off the record — 1 (Patreon)

Pregnant after a one-night stand with Harry Styles, Y/N assumes they have gone their separate ways until a high-stakes photoshoot forces them back together.

Author's note: 🤫 Surprise drop! Here is a brand new story about a one-night stand gone wrong (or right?). Get ready for a very drunk Harry, a panic attack in a pharmacy, and a massive cliffhanger. Enjoy!

word count - 10,7k

warnings/tags: First time, unprotected sex, alcohol use, pregnancy discovery.

The blue light from the dual monitors was the only thing illuminating the living room. Y/N leaned back in her ergonomic chair, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She had been staring at the same editorial spread for Wonderland magazine for six hours, obsessing over the color grading on a model’s cheekbone.

It was good work. Gritty, raw, exactly the kind of aesthetic that was getting her name dropped in rooms she wasn't even in yet.

The silence was shattered by the sound of the front door unlocking, followed immediately by it slamming shut.

Y/N didn't even turn around. She just hovered her mouse over the Save button. "Don't tell me. You didn't wear the coat."

"I am not going," a voice wailed from the hallway.

Marnie stomped into the living room, throwing her expensive clutch onto Y/N’s sofa before collapsing next to it face-first. She was dressed in a stunning, shimmering silver dress that cost more than Y/N’s first camera, but her vibe was pure tragedy.

Y/N finally swiveled her chair around. "Marnie, it’s the British Fashion Awards after-party. You’ve been talking about this since June. You have to go. It’s literally your job."

Marnie lifted her head; her mascara was dangerously close to smudging. "I can't. I can't do it, Y/N. Greg is going to be there."

"Greg?" Y/N frowned. "I thought Greg was in finance. Why is Greg at a fashion party?"

"Because his firm sponsors the vodka brand that’s sponsoring the bar!" Marnie cried, sitting up and gesturing wildly. "And he’s not just going to be there. He’s going to be there with his 'work friends,' which means I have to walk in there alone, three days after he dumped me via text, while the vultures from my PR team watch me crumble."

Y/N sighed, looking back at her screen. She really wanted to finish this edit. But looking at Marnie—usually so put together, now vibrating with anxiety—she knew her night of solitude was over.

"The vultures?" Y/N asked.

"Sarah and the other junior publicists," Marnie said darkly. "They smell blood. If I show up alone and sad, they’ll eat me alive. I need armor. I need a buffer." She looked at Y/N with wide, pleading eyes. "I need you."

Y/N laughed dryly. "Me? Marnie, I’m editing. And I haven’t washed my hair in two days. I am not red carpet material right now."

"I don't need red carpet material!" Marnie stood up, marching over to Y/N’s desk. She grabbed the back of Y/N’s chair. "I need 'cool, rising-star photographer who is too busy for this shit but is here anyway.' I need your energy. Please. If you come with me, I look connected and unbothered. If I go alone, I look like the ex-girlfriend who couldn't get a date."

Y/N looked at her best friend. She thought about the time Marnie had spent three hours helping her carry lighting equipment up four flights of stairs for her first paid shoot.

"Fine," Y/N groaned, saving the file and shutting down the computer. "But we are not staying late. And I am absolutely choosing my own outfit."

Marnie let out a squeal, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s neck. "I love you. You should wear the golden dress. It’s very 'off-duty model.' Just hurry!"

Y/N stood up and headed toward her bedroom. "I’m giving you two hours, Marnie. If I don't see a free drink in my hand by 10 PM, I’m coming back here to sleep."

"Deal!"

The venue was exactly what Y/N expected: a sensory overload of velvet, crystal, and ego.

The moment they stepped out of the taxi, the humidity of the London rain clinging to their skin, they were hit by the wall of sound. Inside, the bass vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the ice in the glasses of the waiters weaving through the crowd.

Y/N brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, feeling the cold air hit the exposed skin of her back. The dress Marnie had bullied her into was incredible, she had to admit—a shimmering, champagne-gold mini dress that caught every stray beam of light. It had long, flared sleeves that swished dramatically when she moved, but the back was completely open, held together only by a delicate tie at the nape of her neck.

"Okay," Marnie breathed, gripping Y/N’s arm. Her grip was tight, her nails digging in slightly. "Target acquired. Sarah is at the bar with the Creative Director from Gucci. I need to go say hello before she spins the narrative that I’m at home crying into a tub of ice cream."

Y/N squeezed her hand. "Go. Be charming. I’ll get a drink and try not to look like I’d rather be editing."

"You look amazing," Marnie said, her eyes scanning the room. "Thank you. Seriously."

With a deep breath, Marnie smoothed her hair and disappeared into the crush of bodies, instantly transforming from the frantic friend in the apartment to the polished PR maven she was paid to be.

Y/N stood alone for a moment, letting the wave of the party wash over her. She navigated toward the bar, but the queue was three deep. The air was hot, smelling of expensive perfume and stale champagne.

I need a drink. Immediately.

Just as she was about to give up, a waiter breezed past with a silver tray of champagne flutes. Y/N didn't hesitate. She reached out and snatched a glass, downing half of the expensive fizz in one unladylike gulp. The bubbles burned pleasantly in her throat, taking the edge off her anxiety.

She grabbed a second glass from the retreating tray before the waiter could protest—backup—and turned toward the back of the room.

She spotted a heavy velvet drape near the back of the room, slightly ajar. Slipping through the crowd, the sequins of her dress brushing against tailored suits, she pushed the curtain aside and stepped out onto the terrace.

The silence was instant and blissful.

The terrace was stone, wet from the rain, overlooking the slick streets of Mayfair below. It was empty. Or so she thought.

"Smart move," a voice said from the shadows.

Y/N jumped slightly, her hand going to her chest.

Leaning against the stone balustrade in the corner was a man. He was wearing a flared suit that looked like 70s wallpaper in the best possible way, his shirt unbuttoned low enough to show a hint of tattoos. He was holding a heavy crystal tumbler, the amber liquid inside catching the dim light.

Harry Styles.

Y/N blinked. She didn't gasp. She didn't pull out her phone. Her photographer’s brain just instantly registered the composition: the way the streetlamp backlit his curls, the contrast of his sharp suit against the rough stone.

"Jesus," she let out a breath, stepping further onto the terrace. The wind whipped at the long sleeves of her dress. "You scared me."

