off the record — 3 (Patreon)

Author's note: I am so sorry for the delay! I tried to get this up last night but I was too tired and literally fell asleep at my keyboard. 😴 Also, a little update: I originally planned for this to be 3 parts, but apparently not! The story has a mind of its own, so it’s going to take me two more parts to finish it properly. Enjoy!

word count: 10.2k

The silence that followed was heavy, pressing against the walls of the small apartment.

Harry didn't move. He sat frozen on the sofa, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on her face as if he was trying to rearrange every pixel of her into this new reality.

"Okay," he eventually breathed out. It wasn't a statement of agreement; it was just a sound. A way to test if his voice still worked. "Okay."

He pulled his hands away from his face and ran them aggressively through his hair, tugging at the roots, making the messy curls stand up in every direction. He looked wild for a second—panic radiating off him in waves.

"Harry, please say something else," Y/N whispered, her voice trembling. "You’re scaring me."

"I’m scaring you?" Harry let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that held zero humor. He looked at her, his eyes wide. "You just told me you’re pregnant with my child while we’re eating Pad Thai on your living room floor. I think I’m allowed a minute to be scared, yeah?"

Y/N flinched, shrinking back against the armchair. "I know. I’m sorry. I—"

"Don't," Harry held up a hand, stopping her apology. He stood up suddenly, as if his body contained too much energy to sit still. He paced to the window, staring out at the dark street, then turned back to face her. "How far along?"

"Nine weeks," Y/N answered, her voice small. "Just over two months."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Nine weeks," he muttered, confirming the math in his head. "So... October. That night."

"Yes," she whispered. "I found out a few weeks ago. I was going to tell you. I swear. But I didn't have your number, and I couldn't just call your management. And then... time just kept passing, and I got scared."

Harry looked at her. The anger that had flashed in his eyes for a second softened into something more complicated—hurt, maybe. And overwhelming shock.

"You were at the shoot yesterday," he said, his voice dropping low. "You were pregnant yesterday. That’s why you were sick. That’s why you wouldn't let me get you a coffee."

"I can't have caffeine," she mumbled.

"Right," Harry nodded, as if filing that information away. "No caffeine. Okay."

He walked back to the sofa but didn't sit down. He stood over the coffee table, looking down at her.

"Is everything... is it okay?" he asked, the question coming out rough. "You said you're not sick, but you look..."

"I've had hyperemesis," Y/N explained, the medical term feeling safer than the emotions swirling in the room. "It’s just severe morning sickness. But the pregnancy is healthy. I had an early scan last week. There’s a heartbeat."

The mention of the heartbeat seemed to snap something in Harry. His shoulders dropped an inch. He let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Do you have it?" he asked.

"Have what?"

"The scan," Harry said. He gestured vaguely with his hand. "A picture? Do you have a picture?"

Y/N hesitated, then nodded. "It's in the drawer. Over there."

She pointed to the small sideboard under the window, where she kept her important papers and bills.

Harry turned and walked over, his boots heavy on the floorboards. Y/N watched him from the floor as he opened the top drawer. He rummaged for a second before his hand stopped.

He pulled out a white medical envelope.

He didn't open it immediately. He held it in both hands, staring at the logo of the clinic on the front. Then, with slow, careful movements, he slid the glossy black-and-white strip out.

He moved closer to the lamp on the sideboard, squinting down at the image.

At nine weeks, it wasn't much—just a grainy, gray blob in a sea of black static. A smudge of life.

Harry stood there for a long time. His back was to her, so she couldn't see his face. She could only see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head bowed low over the paper, holding it like it was made of glass.

He stood there for so long that Y/N started to panic again.

"Harry?" she called out softly.

He didn't turn around immediately. When he finally did, his eyes were glassy, reflecting the lamp light.

"It looks like a kidney bean," he said, his voice barely a whisper. A small, disbelief-filled smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked back down at the photo. "A tiny kidney bean."

He didn't put the photo back in the envelope. Instead, he walked back over to the sofa, carrying the glossy strip of paper with a reverence that made Y/N’s chest ache.

This time, he didn't pace. He didn't stand over her. He sat down right next to her, close enough that his thigh brushed against her knee. The physical distance between them vanished, replaced by the shared gravity of the grainy image in his hand.

"It's tiny," he murmured, tracing the edge of the scan with his thumb. "But it's there."

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. "It's there."

Harry looked at her, his expression softening for the first time since he’d walked through the door. The panic was fading, replaced by a dawning, terrifying wonder.

"Can I keep this?" he asked.

