off the record — 2 (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: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the love on Chapter 1. I know I left you on a massive cliffhanger, so I didn't want to make you wait too long. Happy reading!

word count: 11.1k

"Y/N?"

The name hung in the air, heavy and intimate, completely at odds with the busy, sterile atmosphere of a high-end photoshoot.

For a second, the only sound in the room was the hum of the HMI lights Leo had set up.

Y/N felt every pair of eyes in the room swivel toward her. Alana, the Creative Director, looked from Harry—who was standing frozen in the doorway, clutching his mug like a lifeline—to Y/N, who was currently hiding behind her tripod like a coward.

"You two know each other?" Alana asked, her voice sharp with curiosity. In the fashion world, connections were currency, and she was clearly recalculating Y/N’s value.

Y/N’s heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Deny. Deflect. Diffuse.

She straightened up, forcing a polite, professional smile onto her face. She prayed she didn't look as pale as she felt.

"Briefly," Y/N lied, her voice tight. "We met at the Fashion Awards last month. Just for a moment."

She didn't look at Harry. She couldn't. She stared firmly at Alana’s perfectly manicured eyebrows.

"Ah," Alana said, looking unconvinced but bored enough to let it go. "Small world. Well, Harry, darling, you look exhausted."

But Harry didn't move.

Y/N could feel his gaze on her. It was physical, like a heat lamp on the side of her face. She risked a glance.

Harry hadn't moved from the doorway. He wasn't looking at Alana. He was staring dead at Y/N, his green eyes narrowed slightly, a mix of confusion and something sharper swimming in them.

"Briefly," Harry repeated flatly.

He took a slow sip of his coffee, never breaking eye contact.

"Right," he murmured, the rasp in his voice sounding less like a bedroom whisper and more like a challenge now.

Y/N’s stomach did a violent flip. He was angry. Or at least, he wasn't playing along happily.

"Get the shot," Alana commanded suddenly, clapping her hands. "Right now. Before hair and makeup touch him. I want him just like this."

Y/N froze. She wasn't ready.

"We have a tight schedule, Harry," Y/N said, jumping into Photographer Mode because it was the only armor she had. She gestured to the spot by the window. The spot right next to where they had slept together on the floor. "If you could just... stand over there. The light is fading."

Harry paused. For a terrifying second, Y/N thought he was going to say it. She thought he was going to say, 'We slept together on that rug three weeks ago,' or 'Why did you sneak out?'

Instead, he set his mug down on a side table with a definitive clack.

"Sure," he said, his tone cool. "Whatever you need."

He walked past her to get to the window. The room was crowded with equipment, so the path was narrow. As he passed her, he didn't sidestep. He walked close enough that his arm brushed against her shoulder.

The scent of him hit her instantly.

It was a sensory trigger. Three weeks ago, that smell had been intoxicating. Today, combined with the stress and the rising nausea of week six, it was overwhelming.

Y/N swallowed hard, fighting the urge to gag. She stepped back quickly, bumping into Leo.

"You good, boss?" Leo whispered, steadying her.

"Fine," Y/N croaked. She lifted her camera, bringing the viewfinder to her eye so she didn't have to look at Harry’s actual face. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

Through the lens, he was magnified. She adjusted the focus. There were dark circles under his eyes, real ones, not makeup. He looked weary. He looked beautiful.

And he was looking right down the barrel of the lens, seeing straight through the glass, straight through her professional facade.

"Chin down slightly," Y/N commanded, her finger hovering over the shutter.

Harry tilted his chin down, but his eyes stayed locked on hers.

"Like this?" he asked softly.

Click.

Y/N took ten frames in rapid succession. She hid behind the mechanical noise of the shutter.

"Okay," Alana announced. "That is the base. Now get him in the chair. We need to fix that hair before we start with the first outfit”

Y/N lowered the camera, exhaling a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Harry stood up. He smoothed down the front of his t-shirt. He didn't look at Y/N again as he turned toward the stylist who was waiting by the door to the study.

"We are setting up in the other room," the stylist said, gesturing to the den next door. "More space."

"Lead the way," Harry said, his voice flat.

He walked out of the living room, disappearing into the side room with the glam team trailing behind him.

Y/N retreated to the corner to chimp her shots, her hands shaking. This was going to be the longest day of her life.

When Harry walked back into the room half an hour later, the air shifted.

He was no longer the tired, coffee-clutching boy from the hallway. He was a Muse.

The stylist had dressed him in a sheer, black lace shirt that left very little to the imagination, paired with high-waisted cream trousers that elongated his legs. His tattoos were visible through the delicate fabric of the shirt, the swallows on his chest dark shadows against his skin.

Y/N felt her mouth go dry.

It was unfair. It was actually cruel that he looked this good when she was trying so hard to forget the shape of his body.

"Beautiful," Alana cooed from behind the monitor. "Absolutely stunning, Harry. Y/N, I want him on the floor. Use the natural light."

Y/N froze.

"The floor?" Y/N repeated.

"Yes," Alana commanded. "On that rug. It gives a domestic, intimate vibe. That is the story we are telling."

Y/N looked at the rug. The same rug where she had lost her mind three weeks ago. The same rug where she had whispered his name and begged him not to stop.

She looked up at Harry.

He knew. His eyes were dark, a smirk playing on his lips as if he could read her thoughts perfectly.

"The rug," Harry said, his voice smooth. "Sounds comfortable."

He moved with a fluid grace, sinking down onto the Persian carpet. He sprawled out, leaning back on his hands, his legs extended long in front of him. He looked like a fallen angel in Gucci lace.

"Okay," Y/N said, her voice shaking slightly. She cleared her throat. "Okay. Harry, look at the window."

She raised her camera, grateful for the barrier between them.

Harry turned his head toward the light. The sun caught the sharp line of his jaw and the gold rings on his fingers.

Click.

"Good," Y/N murmured, falling into the rhythm of the work despite herself. "Now look at me. Chin down."

Harry turned his head slowly. He looked right into the lens.

Click.

"Give me something else," Y/N directed, moving closer. She hovered over him, trying to find the best angle. "You are too stiff. Relax your shoulders."

"I am trying," Harry said, his eyes tracking her movement. "But you are making me nervous."

"I am just taking a picture," Y/N said softly.

"You are hovering," he countered.

"It is my job," she shot back.

She crouched down low, bringing herself to his eye level. The sheer shirt was even more distracting up close. She could see the rise and fall of his chest.

"Look right here," Y/N commanded. She tapped the rim of her lens. "Don't blink. Just look at me.”