"Sorry," Harry said, though he was grinning. His voice was slow, raspy. He didn't move from his spot. "Usually people come out here to smoke or to cry. You don't look like you're doing either." His eyes dropping to the full glass of champagne in her hand, and then to the empty one she had evidently just finished and was still clutching. "Thirsty?”

Y/N looked down at the glasses, realizing she was double-fisting. She shrugged, setting the empty one on the balustrade and taking a large sip of the full one. "It’s that kind of night. I'm hiding. My best friend is currently fighting for her life in a PR war inside. I'm the designated moral support, but I'm currently on a union-mandated break."

Harry laughed, a genuine, bubbling sound. "PR war? Sounds dangerous."

"It's brutal," Y/N agreed, leaning her elbows on the wet stone. She looked at him sideways. "And you? Hiding from the adoring masses?"

"Hiding from a guy trying to pitch me a metaverse concert," Harry said, flicking ash over the side of the balcony. He turned his body toward her, his green eyes scanning her face, then drifting down to the open back of her dress before snapping back up. "I think I prefer the PR war."

"Trust me," Y/N smirked. "You don't."

There was a pause, but it wasn't awkward. It was heavy. The kind of silence where you can feel the other person’s gravity.

"I'm Harry," he said finally, extending a hand.

Y/N looked at his hand—rings on almost every finger—and then met his eyes. "I know." She took his hand. It was warm. "I'm Y/N."

Harry didn't let go of her hand immediately. He tilted his head, studying her with a lazy, amused expression. "Y/N. No last name? Like Madonna? Or Cher?”

"Like someone who wants to keep her anonymity intact," she countered, finally pulling her hand back to take a sip of her champagne. The bubbles were making her head spin in a pleasant, fuzzy way. "Besides, you're one to talk. pretty sure you’re just 'Harry' to about three billion people.”

"Touché." He took a long swallow of his drink, his eyes never leaving her face. "So, Y/N who is hiding from the PR war. What do you do when you aren't double-fisting champagne on balconies?”

"I'm a photographer," she said, leaning back against the stone railing. She gestured vaguely with her glass toward the party inside. "Fashion. Editorial. Usually, I'm the one behind the lens telling people like you to tilt their chin down because the lighting is tragic.”

Harry laughed, a low rumble in his chest. He stepped a little closer, encroaching on her personal space. "Is that what you're doing now? Analyzing my angles?"

Y/N looked him up and down. The suit was ridiculous, really—a geometric 70s print that should have looked hideous but somehow just looked... cool. "I'm trying to figure out if that suit is custom Gucci or if you peeled it off a wall in a grandmother's house in 1974."

Harry grinned, looking down at his lapels. "It's vintage. And for your information, grandmothers love me."

"I bet they do," she murmured, taking another large gulp of her drink. She was definitely feeling the alcohol now; the sharp edges of her anxiety about Marnie were blurring into a warm confidence. "You have a very 'bingo night' energy."

"Bingo night energy?" Harry feigned offense, but his eyes were dancing. "I'll have you know I am the life of the party. Just... not this party."

"Why?" Y/N asked, genuinely curious now. "Everyone in there is dying to talk to you."

"That's the problem," Harry said. He turned to lean his back against the railing next to her, so they were shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the rainy street. "Everyone wants to talk at me. Pitch me things. Take a selfie. It’s loud. And I’m starving."

"Well, there are canapés inside," Y/N pointed out.

"Tiny, sad toast," Harry dismissed with a wave of his hand.

Suddenly, the velvet curtain behind them whipped open. A burst of loud bass and laughter spilled onto the quiet balcony. A man in a shiny suit stuck his head out, his eyes widening when he saw Harry.

"Harry! Mate! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, we need to discuss the—"

Harry’s jaw tightened. He didn't look at the man. He looked at Y/N, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. He finished his drink in one swallow and set the glass down on the stone ledge.

"I'm leaving," he said, his voice low, just for her. "I'm going to go home, make a proper grilled cheese sandwich, and open a bottle of wine that actually tastes like grapes. You should come."

Y/N blinked, surprised. "To your house?"

"My place in Hampstead," Harry nodded, ignoring the man who was now stepping fully onto the balcony. "It's a bit of a drive, but the company is better. And I promise the lighting is excellent."

It wasn't a smooth pickup line anymore; it was a lifeline. He was offering an escape hatch.

Y/N looked at the man approaching them, then back at Harry’s open, hopeful face. The alcohol in her system made the decision feel easy, almost inevitable.

"I do love a grilled cheese," she said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

Harry grinned, his dimple popping. "Run," he whispered.

He grabbed her hand, and before the man in the shiny suit could say another word, they were ducking past him, Harry leading her not back into the party, but toward the side stairs that led down to the alleyway exit

The back of the blacked-out SUV was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos they had just left. The rain drummed rhythmically against the roof.

They sat close, their thighs pressing together every time the car took a sharp turn. The adrenaline of their escape had faded into a comfortable, heavy silence.

"You weren't kidding about the drive," Y/N murmured, watching the London streets blur past—moving from the lights of Mayfair to the darker, leafier roads of North London.

"Worth it," Harry said. He was slouching in the leather seat, looking more relaxed than he had all night. He turned his head to look at her. "You okay? No regrets about deserting the PR war?"

"Marnie will understand," Y/N said, though she made a mental note to text her. "She usually supports my bad decisions."

"Is this a bad decision?" Harry asked softly.

Y/N met his gaze. In the flashing streetlights, his eyes were dark and intense. "Ask me after the grilled cheese."

Harry laughed, and the car finally slowed, pulling through a set of high gates and crunching over gravel.

The house was beautiful—a white stucco Georgian home that looked cozy rather than imposing. Inside, it wasn't the sterile showroom Y/N expected. It was cluttered and warm. There were piles of books on the floor, guitars leaning against walls, and a mismatched collection of colorful furniture.

"Shoes off," Harry instructed, kicking off his boots by the door.

“I'll go foraging for cheese. Make yourself at home."

He disappeared into the kitchen, humming something off-key.

Y/N stood in the hallway for a moment, the silence of the house settling around her. She unbuckled her heels, sighing with relief as her feet hit the plush rug. She quickly fished her phone out of her clutch.

To: MarnieI escaped. Sorry!! Left early. Will explain everything tomorrow. Don't die. Love u x

She hit send, guilt-swallowing slightly, but not enough to leave. She dropped the phone back into her bag just as Harry reappeared.