Y/N hesitated. "That’s the original. The clinic only gave me one."

"Right," Harry nodded quickly, understanding. He fished his phone out of his pocket. "Can I... do you mind if I take a picture of it? Just so I have it."

"Go ahead."

He laid the scan carefully on the coffee table, smoothing it flat with his hand, and snapped a photo. Then he checked it, zoomed in to make sure it was clear, and saved it. He looked at the digital version for another second before slipping his phone back into his pocket.

He picked up the original scan and handed it back to her, his fingers brushing hers.

"You should put it somewhere safe," he said gently. "Don't want it getting lost in a drawer."

Y/N took it, holding it against her chest. She looked down at her lap, picking at a loose thread on her jeans.

"Harry," she started, her voice shaking again. "I know this isn't... I know this wasn't in your plans.”

Harry let out a dry huff of laughter. "No. I can safely say this was not on the bingo card for this year."

"You don't have to..." She stopped, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She needed to say this, even if it broke her heart. "You don't have to be involved if you don't want to. I have a job. I have Marnie. I can do this. If you want to just... step back, or keep it quiet, I won't ask you for anything.”

Harry’s head snapped up. The softness vanished, replaced by a sharp, intense frown.

"Stop," he said firmly.

"I'm just saying—"

"I said stop," he repeated, turning his body so he was fully facing her. He reached out, taking both of her hands in his. His grip was tight, bordering on desperate. "Y/N, look at me."

She looked up, her eyes swimming with fresh tears.

"There is no 'without me'," Harry said, his voice low and fierce. "Okay? Get that out of your head right now. I don't care about the timing. I don't care that we barely know each other. "he or she" He nodded toward the scan in her hand. "It is half of me. I’m not going to be a ghost in this kid's life, Y/N. If that’s what you were worried about. If you thought I’d cut a check and disappear, you don't know me at all.”

"You are?" she whispered.

"Yes," Harry said, without a second of hesitation. "I am terrified. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. But I am not going anywhere."

He let out a long breath, his thumbs rubbing over her knuckles.

"I'm sorry if I scared you earlier," he added softly. "I just... my brain short-circuited. It was a lot of information for a Thursday."

"It is a lot," Y/N agreed with a watery smile.

Harry squeezed her hands one last time before letting go, leaning back against the sofa cushions. He looked at her, then at her stomach, then around the messy apartment. You could practically see the shift happen—the emotional shock settling into a manic, practical energy.

"Okay," he said, rubbing his hands together, sitting up straighter. "So. We’re doing this. Which means we need a plan. Logistics."

Y/N blinked, wiping her eyes. "Logistics?"

"Yes. Doctors. Hospitals. Vitamins," Harry listed off, ticking them on his fingers. "Who are you seeing? Is it a private OB? Someone good?"

"I’m seeing a midwife at the clinic down the street," Y/N said, reaching for her water glass. "She’s nice."

Harry frowned instantly. "The clinic next to the kebab shop?"

"It is a perfectly respectable medical establishment, Harry."

"It has a flickering neon sign," Harry countered. "That is not enough. Not with you being this sick. You said you have hyper... hyper-what?"

"Hyperemesis," she supplied. "And I’m managing it."

"You turned ghost white in my car an hour ago," Harry pointed out gently but firmly. "You were shaking so hard you couldn't hold your hands still. That is not managing it. You need a specialist. You need someone who can answer the phone at 3 a.m. when you feel like you’re dying.”

He reached into his pocket for his phone again, already unlocking it.

"I’m going to call my assistant. Well, not now, it’s late. But tomorrow morning. There’s a doctor in Harley Street, Dr. Gowda. He’s the best. He delivered James's kid. Total discretion, top of the line equipment."

"Harry, no," Y/N sat up, her defenses instantly rising. "I can't afford a Harley Street doctor”.

"I know," Harry said, not looking up from his phone as he typed a note. "That’s why I’m paying for it."

"No," Y/N said, louder this time. "Absolutely not. I am not taking your money."

Harry stopped typing. He looked up at her, his expression serious.

"It’s not for you," he said simply. "It’s for the baby. And it’s for my peace of mind. Let me use it to make sure you aren't suffering unnecessarily."

"I don't want to be a charity case," she mumbled, looking down at her lap.

"You aren't," Harry said softness returning to his voice. He leaned forward again. "You’re carrying my child. You are doing the hard part. The least I can do is pay the guy who makes sure you’re both safe. Please? Let me do this."

Y/N looked at him. She saw the genuine worry in his eyes, the need to be useful in a situation where he had no control. She let out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping.