Harry obeyed. He didn't just look at the camera. He pierced it. He stared into the lens with a terrifying intensity, his lips parted slightly, his gaze heavy and possessive. It felt like he was looking at her naked.

Y/N snapped the photo. It was going to be the cover. She knew it instantly. It was raw and magnetic.

She lowered the camera, taking a breath to steady her hands.

"Okay! Let's take ten," Alana’s voice cut through the trance like a bell. "Harry, darling, go change. We are doing the silver sequins next.”

Harry opened his eyes. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a mask of polite indifference. He pushed himself off the floor, his movements fluid and easy.

"On it," Harry said.

He brushed past Y/N without a word, heading back toward the heavy oak doors of the study.

Y/N watched him go. She watched the way the sheer shirt clung to his back until he disappeared into the other room.

She let the camera drop to her side, her strap digging into her neck. Her arm was aching from holding the heavy lens, but her head was hurting even more.

"Great," Y/N breathed out. She turned to Leo. "Check the files. Make sure the focus is sharp. I am going to get some water."

She needed to escape. The air in the living room was too thick. It was suffocating her.

Y/N walked quickly down the hallway in the opposite direction, heading for the kitchen. It was the only room currently empty of stylists and assistants.

She walked straight to the sink and gripped the cold edge.

She closed her eyes.

Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. You have three hours left. You can do this.

She turned the tap on to splash some cold water on her face, hoping it would settle the rolling nausea in her stomach. The room was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

Footsteps sounded on the tile behind her.

They were heavy and deliberate. She knew who it was before he even spoke.

"So," Harry’s voice came from the doorway. It was low and devoid of the politeness he had used earlier. "We met briefly."

Y/N turned off the tap. She dried her hands on a towel, taking her time, trying to steady her shaking fingers before facing him.

She turned around.

Harry was leaning against the kitchen island. He hadn't gone to the study to change yet. He was still wearing the sheer black lace shirt, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable. He looked hurt.

"I didn't know what else to say," Y/N said quietly. "Alana was staring at us. I couldn't exactly tell the Creative Director of Vogue that we know each other because I snuck out of your house at dawn three weeks ago."

Harry’s jaw tightened. He pushed off the island and took a step toward her.

"You could have said hello," he said. "You could have answered a text. You could have done anything other than treat me like a stranger."

"I didn't get a text," Y/N defended herself, though the lie tasted sour on her tongue.

"I didn't have your number," Harry shot back. "Because you didn't leave it. You just left. I woke up and the other side of the bed was cold."

He moved closer. He was now well inside her personal space. The kitchen felt suddenly very small.

"Why did you run?" he asked. His voice dropped, softer now but intense. "Was it that bad?"

"No," Y/N whispered. She looked at his chest through the lace, unable to meet his eyes. "It wasn't bad. It was... it was great. That was the problem."

Harry looked confused. He searched her face, his eyes scanning hers for answers. He took another step, trapping her against the counter.

The scent of him hit her then.

It was a mix of expensive cologne, strong coffee, and the unique, warm smell of his skin. Usually, it was a smell she would have loved. But right now, with her hormones rioting and her stomach empty, it hit the back of her throat like poison.

Y/N swallowed hard. She felt the saliva flood her mouth. It was a warning.

"Harry," she said, backing up until her hips hit the cabinets. "Please step back."

He frowned. He thought she was rejecting him. He leaned in closer, resting his hands on the counter on either side of her, boxing her in.

"Why?" he murmured. He dipped his head, trying to catch her eye. "Are you scared of me, Y/N? You weren't scared three weeks ago."

The smell was overpowering now. The coffee. The cedar. The heat radiating off his body through the thin lace.

"No," she gagged, her hand flying to her mouth. "I think I am going to be sick."

Harry’s eyes went wide. He pulled back instantly, his hands lifting in surrender.

"What?"

"Excuse me," she gasped.

She shoved past him, barely avoiding hitting his shoulder, and ran for the powder room down the hall. She slammed the door, locked it, and collapsed in front of the toilet just as her stomach gave up the fight.

Y/N flushed the toilet. The loud mechanical whoosh covered the sound of her ragged breathing.

She sat back on her heels, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink cabinet. Her hands were shaking. Her entire body felt weak, drained by the sudden violent wave of sickness.

Stupid, she scolded herself. Stupid. You should have eaten crackers before you came.

A soft knock rapped against the wood of the door.

"Y/N?"

It was Harry. His voice was muffled by the door, but she could hear the genuine worry in it. He wasn't angry anymore. He sounded scared.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't deal with a nice, worried Harry right now. She could barely handle the angry one.

"I am fine," Y/N called out. Her voice came out raspier than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder this time. "I am fine, Harry. Just give me a minute."

"You ran," Harry said through the door. "You looked... really pale. Open the door, Y/N."

"I can't," she said quickly. She stood up on shaky legs and moved to the sink. She turned the tap on full blast. "I am... it is embarrassing."

"I don't care," Harry replied instantly. "Are you hurt? Did I say something?"

"No," Y/N said, splashing cold water onto her face. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked ghostly. Her eyes were watery and red. "It isn't you. It was... dinner. I think I had some bad sushi last night. It has been hitting me in waves all morning."

The lie came out easily. It was the standard excuse. Everyone understood bad sushi.

There was a pause on the other side of the door. She could picture him standing there, frowning at the wood, running a hand through his hair.

"Sushi," Harry repeated. He didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't argue. "Do you need anything? I can get you water. Or ginger tea? I have ginger tea in the kitchen."

Y/N’s heart twisted. Of course he had ginger tea. Of course he was being sweet.

"No," she said, grabbing a hand towel and scrubbing her face dry. "No thank you. I just need to brush my teeth and I will be back on set. Please, Harry. Go change. Alana is going to kill us if we are both missing."

"Screw Alana," Harry muttered.

"Harry," Y/N warned. "Please."

She heard him sigh. It was a heavy, defeated sound.

"Fine," he said. "I am going to get changed. But take your time. I will tell them I had a wardrobe malfunction."

"Thank you," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her.

She waited.

She heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, heavy boots on the hardwood floor. Only when the sound completely faded did she unlock the door.

She stepped out into the empty hallway. The air was cooler here. She leaned against the wall for a second, closing her eyes.

She had survived the first hour. She just had to survive the rest of the day without vomiting on a Gucci suit or confessing that she was carrying his baby.

Simple.

Y/N returned to the living room. She felt unsteady on her feet. The bright lights of the set seemed sharper than before. They dug into her eyes and made her headache throb.