He had ditched his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt further, sleeves rolled up. He was balancing a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a plate of rather burnt-looking grilled cheese sandwiches.

"The dining table is covered in fan mail I haven't opened since 2019," he announced, nodding toward the living room rug. "Floor?"

"Floor is good," Y/N agreed.

They settled on the thick Persian rug in front of the fireplace. Y/N sat cross-legged, the gold dress shimmering in the low light, while Harry stretched his long legs out, pouring the wine with a heavy hand.

"To escaping," he toasted, handing her a glass.

"To burnt cheese," she countered, clinking her glass against his.

They ate the sandwiches—which were actually delicious—and drank the wine. Fast.

An hour later, the bottle was dangerously low, and the air in the room had shifted from awkward to that specific, hazy comfort you only get at 2 AM with a stranger.

Y/N was laughing so hard she had to lean back on her hands, her head tilting toward the ceiling. "No, you did not. You are lying."

"I swear!" Harry protested, his face flushed, eyes bright and glassy. He was lying on his side now, propped up on one elbow, tracing the pattern of the rug with a ring-clad finger. "I fell off the stage. Fully off. And I just... kept singing. I thought if I didn't acknowledge it, no one would notice."

"Harry," Y/N giggled, wiping a tear from her eye. "Everyone noticed. There are probably memes."

"There are so many memes," he groaned, hiding his face in his hand for a second before peeking back at her. "God, it's nice to just... talk shit. Usually, people want to talk about the 'creative process' or my hair routine."

"What is your hair routine?" Y/N teased, reaching out to poke his knee.

"Neglect and humidity," he grinned. He sat up a little straighter, reaching for the bottle to split the last dregs between them. "What about you? What's the worst thing that’s happened on a shoot?"

Y/N took the refilled glass. She felt loose, warm, and happy. "I once told a very famous supermodel to 'stop looking like a dead fish.' I thought I was whispering to my assistant. I was not whispering."

Harry barked out a laugh, throwing his head back. "Did she storm off?"

"No, she actually posed better. Fear is a great motivator."

They fell into a comfortable silence then. The laughter died down, leaving a heavy, charged quiet in its wake. The room was dim, the only light coming from a few lamps and the streetlights filtering through the curtains.

Y/N took a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. He was looking at her. Really looking at her. Not at the dress, but at her face.

It was the wine, she told herself firmly. Definitely the wine.

That was the only reason she was noticing the way his shirt pulled across his shoulders as he leaned back. It was the mix of champagne and expensive red that was making his eyes look so unnervingly green, like moss underwater. If she were sober, he would just be a celebrity with a bad haircut and too many rings. Right now, in this lighting, he looked like a Renaissance painting she wanted to touch.

Harry set his glass down on the floor. He shifted, moving a few inches closer on the rug.

His knee bumped hers.

It was a casual, accidental touch, but Y/N felt it like an electric shock. She didn't pull away.

"You're cool, Y/N," he said softly, the playfulness in his voice replaced by something sincere and a little slurred. "I'm really glad you were on that balcony."

"Me too," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. She set her glass down on the floor, suddenly feeling very aware of how close they were sitting.

Harry reached out, his hand hesitating for a second in the air before his fingers brushed the bare skin of her forearm.

Y/N stopped breathing.

His skin was warm, his rings cool against her arm. He traced a line from her wrist up to her elbow, his touch feather-light.

It’s just the alcohol, her mind insisted frantically. The shivering is just the alcohol. The heat in your stomach is just the alcohol.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, his eyes searching hers.

Y/N nodded. She couldn't find her voice.

He moved slowly. His hand trailed up her arm to her neck, his thumb grazing her jawline. He leaned in, and Y/N instinctively leaned forward to meet him.

The kiss was slow. Soft. He tasted like red wine and grilled cheese and vanilla. Y/N hummed into the kiss, her eyes fluttering shut as his other hand came up to cup her face, deepening the contact.

She moved her hands to his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, bunching the material in her fists. They fell back against the rug, limbs tangling, the empty wine bottle forgotten on the floor beside them.

Harry hovered over her, his weight supported on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her. His hair fell forward, tickling her cheek, creating a private curtain around them. He kissed her jaw, then trailed his lips down the column of her neck, making Y/N gasp.

His hands moved to her shoulders, his fingers finding the straps of the gold dress. He nudged the fabric aside, pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the bare curve of her shoulder.

"Harry," Y/N breathed, her voice shaking slightly. The reality of who he was and where they were pierced through the wine-haze for a second. She reached up, her hand resting on the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his curls to stop him for a moment.

He paused immediately, lifting his head to look at her, his eyes dark and dilated. "Yeah?"

"Do you do this a lot?" she whispered, searching his face. "Just... pluck girls from parties and feed them burnt cheese?"

Harry let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating against her chest. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down to press a kiss to her collarbone, his rings cool against her heated skin as he traced the line of the dress.

"When I was younger? Maybe," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough with honesty. He lifted his head again, looking her dead in the eye. "But not now. Not for a long time."

Y/N searched his face for a lie, for a rehearsed line, but she only found a raw, boyish openness.

"Good," she whispered.

"Good," Harry echoed.

He reached behind her neck, finding the delicate string that held the back of the dress together. With a deft tug, the knot came loose. The dress slackened, the sequins rustling as they slid down her arms.

Harry’s gaze followed the movement, reverent and hungry. He helped her ease the shimmering fabric down, the dress pooling around her hips.

The air in the room was warm, but Y/N felt the sudden exposure, a coolness hitting her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature. She instinctively brought her arms up to cover herself slightly, her cheeks burning hot.

Harry stopped her. He gently took her wrists, pulling her hands away so he could look at her properly. His eyes roamed over her, the curve of her waist, the slope of her breasts, and the deep, rosy flush that was spreading across her chest and up to her neck.

"God," he exhaled, the sound rough. "Look at you."

"It's the wine," Y/N stammered, feeling the heat in her face intensify under his scrutiny. "I turn red when I drink."

"Liar," Harry murmured, a crooked, knowing grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in, brushing his nose against her burning cheek. "You're blushing. I'm making you blush."

"You're very full of yourself, Styles," she whispered, though she leaned into his touch.