"Okay," she whispered. "Fine. But just the doctor."

"For now," Harry agreed, though the glint in his eye suggested he had other plans.

He put his phone away. As the screen went dark, the energy in the room seemed to dip. The adrenaline that had fueled the confession and the argument suddenly evaporated, leaving them both exhausted.

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyes drooping.

"You're falling asleep," Harry noted quietly.

"I'm okay," she lied, shifting to sit up straighter.

"You're not," Harry stood up. He reached down and began gathering the empty takeout cartons. "Drink the rest of your water. I’ll take these to the kitchen."

Y/N watched him move around her apartment, throwing away the trash and rinsing the forks in the sink. It felt surreal. Harry Styles was doing her dishes.

When he came back, he didn't sit down. He stood by the sofa, looking down at her.

"I should go," he said, though he didn't move toward the door. "You need to sleep properly, and I don't have a toothbrush here."

"Right," Y/N nodded, standing up slowly. Her legs felt a little wobbly. "Thank you. For... the food. And for not running away."

"I told you," Harry stepped closer, invading her space gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

He hesitated for a second, his hand twitching at his side. Then, slowly, as if asking for permission, he reached out.

He placed his large, warm hand gently over her stomach, right over the cable-knit wool of her sweater.

Y/N stopped breathing.

His hand was heavy and grounding. There was no bump yet, nothing to feel but the fabric and her own breathing, but the gesture felt louder than anything he had said all night.

"Hi," Harry whispered, looking down at his hand. He wasn't talking to her.

He looked back up, his eyes soft and crinkled at the corners.

"I'll pick you up at ten tomorrow," he said, his voice husky. "We'll go to the clinic and get your records transferred."

"Okay," Y/N breathed.

Harry gave her stomach one last, gentle pat before pulling his hand away. He grabbed his keys from the coffee table.

"Lock the door behind me," he instructed.

He walked to the door, pausing once to look back at her standing in the middle of her living room, clutching the ultrasound photo. He offered her a small, tired smile, then slipped out into the hallway.

Y/N locked the deadbolt. She listened to his heavy boots retreating down the stairs.

She walked to the window and peered through the blinds. She watched him jog down the front steps and climb into the black Range Rover. He didn't start the car immediately. The interior light stayed on for a long moment, illuminating his face as he looked down at his phone—probably looking at the photo of the scan again.

Finally, the light went out, the engine roared to life, and the car pulled away into the night

That morning the crushing weight on her chest was gone.

For two months, she had woken up every morning with a split second of peace before the reality of the secret slammed into her. Pregnant. Harry Styles. Alone. It had been a mantra of panic that started her day before her feet even hit the floor.

But today, the mantra was different.

He knows.

She rolled over, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He knew. And he hadn't run away. He hadn't called a lawyer. He had sat on her floor, eaten cold Pad Thai, and looked at a blurry photo of a bean like it was the Mona Lisa.

The sound of the front door unlocking snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Room service!" Marnie’s voice boomed through the apartment, followed by the aggressive rustling of paper bags. "I come bearing gifts. Specifically, croissants that cost five pounds each, which is robbery, but I felt we needed morale support."

Y/N groaned, sitting up slowly. The nausea was there—it was always there—but it felt manageable today.

Marnie swept into the bedroom like a hurricane in a thrifted leopard-print coat. she was balancing a cardboard tray with two cups and a white bakery box.

"You're awake," Marnie declared, kicking the door shut behind her. She dumped the tray onto the duvet. "Decaf oat latte for the incubator. High-octane caffeine for me. Drink up. I need details."

Y/N took the cup, the warmth seeping into her cold hands. "You're here early."

"I couldn't sleep!" Marnie exclaimed, shrugging off her coat and flopping onto the foot of the bed. "I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling wondering if you were currently signing an NDA or getting engaged. So? Spill. Did he cry? Did he faint? Did he write a song about it on the spot?"

Y/N took a sip of the foam, smiling despite herself. "He didn't write a song. But... he was good, Marnie. He was really good."

Marnie’s eyes widened. She grabbed a croissant and pointed it at Y/N like a microphone. "Define 'good'."

"He was shocked," Y/N admitted. "Obviously. He panicked for a minute. He thought I was dying because I looked so sick. But once I told him... he just switched gears. He said he’s in. He said there’s no 'without him'."

"He said that?" Marnie swooned, clutching her chest theatrically. "Oh my god. 'There is no without me'? That is straight out of a rom-com. I hate him. I love him."