Leo was standing by the monitor. He looked up as she approached. His expression shifted immediately from boredom to concern.

"Whoa," Leo said, keeping his voice low so Alana wouldn't hear. "You look terrible, boss. You are actually green."

Y/N leaned against the back of the sofa, closing her eyes for a brief second.

"Thanks, Leo," she muttered. "You really know how to make a girl feel special."

"I am serious," Leo said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of mints. He shook two out into his hand and offered them to her. "Here. Peppermint. It helps."

Y/N took them gratefully. She popped them into her mouth. The sharp, cool flavor helped cut through the lingering taste of sickness.

"Bad sushi," Y/N lied again. "I have been fighting it all morning."

Leo raised an eyebrow. He looked at her closely. He didn't look convinced, but he was too professional to pry further.

"Right," Leo said. "Sushi. Well, try to stay upright. The talent is coming back."

The heavy oak doors opened.

Harry walked back onto the set.

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The stylists stopped chatting. Alana sat up straighter in her chair.

He was wearing a suit made entirely of silver sequins. It was loud. It was chaotic. It caught every beam of light in the room and scattered it in a thousand directions. It was an outfit that demanded attention, an outfit made for a rock star who lived to be looked at.

But Harry didn't look like a rock star.

He looked worried.

He stepped onto the mark in the center of the room. He didn't look at the lights. He didn't look at Alana. His eyes went straight to Y/N.

He scanned her face. He looked at her pale cheeks. He looked at the way she was leaning heavily against the sofa for support. His brow furrowed.

"Okay!" Alana clapped her hands. "I love the sparkle. Let's get some movement. Harry, I want you dancing. I want energy. Give us that signature charm."

Harry nodded, but the movement was stiff.

"Sure," Harry said.

He turned toward the camera. He forced a smile onto his face. It was a practiced smile, the one he used for red carpets and fan selfies. It was perfect, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Y/N lifted her camera. She felt heavy. Every movement took effort.

"Ready," Y/N called out. "And... action."

Harry moved. He spun. He kicked his leg out. The sequins flashed like a disco ball.

Click. Click. Click.

But every time the shutter paused, Harry’s gaze snapped back to her.

He wasn't performing for the lens. He was monitoring her.

"Bigger smile!" Alana shouted from the back. "More joy, Harry!"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. It looked great on camera. But Y/N was looking through the lens, and she saw the truth. His knuckles were white where he was gripping the microphone stand prop.

He stopped moving for a second to adjust his jacket. He looked right at Y/N. He mouthed one word, so subtle that only she could see it.

Okay?

Y/N lowered the camera an inch. She gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Harry exhaled. He looked relieved, but the worry didn't leave his eyes.

"Okay," Y/N said, her voice sounding stronger than she felt. "That was good. Let's do a few sitting down. The spinning is making me dizzy."

She meant it as a joke about the camera work, but Harry stopped instantly.

"Sitting," Harry said firmly. He looked at the stylist. "Bring the stool. We are doing sitting shots now."

Alana looked confused. "But the energy—"

"I am sitting," Harry interrupted her. His tone brokered no argument. He kept his eyes on Y/N. "Let's take it easy for a minute."

"That is a wrap for the morning!" Alana announced. "Lunch is here. Everyone take an hour."

A team of caterers swept into the room carrying large silver platters. They removed the lids with a flourish. Steam rose into the air.

It was a high-end spread. There was poached salmon with dill sauce. There was truffle mushroom risotto. There were roasted vegetables glistening in oil.

The smell filled the room instantly.

To anyone else, it smelled delicious. To Y/N, it smelled like a chemical weapon. The heavy scent of warm fish and truffle oil hit her like a physical blow. Her stomach turned over violently.

She clamped her lips together. She couldn't be in this room.

"I am going to step out," Y/N whispered to Leo. She didn't wait for his response. She grabbed her phone and headed straight for the French doors at the back of the room.

She slipped outside and closed the glass door firmly behind her.

The garden was cold. The air was damp and grey, typical for London in January, but to Y/N it felt like heaven. She walked to the edge of the stone terrace and inhaled deeply, letting the biting cold air fill her lungs and settle her nausea.

She stood there for a long time, watching the clouds move, just trying to survive the hour.

The sound of the latch clicking made her jump.

She turned around.

Harry was stepping out onto the terrace. He had put a thick, oversized grey hoodie on over his silver sequin trousers, making for a ridiculous and charming contrast. He was holding a small white plate in one hand and a mug in the other.

"You are hiding," he said. It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact.

"I am getting air," Y/N corrected him. "It got hot in there."

Harry walked over to her. He didn't seem bothered by the cold. He held the plate out to her.

"You need to eat," he said gently.

Y/N looked at the plate. She braced herself for salmon or risotto, ready to politely refuse.

But it was just two slices of dry toast and a few green apple slices.

She looked up at him in surprise.

"I figured the catering was a bit intense," Harry explained, shrugging slightly. "If you have a bad stomach, truffle oil is the enemy. I made them make you some toast."

A lump formed in Y/N’s throat. He was being so considerate. He was taking care of her, even when he thought she had blown him off for three weeks.

"Thank you," she said softly. She took the plate. The bread looked safe. She took a small bite of the apple. It was crisp and sour and perfect.

"And this is peppermint tea," Harry added, placing the mug on the stone wall beside her. "For the nausea."

"You are very good at this," Y/N noted, taking a sip of the tea. The warmth spread through her chest.

"I have had my fair share of hangovers," Harry grinned. But the smile faded quickly as he looked at her. "You really do look pale, Y/N. Are you sure you are okay to keep working?"

"I am fine," she insisted. "The fresh air helps."

Harry nodded. He watched her eat an apple slice. He seemed to be debating something. Finally, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone.

He tapped the screen to unlock it and held it out to her.

"Here," he said.

Y/N stared at the device. "What is this?"

"My phone," Harry said. "Put your number in. Right now."

Y/N hesitated. "Harry, we are working. Alana..."

"I don't care about Alana," Harry interrupted. His voice was firm. He took a step closer, invading her space again, but gently this time. "You said you didn't get my text because I didn't have your number. So fix it. I am not letting you walk out of here today without a way to find you."

He waggled the phone in her face.

"Put it in," he commanded softly. "Please."

Y/N sighed. She was too tired to fight him. And honestly, she didn't want to fight him. She took the phone. His fingers brushed hers, warm against her cold skin.

She typed in her name and number. She handed it back to him.