"I'm just observant," he countered. He sat back on his heels, his hands moving to the buttons of his own shirt. He undid them with maddening slowness, his eyes never leaving hers.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She had seen photos of him shirtless, obviously—who hadn't?—but seeing him right there, inches away, was different. The ink of his tattoos stood out against his skin in the firelight. The swallows on his chest seemed to flutter as he breathed. He wasn't perfect and polished like a statue; he was real, warm, and solid.

"You're beautiful," she admitted quietly.

Harry caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. He didn't deflect or joke this time. He just held her gaze, his pupils blown wide, his voice dropping to a low growl.

"You are... absolutely trouble."

He didn't wait for a response. He kissed her hard, a claiming, bruising kiss that swallowed her gasp. His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there, anchoring her to the rug.

Y/N arched into him, the friction of his pants against her bare thighs sending a jolt of raw need straight to her core. She felt the heavy, hard ridge of him pressing against her stomach, a promise of what was coming. It made her ache, a sudden, wet heat pooling between her legs.

"Harry," she whimpered, her hands scrabbling at the waistband of his trousers. "Please. The clothes. Too many clothes.”

Harry groaned, pulling back just enough to look at her, his eyes blown black. He sat back on his heels, his breathing ragged. He shoved his jeans and boxers down in one frantic movement, kicking them away.

When he moved back over her, the feeling of skin-on-skin was electric.

Y/N reached down between them. She wanted to touch him, to feel the weight of him in her palm. Her fingers wrapped around his length, stroking him once, firm and slow.

Harry made a strangled noise, his hips bucking instinctively into her touch, but a second later, his hand clamped over hers, stopping her movement.

"Don't," he choked out, his voice wrecked.

Y/N looked up, confused. "why?"

"I can't," he admitted, his chest heaving as he pulled her hand away, interlacing their fingers and pinning her hand to the rug beside her head. "If you touch me like that... I won't last. I won't be able to hold it.

He looked at her with a desperate, starving intensity, his forehead glistening with sweat.

"I want you too much," he whispered, the confession raw. "I need to be inside you. Just let me have you.”

He settled between her legs, using his knees to nudge her thighs wider apart. Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist instantly, her heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against her. The contact was searing—the heat of his chest against her breasts, the roughness of the rug against her back, and the hard, tip of him teasing her entrance.

Harry braced himself on one arm, his other hand reaching down to guide himself. He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in sharp, synchronized pants.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, guttural rasp.

Y/N opened her eyes, meeting his intense gaze.

"Don't close them," he breathed, his eyes searching hers with a desperate intensity. "I want to watch you take it.”

It wasn't a gentle slide. It was a slow, stretching invasion. Y/N threw her head back, but kept her eyes locked on his, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as he filled her, inch by thick inch. He was big, stretching her in a way that felt bordering on pain before bleeding into exquisite, overwhelming pleasure.

Harry hissed through his teeth, his jaw tight as he buried himself to the hilt. He held perfectly still for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"You feel..." he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut for a second before snapping them open again to look at her. "Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good."

"Move," she begged, her hips snapping up to meet him. "Harry, move."

He withdrew slowly, almost completely, before snapping his hips forward, driving back in with a force that knocked the breath out of her.

The rhythm started slow, a heavy, grinding friction that targeted every nerve ending she had. But as the pleasure coiled tighter in her belly, the pace shattered. Harry abandoned the slow exploration. He began to pound into her, his movements sharp and possessive.

The only sounds in the room were the wet slap of skin against skin, the rustle of the discarded sequins, and their harsh, broken breathing.

Y/N was lost in the sensationthe burn of the rug on her back, the sweat slicking their bodies, and the relentless pressure of him hitting that sweet, aching spot deep inside her over and over again. She dug her nails into his shoulders, leaving crescent moon marks on his skin.

"Harry," she gasped, the pleasure building to a breaking point, tightening like a rubber band about to snap.

"I know," he panted against her ear, his hand slipping between their bodies to find her clit. "Let go, sweetheart. Just let go.”

The added friction was too much. Y/N shattered.

She cried out, her body bowing off the floor. She clamped down on him, the spasms of her orgasm milking him.

Harry groaned, a deep, animalistic sound. He drove into her hard, once, twice, three times, fast and erratic, before he stiffened. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there as he spilled into her, his body jerking with each pulse of his release.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and heavy, sweaty breaths, the silence of the room slowly rushing back in to replace the chaos.

The light filtering through the linen curtains was gray, flat, and unforgiving.

Y/N woke with a gasp, her heart hammering before her eyes even fully opened. Her head was throbbing—a dull, rhythmic reminder of the cheap champagne and the expensive red wine.

For a terrifying second, she didn't know where she was. The sheets were white and smelled of cedar. Then she felt the weight—a heavy arm draped across her waist, and the steady, deep sound of breathing against her bare shoulder.

She froze.

The memories of the night crashed into her like a wave. The balcony. The "escape." The burnt grilled cheese. The rug.

Harry Styles.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she turned her head on the pillow.

He was fast asleep on his stomach, face buried halfway into the pillow, his curls a chaotic halo around his head. He looked peaceful. Younger, somehow, without the guarded expression he’d worn at the party. The sheet was pooled around his waist, exposing the tattoos on his back that she had traced only hours ago.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover.

What have I done?

She checked her phone on the nightstand. 6:17 AM.

If she stayed, she had to talk to him. They would have to order coffee. He might be nice. He might be awkward. It would become a "thing." It would become a story.

She couldn't do it. She was a professional photographer, not a groupie who lingered for breakfast. She had an edit to finish. She had a life that didn't involve navigating the morning routine of a global superstar.

Y/N carefully, millimeter by millimeter, lifted his arm. It was heavy. Harry grunted softly, shifting his leg, and Y/N stopped breathing, her eyes widening in terror.

He settled again, letting out a soft sigh, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

She slid out of bed, shivering as the cool morning air hit her skin. The room was messy—clothes scattered in a trail from the doorway.

She found her gold dress in a heap near the foot of the bed. She pulled it on, wincing at the loud rustle of the sequins in the silent room. It felt sticky and inappropriate for a Tuesday morning.

She found one heel near the door. The other was halfway under the armchair. She grabbed them both, clutching them to her chest like stolen goods.

She paused at the bedroom door, her hand on the brass handle. She looked back at him one last time. The gray light was hitting his sleeping face, highlighting the slope of his nose and the fan of his eyelashes.