"He’s picking me up at ten," Y/N added, glancing at the clock on her nightstand. It was already 8:45. "He’s taking me to a doctor. A specialist in Harley Street."

"Harley Street?" Marnie choked on her pastry. "Of course he is. Because why go to the NHS when you can go to a place with marble floors and scented candles? Is he paying?"

"He insisted," Y/N said, feeling a blush creep up her neck. "I tried to say no, but he pulled the 'it's for the baby' card."

"Good!" Marnie cheered. "Let him pay! Let him buy you the fancy vitamins and the ergonomic pillows. He’s Harry Styles, Y/N. He probably has cash in his sofa cushions."

Marnie scrambled off the bed, clapping her crumbs onto the floor. She walked over to Y/N’s closet and threw the doors open.

"Okay. You have an hour. We need to find you an outfit."

"I was just going to wear jeans," Y/N said, taking another bite of her croissant.

"Absolutely not," Marnie began flipping through hangers with ruthless efficiency. "You are going to Harley Street with the most eligible bachelor in the world to look at your shared offspring. You need to look 'effortlessly chic mother-to-be,' not 'I just rolled out of bed'."

She pulled out a soft, oatmeal-colored sweater dress and a pair of black boots.

"This," Marnie decided, tossing it onto the bed. "Comfy for the belly, but shows off your legs. Wear the gold hoop earrings. And put on some mascara. We want him to remember that you are a hot photographer, not just a vessel for his genes."

Y/N laughed, the sound bubbling up freely. "You are ridiculous."

"I am supportive," Marnie corrected. "Now go shower. I’ll eat the other croissant while I wait."

Exactly one hour later, Y/N was standing in the living room, smoothing down the front of the sweater dress. She felt... human. The dress was soft, her hair was clean, and the nausea was currently at a low hum rather than a scream.

"You look gorgeous," Marnie said from the kitchen, where she was aggressively scrubbing the Thai food stains off the counter. "Like a glowing earth mother. But cooler."

"I'm nervous," Y/N whispered, staring at the door. "What if today is weird? Last night was emotional, but today is... daylight. Real life."

"It will be weird," Marnie assured her cheerfully. "But you guys made a human together. You can survive a car ride."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound made both of them jump.

Three sharp, confident raps.

Y/N froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"He's here," she breathed.

"Okay," Marnie whipped off the dish towel and threw it over her shoulder. She smoothed her hair and marched toward the door. "Showtime."

"Marnie, wait—" Y/N tried to intercept her, but it was too late.

Marnie pulled the door open.

Harry stood there.

He looked sickeningly good. He was wearing black jeans, a white t-shirt, and a buttery soft brown suede jacket. He had sunglasses perched on his head and a paper pharmacy bag in one hand. He looked fresh, rested, and expensive.

He blinked, surprised to see a woman in a leopard print blouse blocking his path instead of Y/N.

"Oh," Harry said, his eyebrows shooting up. "Hello."

Marnie stared at him. She looked him up and down, slowly, unabashedly. Then she looked him dead in the eye.

"You look exactly like the pictures," Marnie stated flatly. "It’s actually annoying."

Harry’s lips twitched. A slow, dimpled grin spread across his face.

"I’ll take that as a compliment," he drawled, his voice low and raspy. "You must be Marnie."

"I’m Marnie," she confirmed, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. "I’m the best friend. The gatekeeper. The one who knows where all the bodies are buried."

"Nice to meet you, Marnie," Harry smiled, extending his free hand. He didn't seem rattled in the slightest. "I’ve heard... well, I haven't heard much, actually. Y/N has been keeping me a secret."

"A terrible secret," Marnie corrected, shaking his hand firmly. "But now that I’m seeing the merchandise up close..." She narrowed her eyes, scanning his face, lingering on the dimple in his cheek and the green of his eyes.

She turned her head to yell back into the apartment.

"Okay, Y/N! I forgive you! I totally get it now. I would have let him knock me up too!"

Harry choked on a laugh, ducking his head as a bright, rosy flush crept up his neck and settled high on his cheekbones. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the floorboards, clearly not used to being spoken to with zero filter.

“Oh my god," Y/N groaned, appearing in the hallway behind Marnie, her face burning. She grabbed her purse and pushed past her friend. "Goodbye, Marnie. Please stop talking."

"I’m just saying!" Marnie called out, grinning wickedly at Harry’s flustered expression. "If the baby comes out with those eyelashes, I’ll babysit for free!"

"We’re leaving," Y/N announced, grabbing Harry’s arm and practically dragging him toward the stairs. "Bye!"

