Still (Patreon)

Author's note: Though of writing something sweet for all of you! I hope you like it. It's just a whole bunch of fluff. 🥺 short but sweet.

It was raining, the good kind — steady but soft, tapping the windows like a lullaby.

Harry was barefoot in the kitchen, humming something half-written as he flipped pancakes in one hand and nursed a mug of tea in the other. The sleeves of his faded Ramones shirt were pushed to his elbows, curls still tousled from sleep. There was jazz playing low on the speakers, and a candle flickered on the windowsill, making everything smell like vanilla and warm spice.

It was their Sunday.

Phones off. No work. No interruptions.

Just them.

But she hadn’t said much today.

Harry noticed it between the silences — the way she stirred her tea too long without sipping, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She hadn’t touched her pancakes, either. And her forehead was drawn in that quiet frown he knew too well — the one that meant her head was loud.

He didn't push. Not yet. He never liked forcing her open like a stubborn jar. She came to him in her own time.

Still, something twisted in his gut.

"Y’cold?" he asked gently, nodding at the hoodie she’d tugged tighter around herself. It was his, navy and oversized, nearly swallowing her. She shook her head no, but didn’t say anything. Just blinked down at her tea and brought it to her lips.

Harry crossed the kitchen slowly, warm plate in hand. "Your pancakes’ll get sad if you don’t eat them," he teased, setting them in front of her with that crooked little grin that always made her heart flutter. "They’ve got blueberries. Your favorite ones, the messy ones that leak purple."

She tried to smile. “Thank you.”

But her voice was small.

He crouched next to her chair instead of taking his own. “Alright. What’s goin’ on, love?”

Her hand paused midair, fingers tight around the mug.

She didn’t know how to say it. She didn’t know if she could say it.

Because she hadn’t planned this.

Because she wasn’t ready.

Because she was scared.

Because everything was about to change.

Her lip wobbled before she could stop it.

Harry’s smile dropped, voice softening instantly. “Hey, hey. Baby, what is it?”

She shook her head, overwhelmed. “I don’t know how to tell you.”

His brows pulled together. He reached up, brushing his thumb beneath her eye before a tear could fall. “Is it something bad?”

She hesitated.

Then, finally, her whisper cracked open the truth:

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch, didn’t speak.

He just stared at her — carefully, quietly — his expression unreadable, as if she’d just handed him something delicate, fragile, and utterly sacred.

For a split second, Y/N panicked.

The silence stretched too long, his face too calm. She couldn’t tell what was going through his mind, and that only made her chest tighten. She’d been right — maybe she should’ve kept it in. Maybe now she’d ruined their morning. Their life. Maybe—

“What makes you think that?” he asked softly, cutting through the noise in her head. His voice was gentle, but steady. Calm. Like he was trying to walk her through a fire without adding fuel to it.

She swallowed thickly. “I’m late. Really late.” Her fingers tightened around the mug again, knuckles whitening. “And I’ve just been… off. Tired. Nauseous in the mornings. My chest is sore. And I don’t know, I just… feel different. My body feels different.”

Still, Harry didn’t say anything.

Didn’t react.

Just listened.

She hated that she couldn’t read him.

He was too good at hiding things — years of interviews, cameras, touring, heartbreak, headlines. He’d mastered the art of the perfect stillness. And right now, it was like a wall she couldn’t climb.

Her voice dropped. “I haven’t taken a test yet. I’m too scared to see it. Either answer feels too big.”

Another long pause.

The rain ticked gently at the windows.

Harry exhaled slowly, the only sign he was actually processing what she'd said. He set her mug down for her, fingers brushing hers. His hands were warm.

Then, finally — finally — a smile flickered. Small at first. Careful.

“You think you might be carrying a little version of us,” he said, voice quiet with wonder.

Y/N blinked. “I don’t know. I think I might. And it terrifies me.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her. Then reached for her hands with both of his, cradling them in his lap. His thumb ran over the knuckle of her left hand in slow, grounding circles.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said gently. “Even if you’re scared. Especially if you’re scared.”

Y/N’s eyes filled again, but she bit her lip to keep it down.

Harry tilted his head just slightly, eyes locked on hers now with intention — the kind that reached straight through her fear.

“I think we should take a test. Together. And whatever it says… we’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not doing any of this alone.”

She let out a shaky breath. Her shoulders dropped — not fully, not yet — but enough.

His smile grew a little more.

“And if there is a little you in there,” he said, resting his palm just lightly on her belly, “I reckon they’re already making you glow.”