A part of her—the reckless part that liked burnt cheese and bad jokes—wanted to crawl back in.

"Bye, Harry," she mouthed silently.

She slipped out, the latch clicking shut with a finality that made her chest ache. She didn't look for a note. She didn't leave her number.

She tiptoed down the stairs, past the kitchen where the empty wine bottle still sat on the floor, and let herself out the heavy front door.

The morning air outside was biting and cold. Y/N walked quickly down the gravel driveway, barefoot on the wet stones until she reached the gate, carrying her shoes.

The smell of the darkroom chemicals usually grounded her. Today, it made her want to retch.

Y/N sat on the rolling stool in her studio, her head between her knees, taking deep, steadying breaths. The room was spinning slightly. It had been spinning since Tuesday.

Just the flu, she told herself for the fiftieth time that morning. A really long, really persistent stomach flu.

She sat up, grabbing her water bottle and taking a tentative sip. Her calendar on the wall glared at her. She was booked solid for the next month, a campaign for a denim brand, an editorial for Dazed, and a portrait session with a rising indie band. She didn't have time for the flu.

The studio door chimed, and a second later, Marnie breezed in, bringing with her a gust of cold London air and the overwhelming, pungent scent of roasted coffee.

"Morning, sunshine!" Marnie chirped, holding up a cardboard tray. "I come bearing gifts. Extra shot, oat milk, just how you like it."

Y/N’s stomach did a violent somersault. She forced a smile, waving a hand vaguely. "Hey. Thanks. Just... set it on the desk. I'll drink it in a bit."

Marnie paused, her sharp PR eyes narrowing immediately. She set the coffee down and walked over, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Okay, what is going on? You haven't answered my texts since Monday, you look like you haven't slept in a week, and you just turned down fresh caffeine. Who are you and what have you done with Y/N?"

"I'm fine," Y/N lied, turning back to her monitor to hide the fact that she was sweating. "Just busy. The Wonderland edits were a nightmare."

"Uh-huh," Marnie said, not buying it. She picked up a stress ball from the desk, tossing it in the air. "You've been weird for weeks. Specifically, since the Fashion Awards."

Y/N froze, her finger hovering over the mouse. "I haven't been weird."

"You ghosted me at the biggest party of the year," Marnie pointed out, though her tone was more curious than angry. "One minute you were getting a drink, the next you were gone. And then you sent me that cryptic text at 2 AM saying you 'escaped.'"

Marnie leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So. Who was he?"

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could still feel the phantom weight of Harry’s arm around her waist, the smell of cedar in his sheets.

"Who was who?" Y/N asked, keeping her eyes glued to the screen.

"The guy!" Marnie groaned, exasperated. "Come on. You didn't leave a free-bar event to go home and knit. You left with someone. I saw you talking to that model, the one with the cheekbones? Was it him?"

"No," Y/N said quickly. "It wasn't a model."

"Then who?" Marnie pressed. "Was he famous? Old? Rich? A criminal?"

"He was... nobody," Y/N said, fighting to keep her voice even. "Just a guy I met on the balcony. A lighting technician. We just... went for a drink."

"A lighting technician?" Marnie looked skeptical. "And was the lighting technician good enough to make you disappear for three weeks?"

"It wasn't a big deal, Marnie," Y/N snapped, a little sharper than she intended. The nausea rolled over her again, sudden and violent. She squeezed her eyes shut. "It was a one-time thing. It’s over. I just want to focus on work."

Marnie softened instantly. She reached out, touching Y/N’s forehead. "Okay, okay. Sorry. You really do look pale, though. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I think I ate some bad sushi," Y/N lied, pulling away gently. "I just need to sit here for a minute."

"Well, avoid the sushi," Marnie said, grabbing her bag. "I have to run to a lunch meeting, but seriously—drink the coffee. It’ll wake you up."

"Will do," Y/N managed to say.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Marnie, Y/N grabbed the trash can from under her desk and dry-heaved.

Nothing came up. Just the empty, hollow feeling that had settled in her gut.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at the calendar again. specifically, at the dates. She counted backward. Then she counted again.

Her period was ten days late.

"No," she whispered to the empty studio. "Absolutely not."

The bass from the playback speakers was thumping so hard it felt like it was rearranging Y/N’s internal organs.

"Chin down, chin down—yeah, there. Hold that."

Y/N crouched low, adjusting the aperture on her lens. She was shooting a four-piece indie band from Leeds who were currently the darlings of NME, and they had the attitude to match. The lead singer was draped over a vintage leather armchair, smoking a clove cigarette that smelled like burning sugar and rot.

Three weeks ago, Y/N would have found the smell annoying. Today, it was a biological weapon.

"Can we kill the smoke?" Y/N called out, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. She straightened up, feeling the room tilt dangerously to the left. "The haze is getting too thick. It’s softening the focus."

"It's the vibe, though, isn't it?" the drummer argued, twirling a stick. "We want it gritty."

"I can add grit in post," Y/N snapped, harder than she meant to. She saw her assistant, Leo, shoot her a worried look from the monitor station. "Just... kill the cigarette. Please."

The singer rolled his eyes but stubbed it out.

Y/N brought the camera back to her eye, trying to find her rhythm. Usually, when she was shooting, the world disappeared. It was just light, shadow, and composition. She was known for her speed, her ability to get the shot before the subject even knew they were ready.

But today, her focus was fracturing.

Every time she looked through the viewfinder, she didn't see the band. She saw the flash of gold sequins on a wet pavement. She saw green eyes looking at her over the rim of a crystal tumbler. She heard a raspy voice whispering, You are absolutely trouble.

Stop it, she commanded herself, changing her angle. He’s a pop star. You’re a photographer. It was a Tuesday. It’s over.

She had spent twenty-one days trying to scrub the memory of Harry Styles from her brain. She had deleted the draft text to Marnie explaining everything at least a dozen times. She had avoided listening to the radio.

"Y/N? You good?"

Leo was at her elbow, holding a bottle of water. "You're sweating. Like, a lot."

Y/N lowered the camera. The studio lights—huge, hot tungsten beasts—felt like they were pressing down on her skull. The smell of the hairspray from the stylist’s station mixed with the stale smoke and the metallic tang of the equipment.

Saliva flooded her mouth. The warning sign.

"I need five," Y/N gasped, shoving the heavy camera into Leo’s hands.