Harry looked at the screen. He tapped a few buttons.

Buzz.

Y/N’s phone vibrated in her back pocket.

"There," Harry said, satisfied. "Now you have mine, too. No more excuses."

Y/N looked down at the phone in her hand. She looked at the text notification on the screen. It was just a simple smiley face.

It was such a small thing. He brought her toast. He made sure she had peppermint tea. He demanded her number so he wouldn't lose her again.

He was being perfect.

And she was lying to his face about the biggest thing that had ever happened to either of them.

The guilt hit her harder than the nausea. It swirled in her chest, hot and sharp, mixing with the exhaustion and the riot of hormones that had been controlling her life for weeks.

She felt her chin tremble.

"Hey," Harry said softly. His satisfaction vanished instantly. He leaned down, trying to catch her eye. "Hey. Did I push too hard? You don't have to use it if you don't want to."

"No," Y/N choked out.

A tear escaped. It rolled hot and fast down her cold cheek. Then another followed. And another.

She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth, trying to stop the sob that was building in her throat. But it was too late. The dam had broken.

"Y/N," Harry whispered.

He dropped his phone into his pocket. He reached out and cupped her face in his hands. His palms were large and warm. His thumbs brushed away the tears, but they just kept coming.

"I am sorry," she gasped, her voice thick and wet. "I am sorry. I am just... I am so overwhelmed."

"It is okay," Harry soothed. "It is just a job. We are almost done. You are doing great."

"It isn't the job," she cried. She looked up at him through her blurry vision. He looked blurry and silver and beautiful. "You brought me toast. You are being so nice to me and I... I..."

I am pregnant, she thought. The words screamed in her head. I am pregnant and it is yours and I am terrified.

She opened her mouth to say it. The confession was right there on her tongue. It would be so easy to let it fall out. He was right here. He was holding her. If she said it now, maybe he would hold her tighter. Or maybe he would let go.

The fear of him letting go paralyzed her.

"You what?" Harry asked gently. He ran his thumb over her cheekbone. "You can tell me."

Y/N looked at his kind, worried green eyes. She couldn't do it. Not here. Not while he was wearing sequin trousers and she was on the clock and Alana was waiting inside. It wasn't fair to him.

"I am just tired," she lied, the words tasting like ash. "I am so tired, Harry. And I feel terrible. And you are being nice and I don't deserve it because I ran away."

"Shh," Harry murmured. "You deserve it."

He pulled her in.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest. Y/N stiffened for a second, afraid of the smell, but the cold air had dampened his cologne, and his thick hoodie smelled mostly of laundry detergent and fresh air.

It felt safe.

She buried her face in the soft cotton of his hoodie and let herself cry for a solid minute. She cried for the stress, for the morning sickness, and for the terrifying uncertainty of the future.

Harry just held her. He rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles. He rested his chin on the top of her head. He didn't ask any more questions.

Eventually, the tears slowed. Y/N took a shuddering breath and pulled back.

She felt embarrassed now. Her face felt puffy and sticky.

"I am a mess," she muttered, wiping under her eyes. "I am so professional. Crying on the talent during the lunch break."

Harry smiled. It was a soft, genuine smile.

"I won't tell Alana," he promised. He reached out and fixed a strand of hair that had stuck to her wet cheek. "Do you feel better?"

"A little," Y/N admitted. And it was true. The secret was still there, heavy and dark, but the pressure in her chest had eased slightly.

"Good," Harry said. "Finish your toast. We have one more setup and then I am walking you to your car."

"You don't have to—"

"I am walking you to your car," Harry repeated firmly. "Now eat."

The energy in the room had shifted again. It was the final push. The end was in sight.

"Alright," Alana announced, clapping her hands together. "Last look. I want to strip it back. We have the glamour shots. We have the domestic shots. Now I want something raw."

She turned to Harry.

"Shirtless," she commanded. "Just the trousers. We need to see the ink."

Harry froze. He was standing by the wardrobe rack, still wearing his comfortable grey hoodie. His hand went to the zipper, but he hesitated.

He looked around the room. There were fifteen people watching him. The lighting guys, the digital tech, the assistants, the styling team. Suddenly, the room felt very crowded.

"Is that necessary?" Harry asked. His voice was polite, but Y/N heard the strain in it. "We got the sheer shirt. You can see the tattoos through that."

"It isn't the same," Alana dismissed him. "The fans want to see the skin, Harry. It sells magazines. Take the hoodie off, darling. Let's get some body oil on those abs."

Harry’s jaw tightened. A flush of pink crept up his neck. He looked incredibly young in that moment, and incredibly uncomfortable. He wasn't the confident rock star. He was just a guy who was tired of being looked at like a piece of meat.

Two assistants stepped forward with bottles of oil, ready to touch him. Harry took a subtle half-step back.

Y/N felt a surge of protectiveness rise in her chest.

He had held her when she was falling apart. He had shielded her from the catering and Alana’s questions.

It was her turn.

"Stop," Y/N said.

Her voice was calm, but it cut through the room instantly. The assistants froze. Alana looked over, eyebrows raised.

"Clear the set," Y/N ordered. She lowered her camera and looked straight at the crew. "I don't need fifteen people for this. I need Leo on the computer and I need the lights left exactly where they are. Everyone else can wait in the hall."

"Y/N," Alana started to protest. "We need to monitor—"

"You can watch the monitor from the hallway," Y/N interrupted her. She stood her ground. "Harry looks uncomfortable. If he is uncomfortable, the photos will look stiff. Do you want stiff photos, Alana? or do you want the cover?"

Alana pressed her lips together. She looked at Y/N, then at Harry, who was watching Y/N with wide, surprised eyes.

"Fine," Alana huffed. "Everyone out. Give them the room."

It took two minutes for the room to clear. The silence that followed was heavy and blissful.

It was just Y/N, Harry, and Leo, who was silently working away in the corner with his headphones on.

Y/N walked over to Harry. She stopped a few feet away, keeping a respectful distance.

"Better?" she asked softly.

Harry let out a long exhale. his shoulders dropped about two inches.

"Much better," he admitted. "Thank you."

"You don't have to take it off if you don't want to," Y/N told him. "I can make the jacket look good. We can cheat it."

Harry looked at her. He reached for the zipper of his hoodie.

"It is okay," he said. "I don't mind doing it. I just... I hate the oil. And the staring."

"No oil," Y/N promised. "And no staring. Just me."

Harry smiled. It was a small, shy thing.

"Just you," he repeated.