Y/N laughed softly, watery and a little uneven. “That’s just the nausea.”

He grinned, wide now. “Can’t wait to meet ‘em either way.”

Harry stood without a word, rising from where he’d been crouched in front of her, and crossed the room with purpose. His bare feet padded across the wood floor as he made his way toward the small dish by the front door where they kept their keys. Y/N frowned, watching him.

“Where are you going?” she called gently, nerves coiling again in her belly.

He picked up his coat, already halfway into the sleeve. “The shops. Gonna get the test.”

“What?” Her voice pitched higher. “Harry, you can’t just—no. You can’t go buy it.”

He paused, hand frozen on the doorknob.

She stood too now, heart thudding. “You’ll get photographed. Or followed. Or worse, they’ll see you holding it and post something before we even know what’s happening.”

Harry looked over at her — expression unreadable again, except for the flicker of frustration in his jaw. Not at her. Just at the fact that even this couldn’t be simple.

“I’m not gonna ask my assistant to buy a pregnancy test for my girlfriend, Y/N,” he said gently, but firmly. “That’s not how we’re doing this.”

She blinked at the word. Girlfriend. It felt too small suddenly. Too informal for what this might mean.

“I’ll wear a mask,” he continued, quieter now. “Hat, hoodie, glasses. I’ll be fast. It’s still raining — nobody’s standing outside Boots waiting for me in this weather.”

“But Harry…” Her voice wobbled. “What if someone is?”

He crossed the room in three strides and cupped her face in both hands, kissing her forehead like a promise. “Then I’ll lie and say it’s for my sister. Or a friend. They’ll say worse no matter what I do. But you matter more.”

Her eyes welled again, but she didn’t stop him this time.

“Do you want this, though?” she whispered. “If I am. Are you sure you—”

“Shh,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers. “Don’t think that far ahead yet. Let’s just find out first, alright? One step at a time. I want you. Everything else we’ll do together.”

She nodded, barely.

He kissed her cheek, one last time, lingering. Then whispered, “Put the kettle back on. I’ll be home in fifteen.”

And with that, he slipped out the door, into the rain.

The rain hadn’t let up, but that worked in Harry’s favor. His hood was up, cap low over his curls, mask pulled snug over the bottom half of his face. A few stray curls clung to his forehead from the damp, and his boots squeaked on the tile floor as he stepped into the small high street pharmacy.

The bell above the door chimed — too loudly.

He kept his head down.

The fluorescent lights were a shock after the warm quiet of home, and for a second, he just stood there, blinking. Steadying himself. Reminding his heart to stay put inside his ribs.

Just in, grab the tests, check out, and get home. That’s it.

He moved fast, hands shoved in his coat pockets, scanning the signs above each aisle until he found the one he needed: "Family Planning."

Christ.

He slowed when he reached it, suddenly hyper-aware of how narrow the aisle was. Anyone could walk past. Anyone could glance over. He could practically feel the headlines writing themselves:

"Harry Styles Sparks Baby Rumors With Mystery Purchase"

"Is He Going to Be a Dad? Fans Spot the Singer Holding Clearblue at Local Shop!"

He gritted his teeth, eyes darting over the shelves.

Why were there so many options?

Digital. Rapid. Early Detection. Extra Early Detection. Packs of two. Packs of five. With app integration. Some with little smiley faces. One even said “Pregnancy Test + Ovulation Kit” like it was a bundle deal at Tesco.

He squinted at the boxes, overwhelmed.

What if this one gives a false negative? What if that one’s not accurate? What if he picks the wrong kind and makes her panic even more?

Frustrated, Harry just grabbed all of them. His arms full of boxes, three or four different brands — enough to start a YouTube review channel if they wanted to.

He made a beeline toward the self-checkout, head low. No small talk. No questions.

But of course — because fate had a sense of humor — the first two self-checkout machines were out of order. Big red X screens flashing in his face.

The third one worked.

He scanned fast, but the machine beeped at every box with infuriating slowness.

BEEP

“Clearblue Digital Pregnancy Test, £11.99.”

BEEP

“First Response Early Result Twin Pack, £9.99.”

Each beep sounded louder than the last. He could swear the teenager working behind the pharmacy counter was looking at him. Or maybe not. He didn’t want to check.

A receipt finally printed. He shoved everything into a paper bag and walked out into the drizzle again without a second look.

Only once the door shut behind him, the bell chiming again, did he let out the breath he’d been holding the entire time.

He clutched the bag tighter against his chest.

Not because he was embarrassed.