"But we have the label execs coming in ten—"

"I said five!"

She didn't run, because running would make her throw up, but she walked very, very fast toward the back exit. She pushed through the heavy fire doors and stumbled out into the alleyway.

The air was cold and smelled of wet concrete and exhaust, but compared to the studio, it was heaven.

Y/N leaned against the brick wall, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing deep gulps of air into her lungs. She pressed her cold palms against her burning cheeks.

It’s just the flu. It’s stress. It’s the sushi.

But deep down, in the quiet, terrifying part of her brain, she knew. She had known since she realized she hadn't bought tampons this month.

Her hand went to her stomach. It was flat, firm, unchanged. But something felt... different.

She thought about the condom. Had they used one? Yes. Wait. The second time? The memory was blurry, softened by the wine and the firelight and the desperate, laughing, consuming heat of the moment. She remembered his hands. She remembered the way he said her name. She remembered the feeling of skin on skin.

She didn't remember a wrapper the second time.

"Oh, god," she whispered to the alleyway dumpsters.

She pushed off the wall. She couldn't go back in there. She couldn't look at the indie band and talk about aperture settings.

She pulled her phone out. She cancelled the afternoon session. She blamed food poisoning. It was professional suicide to cancel last minute, but the alternative was fainting on top of a drum kit.

She typed Pharmacy near me into maps.

There was a Boots ten minutes away.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter around herself, lowered her head, and started walking. She wasn't Y/N the rising fashion photographer anymore. She was just a girl walking through Hackney, terrified of a plastic stick.

The fluorescent lighting of the pharmacy was violent. That was the only word for it. It buzzed overhead, casting a sickly, sterile pallor over everything.

Y/N pulled her scarf up over her nose, keeping her head down. She wasn't famous—not like him—but her face had been in a few "Behind the Lens" features in industry magazines recently, and paranoia was a powerful thing. She felt like she had a neon sign blinking above her head: IRRESPONSIBLE.

She bypassed the makeup aisle, usually her favorite place to swatch new textures. She ignored the sale on vitamins. She walked straight to the aisle labeled FAMILY PLANNING.

The euphemism made her want to laugh hysterically. There was no planning here. This was the opposite of a plan. This was a chaotic, uncontrolled collision of events.

She stood in front of the shelves, overwhelmed by the choices. Pink boxes. Blue boxes. Boxes with smiling couples holding hands (which felt like a personal attack). Boxes that promised results in one minute. Boxes that claimed 99% accuracy.

She didn't look at the prices. She grabbed the most expensive looking one—a digital Clearblue that came in a twin pack. Double confirmation.

She snatched it off the shelf, her hand shaking so badly she almost knocked over a row of ovulation kits.

To make it look less suspicious—a logic that made sense only to her panicked brain—she grabbed a bottle of shampoo, a packet of mint gum, and a large bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

See? she thought wildly. Just a normal shopping trip. Just getting snacks and hair products. Nothing life-changing happening here.

The cashier was a bored teenager who didn't even look up from her phone as she scanned the items.

Beep. Shampoo. Beep. Crisps. Beep. Pregnancy test.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet store. Y/N flinched. The girl didn't blink. She shoved it all into a plastic bag.

"Receipt?"

"No," Y/N croaked. "Thanks."

Her apartment was quiet. Usually, Y/N loved the silence of her space. It was her sanctuary away from the loud music and shouting of the studios. Today, the silence felt heavy. Oppressive.

She locked the door and didn't even take off her coat or boots. She walked straight to the bathroom, dumping the plastic bag onto the pristine white counter.

The blue box stared at her.

She ripped it open, her fingers fumbling with the cardboard. Instructions. Pee on the stick for 5 seconds. Lay flat. Wait 3 minutes.

Three minutes. The length of a pop song.

Y/N did what she had to do. It was unglamorous and clinical. She set the cap back on the stick and placed it on the edge of the sink.

Then, she sat on the closed toilet lid, pulled her phone out, and set the timer.

2:59... 2:58...

She put the phone face down. She couldn't watch the numbers count down.

She stared at the bathmat instead. It was fluffy and white. She needed to wash it.

If it’s negative, she bargained with the universe, clasping her hands together until her knuckles turned white. If it’s negative, I will never drink red wine again. I will be more professional. I will go to church. I don't even believe in God, but I will go.

She thought about her career. She was just getting the big bookings. Vogue had emailed her agent yesterday about a potential cover shoot in Milan next month. Milan.

You couldn't shoot a Vogue cover with morning sickness. You couldn't haul lighting rigs if you were pregnant.

It’s just stress, she told herself. My cycle is late because I’m stressed about work. That’s all.

1:30.

She stood up and paced the tiny bathroom. Two steps to the door, two steps to the shower.

She thought about Harry.

She hadn't let herself think about him properly in weeks. She had pushed the image of him—laughing on the floor, his hair messy, his eyes soft—into a box in the back of her mind labeled DO NOT OPEN.

If this test was positive, that box was going to be ripped open. He wouldn't just be a memory or a mistake. He would be... permanent.

The thought made her dizzy. He was Harry Styles. He was currently on a world tour. He lived on planes. He belonged to the world. He didn't belong in a bathroom in East London staring at a plastic stick.

0:15.

Y/N stopped pacing. She gripped the edge of the sink, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

0:05... 0:04...

Her phone alarm went off. The standard, cheerful "Radar" ringtone. It sounded hideous.

She swiped the alarm off.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked pale, her eyes wide and terrified. Just look, she told her reflection. Just look and get it over with.

She looked down at the stick.

The digital screen had stopped flashing the little hourglass symbol. The words were black, crisp, and undeniable against the gray background.

Pregnant 2-3 Weeks

The world didn't stop. The floor didn't open up and swallow her.

Instead, a ringing sound started in her ears. A high-pitched, deafening whine.

Y/N picked up the stick. She stared at it. She turned it over, as if the back might say "Just Kidding." It didn't.

"No," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "No, no, no."

She sank down onto the bathmat, her legs giving out. She curled her knees to her chest, still clutching the stick in one hand.

Two to three weeks.

The math was perfect. It was cruel, precise, and perfect.

Three weeks ago, she had been drinking wine on a rug in Hampstead. Three weeks ago, she had let a stranger with green eyes take off her dress.

She was pregnant. And the father was the most famous pop star on the planet.