He unzipped the hoodie and shrugged it off, dropping it onto the chair.

He stood there in the low afternoon light. The trousers hung low on his hips. His torso was a canvas of ink, the familiar swallows on his chest and the butterfly on his stomach.

Y/N felt her breath hitch. She had seen him like this before. She had traced those tattoos with her fingertips in the dark. But seeing him like this now, in the daylight, with the quiet intimacy of the empty room, felt even more dangerous.

She raised her camera quickly to hide her face.

"Okay," Y/N murmured. Her voice was steady, even if her heart wasn't. "Just breathe, Harry. Look at the window. Ignore the lens."

Harry turned his head. He looked relaxed now. The tension had left his body. He trusted her.

Click.

"Beautiful," Y/N whispered. "Turn toward me. Slowly."

He turned. His eyes found hers over the top of the camera. He wasn't posing. He was just looking at her. There was a softness in his expression, a quiet gratitude that translated beautifully onto the sensor.

"You are safe," Y/N said, more to herself than to him.

"I know," Harry answered.

Click.

She took the shot. It was perfect. It was honest. And it broke her heart a little bit more, because she knew that the moment this shoot was over, she had to go back to being the girl with the secret, and he had to go back to being the star.

"And that is a wrap!" Alana announced.

The room exploded into applause. The stylists, the assistants, and the lighting crew all clapped. Harry smiled and bowed theatrically, but his eyes were tired.

Y/N felt her knees wobble. The adrenaline that had carried her through the final shirtless set evaporated instantly, leaving her completely drained. She handed her camera to Leo.

"Pack it up," Y/N told him. "Make sure the drives are backed up twice. I am going to say my goodbyes."

"On it," Leo said. He gave her a sympathetic look. "Go home. Sleep for twelve hours. You look wrecked."

"Thanks," Y/N muttered.

She said a quick, professional goodbye to Alana, who was already on her phone booking the next location. Then she grabbed her coat and her bag. She looked around for Harry, intending to give him a polite wave, but he wasn't in the room.

She felt a pang of disappointment.

It is for the best, she told herself. Just go.

She walked out the front door and down the stone steps. The January air was biting. The grey sky had turned darker, promising rain.

"Y/N!"

She turned.

Harry was jogging down the steps after her. He had pulled a heavy wool coat over his hoodie and shoved a beanie onto his messy curls. He looked cozy and ridiculous and handsome.

"I told you," Harry said, catching up to her. His breath puffed out in a white cloud. "I am walking you to your car."

"I thought you were busy," Y/N said, hugging her coat tighter around herself.

"I've got time," Harry said simply.

He fell into step beside her. They walked down the long gravel driveway toward where her beat-up hatchback was parked among the sleek black vans of the production crew.

It was quiet. The gravel crunched under their boots.

"Thank you," Harry said after a moment. "For clearing the set. For... today."

"You are welcome," Y/N said. "You did great, Harry. The photos are going to be incredible."

"I don't care about the photos," Harry said. He stopped when they reached her car. He leaned against the driver's side door, preventing her from opening it immediately.

He looked down at her. His green eyes were serious.

"I care that you are okay," he said. "Are you? Really?"

Y/N looked up at him. She felt the lie sitting heavy in her throat again.

"I am tired," she said honestly. "And I still feel a bit sick. But I am okay."

Harry nodded. He didn't move. He seemed reluctant to let the moment end. He reached out and tugged gently on the lapel of her coat, pulling it tighter around her neck.

"Drive safe," he murmured. "And text me when you get home. I mean it, Y/N. I want to see a text."

"I will," she promised.

"If you don't," Harry warned, a small smirk playing on his lips, "I have your number now. I will annoy you until you answer. I can be very persistent."

"I bet you can," Y/N managed a weak smile.

Harry stepped back. He opened the car door for her.

"Go," he said softly. "Get some rest. I will see you soon."

"See you," Y/N whispered.

She climbed into the driver's seat. The car was freezing. She started the engine and pulled the door shut, sealing herself inside her own little bubble.

She looked out the window.

Harry was still standing there. He had his hands deep in his coat pockets, watching her. He didn't turn around to go back inside. He waited.

Y/N put the car in gear and drove down the driveway. She watched him in her rearview mirror until he was just a small dark figure against the grey stone of the house. Only when she turned the corner and he disappeared from view did she finally let out the breath she had been holding all day.

Y/N unlocked her front door and practically fell inside. The flat was cold and quiet. It smelled like old books and the vanilla candle Marnie always burned.

It smelled like home.

She kicked off her boots and dropped her camera bag on the floor with a heavy thud. She didn't even take off her coat. She just walked to the sofa and collapsed face-first into the cushions.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She groaned. She fished it out, squinting at the screen in the dim light.

Unknown Number: You didn't text.

Y/N’s heart did a traitorous little flip. She saved the number as "Harry".

Y/N: I just walked in the door. I am alive. I am safe.

The reply came instantly. The three dots bubbled for a second.

Harry: Good. Eat something real for dinner. No bad sushi. x

Y/N stared at the "x". A kiss. A casual, digital kiss. It meant nothing. He was British. Everyone sent kisses. But coming from him, after the way he had held her in the garden, it felt heavy.

She tossed the phone onto the coffee table and groaned into the pillow.

"I am in so much trouble," she mumbled to the empty room.

The sound of the front door opening woke Y/N from a doze.

"Honey, I'm home!" Marnie’s voice rang out, followed by the jingle of keys and the rustle of grocery bags. "I bought wine. I know you can't drink it, so I will drink it for you while you smell the cork."

Marnie walked into the living room. She stopped when she saw Y/N still wearing her coat, face buried in the cushions.

"Oh no," Marnie said, dropping the bags. "That is the posture of despair. Was the shoot that bad? Did Alana eat someone?"

Y/N rolled over. She sat up, pushing her messy hair out of her face.

"The shoot was fine," Y/N said. "The photos are good. Great, actually."

"So why do you look like you have seen a ghost?" Marnie asked. She sat down on the coffee table, facing Y/N, her knees knocking against Y/N’s. "Talk to me. Is it the baby? Do you feel sick?"

"I saw him," Y/N blurted out.

Marnie blinked. "Saw who?"

" The father," Y/N whispered.

Marnie’s jaw dropped. Her eyes went wide. She grabbed Y/N’s knees.

"The One Night Stand Guy?" Marnie screeched. "You saw him? Where? Was he stalking you? Did you run into him at Tesco?"