Harry let Y/N pull him away, but he glanced back at Marnie one last time, offering a shy, amused wave. "Bye, Marnie. Nice meeting you."

"Take care of them!" Marnie yelled down the stairwell.

By the time they reached the sidewalk, Y/N’s face had cooled down to a manageable pink. Harry unlocked the Range Rover, the lights flashing in the morning sun. He opened the passenger door for her, waiting until she was settled before closing it solidly.

When he climbed into the driver's seat, the car was quiet and warm. It smelled like him—clean laundry and expensive cologne.

"Your friend is... spirited," Harry noted, buckling his seatbelt. The ghost of a smile was still playing on his lips.

"She’s a lot," Y/N sighed, leaning her head back against the headrest. "I’m sorry. She has no concept of an inside voice."

"I liked her," Harry said easily. "She clearly cares about you. That's good. You need a guard dog."

He reached into the back seat and grabbed the paper pharmacy bag he’d been holding earlier. He dropped it onto Y/N’s lap.

"Here," he said. "This is for you."

Y/N frowned, opening the bag. She peered inside.

It was filled with boxes. Sea-Bands: Acupressure Wrist Bands. A bag of artisanal ginger chews. A bottle of high-end prenatal vitamins that looked like they cost more than her camera lens. A packet of saltine crackers. And a small bottle of peppermint essential oil.

She pulled out the ginger chews, looking at him.

"Harry?"

"I was reading," he said, suddenly looking a little shy, focused intently on checking his mirrors. "Last night. About the hyperemesis thing. The internet said the wristbands help some people. And the ginger is good for the nausea. And apparently, peppermint helps if you just smell it when you feel sick."

Y/N stared at the items in her lap.

He had gone to a pharmacy this morning. He had walked down the aisles, looking for these specific things because he remembered she was sick. He had spent his morning thinking about how to make her feel better.

A lump formed in her throat. It was such a small, practical gesture, but it felt huge.

"You didn't have to do this," she whispered, her fingers curling around the bag of chews.

"I felt useless," Harry admitted, glancing over at her as he pulled out into traffic. "I can't carry the baby. I can't take the sickness away. But I can buy ginger chews. So... try them. Please?"

Y/N opened the bag and popped a chew into her mouth. The spicy-sweet flavor hit her tongue immediately, settling the sour feeling in her stomach.

"It helps," she said softly. She looked at him, her eyes stinging. "Thank you."

Harry reached across the console. He didn't take her hand this time; he just gave her knee a quick, reassuring squeeze.

"You don't have to thank me," he said. "Ready to go see the bean?"

"Yeah," Y/N smiled, clutching the paper bag like a lifeline. "Ready."

The drive to Harley Street was short, but as they approached the row of pristine, white Georgian townhouses, Harry didn't slow down near the main entrances. Instead, he clicked his indicator and turned sharply down a narrow, cobbled mews that ran behind the buildings.

"We’re going in the back?" Y/N asked, watching the brick walls pass close to the window.

"Protocol," Harry said simply, his eyes scanning the alley. "Dr. Gowda’s team knows I’m coming. They have a discreet entrance for... clients who prefer not to be seen."

He pulled the Range Rover up to a nondescript black metal door that looked more like a service entrance than the gateway to a medical facility. Before he even put the car in park, the door opened. A woman in navy blue scrubs stepped out, holding a clipboard.

"Stay here," Harry murmured. He put on his sunglasses, even though it was shady in the alley.

He hopped out, exchanged a few quick words with the nurse, and then came around to open Y/N’s door.

"All clear," he said, offering her his hand to help her down.

Y/N stepped onto the cobblestones, gripping his hand tight. It felt illicit. Like they were sneaking into a club or running away from a crime scene, rather than going for a prenatal checkup.

"This feels like a spy movie," she whispered as he guided her quickly toward the door.

"It’s just safer," Harry said, his voice low near her ear. "The front waiting room has windows. People walk by. It’s better if we just disappear."

They stepped inside, and the nurse immediately locked the heavy door behind them.

"Mr. Styles," the nurse smiled professionally, completely unfazed by his presence. "And this must be Y/N. Dr. Gowda is ready for you in Suite 4. No waiting today."

"Thank you, Elena," Harry said, clearly having memorized her name from the brief interaction outside.

Y/N followed them down a long, quiet corridor. It didn't smell like a hospital. It smelled like lavender and expensive floor polish. There were no fluorescent lights humming overhead, just soft, warm sconces. The floors were carpeted, silencing their footsteps.