Y/N put her head between her knees and, for the first time in ten years, she started to cry. Not polite, silent crying. Ugly, gasping sobs that echoed off the tiled walls.

The next seventy-two hours were a gray, suffocating blur.

Y/N didn't go to the studio. She told her agent she had a severe migraine and forwarded all urgent emails to her assistant.

She spent the days sitting on her living room floor, surrounded by a fortress of pillows, staring at the wall.

She had gone through every emotion possible. First came the denial. Maybe the test was wrong. (She took three more. They were all positive). Then came the panic. She looked at her bank account. She looked at her calendar. She looked at the lease on her apartment which strictly forbade children. Then came the logic. She opened a browser tab for a clinic in Central London. She stared at the "Book Appointment" button for four hours. Her mouse hovered over it. It was the sensible thing to do. She was twenty-four. She was just starting her career. She was single. The father was a ghost who belonged to the world, not to her.

But every time she tried to click, her hand physically stopped. A heavy, sickening weight settled in her chest. She wasn't religious. She wasn't traditional. But she knew, with a terrifying clarity, that she couldn't do it. She didn't have the stomach for it. She didn't have the heart for it.

By Friday evening, the silence in the apartment was deafening. She couldn't carry the weight alone anymore.

She picked up her phone. Her fingers trembled as she typed.

To: Marnie I need you. Please come over. Don't ask questions just come.

Marnie arrived in record time—fourteen minutes.

She didn't knock; she used her emergency key. She burst into the apartment carrying a bottle of wine, a bag of chocolate, and a look of sheer terror.

"I'm here," Marnie announced, dropping her bag by the door. She scanned the room, taking in the drawn curtains, the pile of tissues, and Y/N curled up on the sofa wrapped in a duvet like a burrito of misery.

Marnie rushed over, dropping to her knees beside the sofa. "Okay. You're alive. That's good. Is it family? Did you get fired? Did the studio burn down?"

Y/N shook her head slowly. She looked at her best friend—Marnie, who had held her hair back when she threw up in university, who had helped her paint this apartment, who loved her fiercely.

Y/N sat up, the duvet falling away. She reached onto the coffee table and picked up the plastic stick she had been staring at for three days.

She didn't say a word. She just handed it to Marnie.

Marnie frowned, confused. She took the stick, looked at it, and then froze. The color drained out of her face. She looked at the little screen, then up at Y/N, then back at the screen.

"Oh," Marnie breathed. It was a soft, punched-out sound. "Oh my god."

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking.

Marnie set the test down on the table gently, as if it were a bomb. She moved instantly, climbing onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around Y/N.

That was the breaking point. Y/N buried her face in Marnie’s shoulder and sobbed. It was the release of three days of holding it together. She cried until her chest ached, until her throat was raw. Marnie just held her, rubbing her back, rocking her slightly.

"I've got you," Marnie kept whispering. "I've got you. It's okay."

When the tears finally subsided into hiccups, Y/N pulled back, wiping her face with her sleeve.

"I can't get rid of it," Y/N blurted out. It was the first time she had said it out loud. "I tried to book an appointment. I sat there for hours. But I can't do it, Marnie. I’m scared to death. I don't know how I'm going to do this with my job, or money, or... anything. But I can't not have it."

Marnie looked at her, searching her eyes. She reached out, tucking a strand of messy hair behind Y/N’s ear. "Okay. Then you're keeping it. And we figure it out. You’re not doing it alone. You have me. You have your parents. You have a career."

Marnie took a deep breath, her PR brain clearly trying to organize the chaos. She squeezed Y/N’s hands.

"But Y/N," Marnie said gently, her voice dropping. "We need to talk about the math. You’re... what? Three weeks along?"

Y/N nodded, biting her lip.

"That means..." Marnie did the calculation in her head, and her eyes widened. "That means it happened the night of the Fashion Awards."

Y/N looked away, staring at the pattern on the rug. Her heart started to hammer again.

"The mysterious lighting guy," Marnie said slowly. "The one you disappeared with."

"Yeah," Y/N lied. It tasted like ash in her mouth.

Marnie squeezed her hands tighter. "Does he know?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell him?"

Y/N felt a fresh wave of panic. Tell him? Tell Harry Styles? Call his management? DM him on Instagram? Hey, remember the burnt cheese? I'm having your baby. He would think she was crazy. Or worse, he would think she trapped him. He had said on the rug, You are absolutely trouble. He had no idea.

"I... I can't," Y/N stammered. "It was a one-night stand, Marnie. I don't even have his number. He’s... he’s not from here. He was just in town for the job. He’s gone."

It wasn't technically a lie. He was gone. He was on tour in America.

Marnie looked furious on her behalf. "Well, screw him then. If he’s just some random guy who vanished, you don't need him. We raise this baby on 'Girl Power' and expensive coffee." She pulled Y/N into another hug. "But if you ever do find 'Lighting Guy,' I am going to punch him in the throat."

Y/N closed her eyes, resting her chin on Marnie’s shoulder. Guilt clawed at her stomach.

"okay," she whispered.

"Acceptance" was a strong word. Y/N preferred the term "Strategic Denial."

She knew she was pregnant. Her body certainly wouldn't let her forget it. The smell of coffee was still the enemy, her boobs hurt if she looked at them wrong, and she was currently surviving on a diet of ginger tea and dry oatcakes.

But as long as she didn't look pregnant, she could pretend her life was still hers.

She was currently sitting on the floor of her studio, sorting through contact sheets from the denim campaign. She was wearing oversized dungarees—a "fashion choice," she told her assistant, Leo, but really it was because the waistband of her jeans was starting to feel like a torture device.

The phone on her desk rang. Not her cell—the landline. The business line.

Y/N scrambled up, brushing oatcake crumbs off her lap. She put on her "Professional Photographer" voice.

"Y/N Photography, Y/N speaking."

"Clear your schedule," a voice barked.

It was Simon, her agent. Simon didn't say hello. He only called when something was either a disaster or a goldmine.

"Hello to you too, Simon," Y/N said, leaning against the desk. "I can't clear my schedule. I have the indie band reshoots on Thursday and the—"

"Cancel them," Simon interrupted. "Push them. Refund them. I don't care. You are busy Thursday. And Friday. And probably the weekend for edits."

Y/N frowned. "Simon, I can't just drop clients. Unless the Queen is resurrecting herself for a portrait, I’m booked."