"He was the talent," Y/N said. She felt the hysteria bubbling up in her throat again. "It was his shoot. The Vogue shoot. I spent eight hours photographing the father of my child."

Marnie stared at her. She processed the information slowly.

"Wait," Marnie said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You were shooting... Harry Styles."

Y/N nodded miserably.

Silence filled the room. Marnie looked at Y/N. Then she looked at the ceiling. Then she looked back at Y/N.

"Oh my god," Marnie whispered. Then, louder. "OH MY GOD."

"Marnie, please," Y/N begged. "I am already freaking out."

"You are pregnant with Harry Styles' baby," Marnie stated, as if trying to make it real. "Harry Styles. The man who wears sequins and sings about fruit."

"Yes," Y/N buried her face in her hands.

"Okay, I have two questions," Marnie said, holding up two fingers. "First question. Prioritize. How was the sex?"

Y/N looked up, glaring at her friend. "Marnie!"

"What!" Marnie defended herself. "I have to know! He has that song... you know the one. Was it good? Was it life-changing? Did you see stars?"

Y/N felt her face heat up. The memory of that night on the rug, the whiskey, the way his hands had felt on her skin... it was burned into her brain.

"It was... earth-shattering," Y/N admitted quietly. "It was the best night of my life. That is why I ran away. I was terrified."

"Okay, fair," Marnie nodded solemnly. "Second question. Did you tell him?"

Y/N went silent. She picked at a loose thread on the sofa cushion.

"Y/N," Marnie said, her voice turning serious. "Did you tell him?"

"I couldn't!" Y/N cried. "We were at work! There were people everywhere. And then he was being so nice. He brought me toast because I felt sick. He held me when I cried. He is perfect, Marnie. If I tell him, I ruin everything. He will think I trapped him. He’ll think I’m some crazy fan who planned this.”

"He will think you are the mother of his child," Marnie corrected her gently. She reached out and took Y/N’s hand. "He sounded nice? You said he brought you toast?"

"He peeled the apple slices," Y/N sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Because he thought the skin might upset my stomach."

"He peeled the apple," Marnie repeated, staring into the middle distance. "Jesus Christ. That man is a hazard to ovaries everywhere."

Marnie sighed, standing up and pacing the small room. She bent down and uncorked the wine, taking a swig straight from the bottle before turning back to Y/N.

"Okay. Listen to me. You have to tell him. You cannot ghost Harry Styles twice. Especially not when you are carrying his heir. Do you know what kind of child support that man could pay? That baby is going to be wearing Gucci diapers."

"It's not about the money," Y/N argued weakly.

"It is a little bit about the money," Marnie countered. "But mostly, it’s about the fact that this kid is going to have his face. You can’t hide a mini-Harry. What happens when the baby comes out with those dimples and that hair? People will talk."

Y/N groaned, tilting her head back against the sofa. "I know. I know all of this. But I’m scared, Marnie. What if he tries to take the baby?”

Marnie sat back down, softer this time. She put an arm around Y/N’s shoulders.

"He peeled apples for a photographer he thought was just having a bad day," Marnie said softly. "That doesn't sound like a man who sics lawyers on the mother of his child. That sounds like a decent guy."

"He walked me to my car," Y/N whispered, closing her eyes as she remembered the weight of his hand on her lower back as they walked to the parking lot.

“And I texted him back," Y/N admitted. "Just before you got here. I sent a text saying I was home safe."

"You texted him!" Marnie clapped her hands together. "Okay, so you are communicating. You didn't run away this time."

"I am acting like everything is normal," Y/N said, her voice cracking. "But inside, I am screaming. I'm lying to him by omission every second I don't say it. And now he has my number. He's going to expect... I don't know, friendship? And I'm sitting here incubating his child.”

"He likes you," Marnie stated simply. "Men like Harry Styles don't walk photographers to their cars unless they like them. The door is open, Y/N.”

"I want to lock the door and hide under the bed," Y/N mumbled.

"Panic is allowed," Marnie squeezed her shoulder. "You’ve had a massive shock. But you can't hide forever. Eventually, you have to tell him.”

Y/N let out a long, shuddering breath. The adrenaline was finally leaving her system, leaving her limbs heavy and her brain foggy.

"I know," she murmured. "But not today. I literally cannot form sentences anymore. I just need to sleep. I will figure it out tomorrow."

Marnie kissed the top of her head and stood up. "Sleep. I’ll drink this wine for both of us and head out. I'll lock up."

The sleep was heavy, a black tide that pulled her under and held her there. She didn't dream. She didn't toss. She just ceased to exist for hours on end.

What finally pulled her back to the surface wasn't the light—the room was pitch black—but a sound.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A pause. Then again, louder this time.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Y/N groaned, her voice rusty in her throat. She peeled her face off the pillow, blinking into the darkness. Her apartment was silent except for the rhythmic thudding against her front door. She felt disoriented, her head swimming. She reached for her phone on the nightstand to check the time, but the battery was dead.

"Coming," she croaked, though nobody could hear her.

She stumbled out of bed, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. She dragged herself through the dark living room, bumping her hip against the armchair. She didn't even think to check the peephole. She just wanted the noise to stop so she could figure out what day it was.

She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

"Marnie, did you forget your—"

The words died in her throat.

It wasn't Marnie.

Harry stood in the hallway.

He was dressed down for his day off—baggy corduroys, a thick vintage sweater, and a beanie pulled low over his curls. He looked anxious, his hand raised as if he was about to knock again. When he saw her, his shoulders instantly dropped about two inches in relief.

"Harry?" she whispered, clutching the edge of the doorframe for balance. She knew she must look like a wreck—hair matted to one side, sleep creases on her cheek, wearing the same oversized t-shirt she’d collapsed in.

"Jesus," Harry let out a breath, a puff of white air in the chilly hallway. "You’re alive."

"I... what?" Y/N blinked, trying to wake up her brain. "What time is it?"

"It's just after six," Harry said. He looked her over, scanning her from head to toe as if checking for injuries. "Six p.m."

"Six..." Y/N frowned, doing the math. "I slept for... eighteen hours?"

"I've been texting you since ten this morning," Harry said, stepping a little closer, his voice dropping to that gentle, concerned tone he’d used at the shoot. "I didn't want to be annoying, but then you didn't reply to the third one, or the fourth... I thought maybe you’d gotten sick again. Or worse."

"My phone died," she mumbled, gesturing vaguely behind her. "I just... I crashed. Hard."

"I can see that," a small, relieved smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I got worried. It’s my day off, so I went by your studio to see if you were there."

"You went to the studio?" Y/N’s eyes went wide.