It was a world away from the clinic by the kebab shop with its sticky plastic chairs and two-hour wait times.

Elena led them into a large, dim room at the end of the hall. It looked more like a hotel suite than a medical exam room. There was a leather sofa, abstract art on the walls, and a massive, high-definition monitor mounted on a swing arm next to the examination bed.

"Doctor will be right in," Elena said, closing the door softly, leaving them alone in the quiet luxury.

Y/N looked around, clutching her bag of ginger chews.

"This is insane," she whispered.

"It’s private," Harry corrected, taking off his sunglasses and hooking them onto his t-shirt. He walked over to the exam bed and patted the paper-covered mattress. "And the equipment is better. Come on. Hop up."

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed. Her heart was starting to race again, but this time it wasn't fear of Harry—it was the anticipation.

"Do you think..." she started, her hand drifting to her stomach. "Do you think it will look different? From the last scan?"

"It’s been a week," Harry shrugged, leaning his hip against the counter next to her, crossing his ankles. "Maybe it’s upgraded from a kidney bean to... I don't know. A grape?"

The door handle turned. Harry straightened up instantly, his posture shifting from casual to attentive.

Dr. Gowda walked in. He was an older man with kind eyes and a calming presence that filled the room.

"Good morning," he said warmly, extending a hand to Harry first, then Y/N. "James told me you might be calling, Harry. And Y/N, lovely to meet you. I hear we have a bit of nausea to manage?"

"A bit is an understatement," Harry answered for her, stepping closer to the bed, establishing himself right by her side. "She’s been very sick. We need to fix that."

"We will do our best," Dr. Gowda nodded. " But first, let’s take a look, shall we?"

He wheeled the ultrasound machine closer.

"Lie back, please, Y/N. You know the drill. Cold gel coming up."

Y/N lay back, lifting her sweater to expose her stomach. She flinched as the cold gel hit her skin. She stared at the ceiling, her breath catching in her throat.

She felt Harry move. He didn't ask this time. He simply stepped up to the side of the bed, his hand finding hers where it lay on the sheet. He laced their fingers together, his grip firm and warm.

"Ready?" Dr. Gowda asked.

"Ready," Harry answered, his voice thick.

The doctor pressed the wand to her stomach.

For a second, there was only static on the screen. Gray noise. And then, with a slight turn of the wand, the image cleared.

It was startlingly sharp compared to the grainy clinic scan.

There, in the center of the darkness, was a distinct, curved shape. It was bigger than a bean now. You could see the curve of a spine. The round blur of a head. Tiny nubs that would be arms and legs.

"There we are," Dr. Gowda said softly. "One single fetus. Good size. Right on track for nine weeks."

Y/N let out a sob she didn't know she was holding.

And then, Dr. Gowda pressed a button.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

The sound filled the room—fast, rhythmic, and strong. Like a galloping horse.

Harry’s grip on her hand tightened so hard it almost hurt. Y/N turned her head to look at him.

He was staring at the screen, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide and glassy with unspilled tears. He looked completely struck dumb, mesmerized by the rhythm.

"That’s the heartbeat?" Harry rasped out, unable to look away from the monitor.

"That’s the heartbeat," Dr. Gowda confirmed. "Strong and steady. 160 beats per minute. Perfect."

Harry let out a wet, shaky laugh. He lifted Y/N’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles without breaking eye contact with the screen.

"Hi," he whispered to the monitor. "Hi my love."

An hour later, they were seated in a booth at a popular Italian restaurant in Notting Hill. Unlike the clinic, Harry hadn't asked for a private room. He had walked right in the front door, guiding her by the small of her back.

"Harry, people are staring," Y/N whispered, leaning over her risotto. "Someone is definitely taking a picture.”

Harry shrugged, pouring sparkling water into her glass. "Let them look. You aren't showing yet. To them, I’m just having lunch with a woman. It’s fine.”

"You aren't worried about the rumors?"

"I’m always in rumors," he said. "If I hid every time I wanted pasta, I’d never leave the house."

They ate for a while in relative peace, basking in the afterglow of the appointment. But as the plates were cleared, Harry’s demeanor shifted. The playfulness faded into something serious.

"We need to talk about the schedule," he said, checking his watch. "I fly out on Sunday morning. The tour is in full swing, Y/N."

Y/N felt a cold drop in her stomach. "Sunday? That’s three days."

"I know," Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "It’s shit timing. But I have a show in Munich on Monday. I have to go."

He reached across the table, ignoring the onlookers, and took her hand.