"Better," Simon said. She could practically hear him grinning through the phone. "British Vogue."

Y/N stopped breathing. The receiver slipped slightly in her sweaty palm. "Vogue? The main book?"

"The cover feature," Simon corrected, dropping the bomb. "They want you. Specifically you. The Creative Director loved the grit of your Wonderland spread. They want that 'raw, intimate' vibe for the next cover star."

Y/N’s heart did a somersault. This was it. The bucket list. The career-maker. The reason she had hauled gear up stairs and lived on instant noodles for five years.

"Okay," she breathed, grabbing a pen. "Okay. I'm in. Obviously. Who is it? An actress? A model?"

"It’s a musician," Simon said. "He’s in the middle of a world tour, but he’s flying back to London for a five-day break before the European leg. We have a very tight window. Thursday is the only day he can shoot."

A cold dread started to pool in Y/N’s stomach, sitting right next to the oatcakes.

Musician. World tour. Five-day break.

"Simon," Y/N asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Who is the musician?"

"Harry Styles."

The world didn't spin this time. It just stopped.

The studio went dead silent. The hum of the computer fan seemed deafening.

Harry.

She hadn't seen him in six weeks. She hadn't spoken to him since she snuck out of his house like a thief in the night. She was currently carrying a secret the size of a blueberry that was half-him.

"Y/N?" Simon’s voice crackled in her ear. "You there? I know, it’s huge. He’s arguably the biggest star on the planet right now. It’s going to put you on the map globally."

"I..." Y/N choked. She cleared her throat. "He’s... he’s back in London?"

"Lands Wednesday night. Shoots Thursday. Flies out Monday," Simon recited. "It’s a whirlwind. They want you because you're fast and you don't faff around. It’s at a private location in Hampstead. Low crew. Just you, him, styling, and the CD."

Hampstead.

She was going to have to go back to the house. The house with the rug. The house with the burnt cheese.

"Y/N, I need a yes right now," Simon pressed. "They have Mario Testino on speed dial if you blink."

Say no, her panic screamed. Run away. Move to Scotland.

But she couldn't. She had a baby coming. She needed the money. She needed the career stability this job would guarantee. If she shot the Vogue cover, she could take six months off after the baby was born and still have a career to come back to. If she said no, she might regret it forever.

And partly—the dangerous, stupid part of her—wanted to see him.

"Yes," Y/N heard herself say. "Yes, Simon. I'll do it."

"Good girl," Simon said. "Brief is coming to your email. Don't screw this up."

The line clicked dead.

Y/N slowly put the phone down. She stared at the wall.

Thursday.

She had four days to mentally prepare herself to walk into a room with the father of her child, take the best photos of her life, and pretend that she hadn't been counting the weeks since she left his bed.

"Oh god," she whispered, her hand instinctively going to her stomach. "This is going to be a disaster."

The gravel crunching under the tires of the production van sounded exactly the same as it had six weeks ago.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, clutching a travel mug of ginger tea like it was a holy relic. Her assistant, Leo, was driving, frowning at the sky through the windshield.

"I hope you brought the big HMI lights," Leo grumbled, parking next to a massive catering truck that was blocking half the driveway. "I just checked the windows on the way up. The natural light in there is shit today. It's completely flat. We’re going to have to fake the sun."

"Great," Y/N murmured, staring up at the white stucco house. "Just what I needed."

She felt like she was going to throw up.

It wasn't just the pregnancy nausea—though that was present, a low-level hum of misery in her stomach—it was the house. The last time she had been here, she had been barefoot, carrying her heels, sneaking out of that front door at dawn.

Now, the driveway was a circus. There were rails of clothes being wheeled in by frantic assistants. There were light scrims, C-stands, and a craft services table laden with pastries that made Y/N’s stomach turn.

"Let's do this," she whispered to herself. You are a professional. He is a subject. This is a job.

She climbed out of the van, pulling her oversized parka tighter around herself. She was wearing her "armor"—baggy cargo pants and a thick hoodie that hid everything, even though there was barely anything to hide yet.

Walking into the house was surreal.

The hallway where she had taken off her shoes was now lined with equipment cases. The living room...

Y/N paused in the doorway of the living room.

The Persian rug—the rug—was still there. But now, it was covered in extension cords and a stylist’s rack of silk shirts and velvet suits. The fireplace where they had drunk wine was currently serving as a charging station for camera batteries.

It felt like walking onto a crime scene that had been turned into a circus.

"Y/N! Darling!"

The Creative Director of Vogue, a terrifyingly chic woman named Alana, swept over. "The space is difficult, isn't it? We want to shoot him right here. By the window. We need it to look raw."

"We'll make it work," Y/N managed to say, setting her camera bag down. She avoided looking at the spot on the floor where she had traced his tattoos. "Leo, set up the reflector board on the left. If the light is shit, we'll force the contrast."

For the next hour, Y/N buried herself in the work. She checked her ISO. She changed lenses. She barked orders at Leo to fix the shadows. She drank her ginger tea. As long as she had the camera in her hand, she could pretend she was just Y/N the photographer, not Y/N the terrified, pregnant one-night-stand.

"He's coming down!" someone shouted from the hallway.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. The chatter died down. The stylist stopped steaming a shirt. The air became charged, electric. The "Harry Styles Effect."

Y/N’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She gripped her camera tighter, her knuckles turning white. She stood behind her tripod, using it as a shield.

Just look at the lens, she told herself. Don't look at him. Look at the framing.

Footsteps on the floorboards. Heavy, booted footsteps.

"Morning, everyone," that voice rasped.

It went through Y/N like a physical blow. It was the same voice that had whispered You’re absolutely trouble against her skin.

She looked up. She couldn't help it.

Harry stood in the doorway. He looked tired, bone deep tired. His hair was a little longer, messy in a way that wasn't styled. He was wearing loose sweatpants and a white t-shirt, holding a mug of coffee.

He looked around the room, smiling politely at the team, nodding at Alana.

Then, he turned his head toward the camera setup.

His gaze swept over Leo, over the lights, and landed on Y/N.

He froze. The polite smile vanished from his face instantly. His green eyes went wide, flashing with a shock so raw it cracked his media-trained mask wide open.

He didn't move. He just stared at her across the crowded room, the coffee mug halted halfway to his mouth.

"Y/N?" he breathed, his voice loud enough to cut through the silence.