Because somewhere inside that crinkled paper might be the beginning of the rest of his life.

The flat was too quiet.

Y/N had already reheated her tea twice and still hadn’t touched it. Her phone sat untouched on the counter — off, like they always agreed on Sundays — but the temptation to check it, scroll aimlessly, distract herself, was unbearable.

She was pacing now, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists, biting the inside of her cheek.

He’s okay. It’s fine. He’s just being careful.

Still, her stomach flipped every time headlights passed the front window. She had no idea what she wanted the test to say. Just that she didn’t want to be alone when it told her.

Then—finally—the key turned in the lock.

She spun toward the door just as it opened.

Harry stepped in with the rain clinging to him like a second skin — hoodie damp, curls flattened to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked wild in that moment. Not chaotic — just… undone. Wide-eyed. Windblown. Like he hadn’t taken a single breath since he left her.

In one hand, he held a damp brown paper bag, gripped like it was sacred.

He blinked at her once.

Then just said, a little breathless, “I didn’t know which one to get.”

Y/N blinked, stepping forward. “So you—”

“I got all of them.”

She laughed — more like a soft choke — pressing her hands to her face as the emotion cracked in her chest. “Of course you did.”

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he added, voice gentler now. “Didn’t want you to feel like you were figuring this out on your own.”

Her eyes burned again, but she managed a small smile as she walked toward him, her fingers brushing his coat where it dripped onto the floor.

“You’re soaked.”

“‘S just water,” he muttered, lifting the bag between them. “This felt more important.”

She took it from him slowly, eyes scanning the edges of the wrinkled paper. It was heavy with possibility.

And then — because she couldn’t wait any longer — she whispered, “Let’s go.”

Harry nodded once, silent.

Fingers laced, bare feet padding down the hall, they walked to the bathroom like it was a church.

The bathroom was small, softly lit, smelling faintly of eucalyptus from the diffuser on the shelf. It was quiet — too quiet — except for the faint tick of the old wall clock above the mirror.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bathtub while Harry knelt in front of the sink, reading the test instructions like it was a contract.

“Two lines means pregnant. One line means not. This one takes three minutes. That one takes five. This one shows a little smiley face if it’s—okay, we’re skipping that one.”

She gave him a half-laugh, nervous and unsteady, and rubbed her palms on her thighs.

Harry looked up at her.

“You don’t have to be the one to do it if you’re not ready,” he said gently. “We can wait. Or we can just… hold onto them for now.”

Y/N met his eyes, vulnerable but clear. “No. I need to know.”

He nodded once, reaching into the bag again. “Alright. This one’s early detection. Three minutes.”

She took it from him with shaking fingers and stood slowly, her heartbeat fluttering in her throat. Harry reached out, brushing his knuckles along her wrist before she slipped into the toilet room and closed the door gently behind her.

Silence.

He sat down on the bathroom floor, knees pulled up, fingers steepled under his chin.

He’d performed in front of tens of thousands. Spoken at award shows. Stared down paparazzi lenses and heartbreak and press junkets and loss.

But he had never felt this kind of wait.

The door opened a moment later. Y/N stepped out, test face down in her palm.

“Three minutes,” she said softly, setting it on the counter like it might explode.

He glanced at the clock. 3:12 p.m.

They didn’t speak after that.

She sank onto the floor beside him, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders without needing to be asked. Her head found his chest, and his fingers toyed absentmindedly with the edge of her sleeve. They didn’t fill the silence — didn’t try to. Just breathed together.

Three minutes felt like a lifetime.

At 3:15, the alarm on his watch buzzed once.

Y/N stiffened. “You look.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t. Please.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Just nodded slowly and reached for the test on the counter. He picked it up carefully, like it was a glass ornament, and turned it over.

His breath hitched.

And then—

A slow, dawning smile spread across his face. Not loud. Not shocked. Just… full.

He looked down at her. “It’s positive.”

Y/N’s eyes filled instantly.

She covered her mouth, leaning into him so suddenly it nearly knocked him back. He caught her, arms wrapping around her like a shield as her tears spilled silently into his shirt.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “Me too.”

“But I’m so—” her voice cracked, “—happy.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face. To cup it in both hands and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips — slow, reverent kisses like prayers of thanks.

“You’re gonna be the best mum,” he whispered. “And we’re gonna be alright.”

She nodded against him, breath shaky.

“You really think so?” she asked.

Harry smiled again, voice thick. “I know so.”

And in that little bathroom, knees on cold tile, test on the counter, the rain still falling outside — their world quietly shifted.

Together.