"That’s why I need to be annoying about security."

"Security?"

"I know I said I don't mind being seen today," Harry said, lowering his voice. "But once I leave... I can't be here to watch out for you. The paparazzi can be aggressive. They chase cars. They wait outside buildings."

Y/N swallowed hard. "You think they’ll come after me?"

"I think I can't take the risk," Harry said firmly. "My security team—Rob and the guys—they’re going to do a sweep of your building. Just to check the locks. And I’m going to have a driver available for you. 24/7."

"Harry, I can take the tube."

"No," he cut in. "Not while I’m gone. If they find out about the baby, the bounty on a picture of you goes up. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know you’re using the car. Please? For me?"

Y/N looked at him. She saw the genuine fear in his eyes. He wasn't trying to control her; he was terrified of leaving her unprotected.

"Okay," she nodded slowly. "I’ll use the car."

Harry exhaled, his shoulders dropping in relief. He squeezed her hand tight.

"Three days," he murmured, looking at her with intense green eyes. "I have three days before I get on that plane. We have to make them count."

Harry exhaled, his shoulders dropping in relief. He squeezed her hand tight.

"Good," he said, the tension finally leaving his jaw. He picked up his fork, swirling it into the last of his pasta, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Now that the serious security briefing is over... I should probably warn you about the next seventy-two hours."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of her water. "Warn me? Should I be scared?"

"Terrified," Harry teased, a dimple popping out. "Because I intend to be essentially glued to your side until I have to get in the car to the airport on Sunday. I’m going to be incredibly annoying."

"I thought you had packing to do," Y/N countered. "And rehearsals? And... rock star things?"

"I have people for the packing," Harry dismissed with a wave of his hand. "And I’ve done enough rehearsals. I’d much rather spend the next three days sitting on your lumpy sofa watching you eat."

"My sofa is not lumpy!" Y/N laughed, kicking him gently under the table.

"It’s charmingly textured," Harry corrected, leaning in closer. His voice dropped to a low, intimate rumble that made the hair on her arms stand up. "But seriously. I want to be there. I don't want to miss anything. If you get a headache, I want to be the one getting the water. If you get tired, I want to be the one fixing the pillows."

He paused, his thumb brushing over the pulse point on her wrist.

"And I am genuinely looking forward to these 3 a.m. cravings."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she felt a blush heating her cheeks. "Harry, it’s not cute. It’s mostly me eating crackers in the dark trying not to be sick."

"I think it sounds fantastic," Harry insisted, grinning. "I want to be the one running to the corner shop for... I don't know, peanut butter and jalapeños? Pickled onions dipped in chocolate? Whatever the baby wants."

"If you bring me jalapeños right now, I will throw up on your suede jacket," Y/N warned.

"Noted. No jalapeños," Harry laughed. He looked at her then—really looked at her—with an expression that was suddenly stripped of all the jokes. It was soft, open, and dangerously affectionate.

"I just..." He hesitated, looking down at their joined hands. "I feel like I’ve already missed the first two months. I don't want to miss another second while I’m actually in the same city as you. Is that okay? Can I crash at your place?"

Y/N looked at him. This was Harry Styles, who could be in any penthouse suite in London, asking permission to sleep in her drafty apartment just so he could fetch her water.

"You know my bed is a double, right?" she whispered. "It’s not exactly a California King."

Harry’s eyes darkened slightly, a slow smirk playing on his lips. He squeezed her hand again.

"I don't mind a squeeze," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. "I actually prefer it."

The air between them suddenly felt very thin. The noise of the restaurant faded into the background.

"Okay," Y/N breathed out, her heart doing a traitorous little flip in her chest. "You can crash."

"Excellent," Harry beamed, signaling for the check with his free hand, refusing to let go of hers. "Then let’s get out of here. I have a sudden urge to buy you more ginger chews and inspect this non-lumpy sofa of yours."

Friday evening smelled like garlic, basil, and expensive cologne.

Y/N sat at her small kitchen table, her legs tucked up onto the chair, watching the surreal scene unfolding in front of her.

Harry was standing at her stove. He had tied one of her tea towels around his waist as a makeshift apron because he didn't want to ruin his silk shirt. The kitchen was objectively too small for him; he had to duck slightly to avoid the low-hanging pendant light, and every time he turned to chop a vegetable, his elbows nearly knocked over the kettle.

But he looked annoyingly at home.

"You realize," Y/N said, picking at a piece of crusty bread, "that I have lived here for three years and I have never used that many pans for one meal."