"Yeah. Ran into Leo," Harry explained effortlessly, as if it was perfectly normal for a global pop star to be hunting down freelance photographers on his day off. "Nice guy. He said you hadn't come in. I may have charmed him into giving me your address. I told him I needed to drop off something you left on set."

"You lied to Leo," she said, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"I improvised," Harry corrected. He shifted his weight, looking slightly sheepish now that the crisis was averted. "I just needed to make sure you were okay. You seemed... really fragile yesterday."

He looked at her, waiting. He was standing on her doormat, looking beautiful and worried, and she was blocking the entrance, hiding a pregnancy and a very messy apartment.

"Right," Y/N stammered, realizing she was keeping one of the most famous men in the world standing in a drafty hallway. "I—yeah. Come in. Please. Sorry."

She stepped back, swinging the door wide.

Harry stepped inside, toeing off his boots on the mat with an easy familiarity that made her stomach flip. As the door clicked shut, sealing them in, Y/N suddenly saw her apartment through his eyes.

It was a disaster zone.

There was the empty wine bottle Marnie had left on the coffee table. A pile of laundry she’d meant to fold two days ago occupied the armchair. Her camera bag was exploded across the floor, lenses and caps scattered like debris. And there were at least three half-drunk mugs of tea on various surfaces.

"Oh god," she muttered, panic overriding her exhaustion.

She scrambled into action. She grabbed the throw blanket off the floor and tossed it over the laundry pile. She scooped up two of the mugs, balancing them precariously in one hand while kicking a stray sock under the sofa with her foot.

"Sorry," she said, breathlessly, rushing to the sink to dump the mugs. "I wasn't expecting company. Or to be awake. It's usually... cleaner. Well, marginally cleaner."

She turned around, expecting to see him judging the chaos.

Harry hadn't moved far. He was standing in the middle of the living room, hands tucked into his pockets, looking around with a soft, curious expression. He looked at the bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks, the framed prints on the walls, the fairy lights strung up over the window that she hadn't turned on yet.

"It’s nice," he said, turning his gaze back to her. He sounded genuine. "It’s... cozy. Like a real home."

"It's a shoe box," she corrected, leaning back against the kitchen counter, self-consciously crossing her arms over her chest.

"It's warm," Harry countered. He took a few steps closer, leaning his hip against the back of the sofa, closing the distance between them just a little. "Better than a hotel room. Those are always too empty."

He looked at her then, really looked at her. His eyes dipped to the oversized t-shirt she was wearing, then back up to her messy hair.

"So," he said, a small smirk playing on his lips. "If you've been asleep for eighteen hours, that means you haven't eaten in eighteen hours."

Harry’s smirk deepened into a grin as she remained silent.

"I’ll take that as a yes," he chuckled.

"I have..." Y/N turned to open her fridge, revealing a sad jar of pickles, half a carton of oat milk, and Marnie’s leftover cheese. "I have cheese. And pickles.”

"Absolutely not," Harry said, pushing off the sofa. "Get your shoes on."

"What? No," Y/N balked. "I can't go out. Look at me. I haven't showered in twenty-four hours. I feel like a swamp creature."

"You look fine," Harry dismissed, though his eyes were twinkling with amusement. "But you’re not eating pickles for dinner. I know a place. It’s not far, just a quick drive. Best Pad Thai in the city. Trust me."

"You know a place?" she asked skeptically.

"I know all the places," he winked. "Come on."

Y/N hesitated, running a hand through her tangled hair. She felt gross—sticky with sleep and heavy with the emotional hangover of yesterday. The idea of sitting in a restaurant, even a casual one, feeling like this was impossible.

"I need to shower," she said firmly. "If you want me to go anywhere, I need twenty minutes. I need to scrub the last eighteen hours off my skin to feel human again."

Harry studied her face, seeing the genuine plea there. He nodded, his demeanor softening.

"Okay," he said easily, sitting back down on the sofa and crossing his legs. "Take your time. I’m not in a rush. I’ll just hang out here."

"You’re... you're going to wait?"

"I'm comfortable," he shrugged, patting the cushion. "You have books. I have my phone. Go. Get clean."

Y/N stared at him for another second, baffled by how easily he fit into her living room, before she turned and fled to the bathroom.

The moment she locked the door, she sagged against it. She turned on the shower, cranking the heat up as high as it would go.

The water was a blessing. She stood under the spray for a long time, letting the heat seep into her bones, washing away the grogginess. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, washed her hair twice, and stood there breathing in the steam, trying to calibrate her brain.

Harry Styles is in my living room. He waited for me to wake up. He is taking me to get Thai food.

She turned off the water and toweled dry. She stared at herself in the foggy mirror. Her eyes looked brighter, less haunted than before. She placed a hand flat against her stomach. It was still flat, giving away nothing.

"Be cool," she whispered to her reflection. "Just... be cool."

She dressed quickly in the most comfortable but presentable thing she could find—her favorite pair of straight-leg jeans and a soft, cream-colored cable knit sweater. She towel-dried her hair, leaving it damp and wavy, and applied a tiny bit of moisturizer.

When she opened the bathroom door, steam billowed out behind her.

Harry was exactly where she’d left him. He had one of her photography books open on his lap—a collection of black and white street portraits. He looked up as she entered, closing the book gently.

He scanned her face, looking for the exhaustion that had been there before.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Much," Y/N breathed, feeling like a new person. "I feel like I actually exist now."

Harry stood up, grabbing his keys. He offered her a smile that made her knees feel a little weak.

"You look nice," he said, keeping it simple. "Ready to eat?"

His car was parked right out front—a sleek, black Range Rover that looked far too expensive for her street. He opened the passenger door for her, and as she climbed in, she was instantly enveloped in warmth and the scent of him—leather, tobacco, and something woodsy.

As he pulled out into traffic, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, Y/N tried to focus on something other than the sudden, swaying motion of the car.

"So," she said, clutching the seatbelt strap. "You said you had a day off. Did you spend the whole thing stalking my assistant, or did you do anything productive?"

Harry chuckled, one hand resting casually on the top of the steering wheel. "I wouldn't call it stalking. I’d call it... aggressive networking. But mostly, yeah. I went to the gym. I tried to read a script but couldn't focus because a certain photographer wasn't texting me back. And I bought a new plant."

"A plant?"

"A fern. I named him Clive," Harry glanced over at her, a grin splitting his face. "I’m trying to be more domestic."

