it. You’re not using me.”

“I don’t want people to think you’re foolish for trusting me either.”

“No one whose opinion matters thinks that.”

“Jeff might have.”

“Jeff was angry and wrong.”

“Other people could.”

“Then they’re wrong too.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Harry leans in, forehead nearly touching yours. “My judgement isn't weakened by loving you. If anything, I know better than anyone how capable you are because I see it up close. I see how much thought you put into everything. I see you rewriting captions ten times because one word feels too cold. I see you checking fan reactions after shows when I’m too tired to understand my own being. I see you protecting me from becoming content and still giving people enough to feel included.”

That gets another tiny laugh from you as you sniff, embarrassed. “I hate crying in public.”

Your face crumples slightly again, and he catches it with another kiss to your cheek. “You’re not here by accident,” he says. “And you’re not here because I’m soft for you, even though I’m very soft for you.”

“I know. Very unprofessional.”

You lift your head enough to glare weakly and Harry smiles. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Not much.”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder again. “It just hurt.”

“I know.”

“More than I wanted it to.”

“I know, baby.”

“And then he apologised, and that helped, but it also made me realise how much I’d been holding it in.”

Harry nods, hand moving back to the nape of your neck. “Makes sense.”

“You’re being very reasonable.”

“Trying something new today.”

You breathe out a soft laugh into his shirt.

He holds you for another moment, then says, quieter, “I love having you here, in every way. I love waking up with you before show days, I love finding you side-stage. I love when you tell me an outfit is awful and I need to try harder. I love that you know the fans better than half the internet companies pretending they do. I love that you care enough to climb to the roof of Wembley because some people couldn’t see. And I love that after all of that, you still worry about doing right by everyone.”

Your tears have slowed now, leaving only that drained, tender feeling behind. Harry presses a kiss to your forehead. “You belong here,” he says. “With the team, and with me, both. Not one instead of the other.”

You close your eyes and for the first time since the tunnel, that sentence reaches somewhere the apology did not. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me for telling the truth.”

“I mean for being like this with me.”

His arms tighten around you. “Always.”

You sit like that for a little longer, breathing together in the corner of catering while Wembley moves on around you.

After a while, Harry kisses your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your mouth. “I believe in you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll say it again.”

“I know you will.”

“As many times as you need.”

You manage a real smile this time. “You’re very persistent.”

“Been called worse.”

“I love you.”

Harry’s eyes warm. “I love you too.”

You stay there for another moment, arms around him, his hand at your neck, the smoothie sweating on the table beside the untouched yoghurt bowls. The lounge continues around you, but it feels less sharp now, less like a place where you need to prove anything every second.

Eventually, Harry leans back slightly and looks at your face. “Do you want to eat?”

You glance at the yoghurt bowl. “In a minute.”

“Smoothie?”

“In a minute.”

“Do you want me to threaten Jeff again?”

That pulls a laugh out of you, small but genuine. “No.”

“Shame, I was getting good at it.”

“You told him to go be useful somewhere else.”

“He needed direction.”

“You were very scary.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Scary?”

“To him.”

“Good.”

“Still not to me.”

His smile softens into genuine relief. “Good.”

You shift slightly on his lap, but he doesn't let you go yet, and honestly, you don't want him to. His arms are warm, his body solid beneath yours, and for the first time since the tunnel, the ugly sentence in your head has less space to echo. It's still there, but so is Harry’s voice beside it now: you belong here.

Harry presses another kiss to your temple. “We’re alright,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes, breathing him in, letting the words settle. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re alright.”

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