Y/N smiled, but it felt tight. The car hit a pothole, and her stomach did a somersault. The hunger that had been gnawing at her was rapidly curdling into nausea. She swallowed hard, staring straight ahead at the dashboard.

"Clive," she repeated faintly. "That's a dignified name."

"I thought so. I figure if I can keep Clive alive for a month, I might be ready for a dog. Or a goldfish."

He kept talking, his voice low and soothing, filling the silence. But Y/N was struggling. The streetlights were starting to streak in her vision. The heat in the car, which had felt nice a moment ago, now felt stifling. She cracked the window a tiny bit, craving cold air.

Harry stopped at a red light. He turned to look at her, his smile fading instantly.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping. "You went quiet."

"I'm listening," she managed, closing her eyes for a second. "Clive the fern."

"Y/N," Harry reached across the console, his warm hand covering her cold one where it gripped her knee. "Open your eyes. You’re ghost-white."

"I’m okay," she lied, but her voice was thready. "I think... I think I'm just really hungry. It’s been a long time since I ate."

"You’re shaking," he noted, his brow furrowed in deep concern. He squeezed her hand. "Okay. Change of plan."

He pulled the car over to the curb just as the Thai place came into view.

"Stay here," he ordered gently. "Do not move. I’m going to run in, grab the food, and we are going straight back to your couch. You look like you’re about to pass out."

"I wanted to go out," she whispered, disappointed in her own body.

"We are out," Harry said firmly, unbuckling his seatbelt. "But I’m not letting you sit in a restaurant when you look like you need to be horizontal. I’m getting the Pad Thai, and we’re eating it in your living room where I can make sure you drink water. Okay?"

She nodded weakly, too dizzy to argue. "Okay."

"I'll be two minutes," he promised. He squeezed her hand one last time before jumping out of the car, jogging toward the restaurant with a purpose that made her chest ache.

The Pad Thai helped. The warmth of the food and the quiet hum of the apartment settled Y/N’s stomach, bringing a bit of color back to her cheeks. They ate on the floor by the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the rug, the cartons spread out between them.

Harry didn't eat much. He spent most of the time watching her, his fork pushing noodles around his carton, his brow furrowed in that same deep line of worry that hadn't left his face since he found her in the hallway.

When she finally set her chopsticks down, feeling human again, Harry spoke.

"You scared me today," he said quietly.

"I know," Y/N sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to go off the grid. My body just... shut down."

"It's not just today, though," Harry said. He shifted, turning his body fully toward her. His eyes were intense, searching hers. "Yesterday at the shoot, you were sick. You were pale. Then you slept for eighteen hours. And in the car... Y/N, you looked like you were going to pass out."

"I've just been run down," she deflected, looking at her hands. "Work has been crazy."

"Is it?" Harry asked, his voice low and serious. "Because it feels like more than that."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm, a gentle demand for her attention.

"Look at me," he whispered.

She looked up. His eyes were wide, filled with a terrifying amount of tenderness and fear.

"Are you sick?" he asked, the words catching in his throat. "Like... sick sick? Is there something wrong? Something serious?"

"What?" Y/N blinked, startled.

"Is that why you ran yesterday?" Harry continued, his voice gaining speed, desperation creeping in. "Is that why you're keeping me at arm's length? Because you're dealing with something bad and you don't want to drag me into it?"

"Harry, no—"

"Because if you are," he interrupted, leaning closer, "I don't care. I want to be here. I know we just met, and this sounds insane, but I feel... I feel something with you. And if you're sick, I want to help. I don't scare easy."

The sincerity in his voice broke her.

The tears came without warning—hot, fast tears that spilled over her lashes and tracked down her cheeks. He thought she was dying. He thought she was pushing him away to protect him from some tragedy, and he was sitting there telling her he wanted to stay anyway.

"Oh god," she sobbed, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.

"Hey, hey," Harry was moving instantly, scrambling onto his knees to reach for her. He pulled her hands away from her face, his thumbs wiping at the tears. "It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. Just tell me."

"I'm not sick," she choked out, shaking her head violently. "I'm not sick, Harry. I promise."

"Then what is it?" he pleaded softly, holding her face in his large, warm hands. "Please, love. Talk to me. Why are you so scared?"

"Because it changes everything," she whispered, her breath hitching. She looked into his green eyes, seeing nothing but concern and kindness, and she knew she couldn't lie for one more second.

She took a shaky breath. She grabbed his wrists, holding his hands against her cheeks.

"I'm not sick," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm pregnant."

The word hung in the air between them, heavier than anything else that had been said all night.

Pregnant.

Harry froze.

His hands were still cupping her face, his thumbs resting on her cheekbones. For a solid five seconds, he didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stared at her, the concern in his eyes slowly morphing into total, blank confusion.

Then, slowly, his hands slid away from her face. They dropped to his lap, useless and limp.

"Pregnant," he repeated. It wasn't a question. It was just the word, sounded out, as if he was testing if it was real.

Y/N nodded, tears leaking faster now. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest, making herself small.

Harry sat back on his heels. He looked at her—really looked at her—and then his gaze dropped to her stomach, hidden beneath the thick cable-knit sweater. Then back up to her face.

You could practically see the gears turning in his head. The math. The timeline.

He blinked rapidly. He looked at the ceiling, then back at her. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that sounded loud in the quiet room.

"Wait," he whispered. His voice was barely audible.

He shifted, turning his body slightly away, running a hand aggressively through his curls, gripping the back of his neck.

"You... you’re pregnant," he said again, louder this time, his voice cracking. He looked at her with wide, bewildered eyes. "But you... I mean... we..."

He stopped. The realization hit him like a physical blow. His eyes widened to their absolute limit.

"October," Y/N whispered, the word trembling.

Harry stopped breathing for a second.

"October," he echoed.

He stared at her, the color draining from his face, leaving him looking just as pale as she had earlier. The pieces slammed together. The sickness. The tiredness. The way she had looked at him at the shoot—like she was hiding a secret that was eating her alive.

"It's mine," he stated.

It wasn't a question. It was a realization that shook the floorboards.

Y/N bit her lip to stop a sob, closing her eyes as she nodded. "Yes."

Harry let out a sound—half laugh, half exhale—and slumped back against the sofa behind him, looking as if someone had just cut the strings holding him up. He stared at the empty Thai food carton, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I thought... I thought you were dying. I thought you had cancer or something."

He dropped his hands, looking at her with an expression of absolute, unadulterated shock.

"But you’re... we’re..." He gestured vaguely between the two of them, unable to finish the sentence. "You're having a baby. My baby."