"That’s because you survive on toast and takeout," Harry teased over his shoulder, stirring the tomato sauce with a wooden spoon. "Which stops today. The bean needs nutrients.”

He turned around, holding out the spoon. "Taste."

Y/N leaned forward. He cupped his hand under the spoon to catch any drips, guiding it gently to her lips. The sauce was rich, sweet, and perfect.

"Okay," she admitted, swallowing. "That’s really good."

"Mmhmm," Harry smirked, turning back to the stove. "I’m a man of many talents."

A loud siren wailed from the street below, followed by the shouting of a group of drunk people leaving the pub down the road. The single-pane windows rattled in their frames.

Harry frowned, his shoulders tensing as he looked at the dark window.

"Is it always this loud?" he asked, the playful mood dampening slightly.

"It’s Friday night in Hackney," Y/N shrugged. "You get used to it."

"And the draft?" Harry pointed the wooden spoon at the window frame, where the heavy velvet curtains were swaying slightly despite the window being closed. "It’s freezing in here, Y/N."

"It’s a Victorian building. It has... character."

Harry hummed, a sound that clearly indicated he didn't think 'character' was a good excuse for poor insulation. He turned the burner down to a simmer and wiped his hands on the tea towel.

He leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms. He looked at her, his expression carefully casual.

"You know," he started, keeping his voice light. "My place in Hampstead... it has double glazing. And underfloor heating. It’s practically a greenhouse."

Y/N stopped chewing her bread. She looked at him. "Harry."

"I’m just saying," he held up his hands in surrender. "It’s sitting there empty. I’m going to be gone for months. The plants need watering. The dust needs... dusting."

"Are you asking me to be your housekeeper?"

"I’m asking you to be warm," Harry corrected softly. He walked over to the table, pulling out the chair opposite her. He sat down, his knees bumping against hers under the small table.

"I’m not trying to push you," he promised, his eyes searching hers. "I know you love this place. I know you’re independent. But... if you ever feel unsafe here. Or cold. Or just lonely..."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. It was simple, silver, attached to a small leather fob.

He slid it across the table until it rested next to her hand.

"It’s yours," he said. "No pressure. No expectations. Just... an option. If the sirens get too loud."

Y/N looked at the key. It felt heavy, sitting there on the cheap laminate table. It wasn't just a key to a house; it was a key to his world. To a life that was vastly different from hers.

"I can't just move into your mansion, Harry," she whispered. "It would feel weird."

"It’s not a mansion," he lied it definitely was. "It’s just a house. And it’s better than you freezing to death."

He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't force her to take it. He just stood up, pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, and went back to the stove.

"Pasta is ready," he announced. "Do you want parmesan?"

Saturday night passed in a blur of domestic quiet.

They had ordered pizza (no jalapeños, much to Harry’s disappointment), and now they were crammed into Y/N’s double bed, the laptop balanced precariously on a stack of pillows at the foot of the mattress. A movie was playing—some 90s rom-com Marnie had recommended—but neither of them was really watching it.

Harry wasn't joking about the squeeze. He took up an alarming amount of space. His long legs were tangled with hers, his arm draped heavily over her waist, pulling her flush against his side. His head was resting on her shoulder, his curls tickling her chin.

"You're heavy," Y/N murmured, though she didn't make a single move to push him away. In fact, she ran her fingers idly through his hair.

"I'm comforting," Harry corrected, his voice rumbling against her chest. "Like a weighted blanket. People pay a lot of money for this kind of pressure."

"I think weighted blankets are usually less bony."

Harry chuckled, shifting slightly so he could look up at her. The blue light from the laptop screen cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp jawline and the softness in his eyes.

"So," he started, tracing small, absentminded circles on her hip bone over her t-shirt. "I was looking at the dates."

"The tour dates?"

"Mmhmm. We have a break in March. Two weeks. And then there’s a stretch in Europe in April where the travel isn't too bad. Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin."

He paused, his fingers stopping their movement.

"You could come out," he said softly. "For a weekend? Or a week? If you’re feeling up to it. If the doctor says it’s okay to fly."

Y/N looked down at him. "You want me to come on tour?"

"I want to see you," Harry said simply. "I don't want to go three months seeing my kid grow through a screen. And... I want you to see it. The show. My life."

"I've seen the show, Harry. I took photos of it."

"That was work," he shook his head. "I want you to come as... with me. You can stay in the hotel. Order room service. Sleep in. Just... be there when I get off stage."

The way he said it—so hopeful, so vulnerable—made her chest ache.

"Paris," she mused. "That sounds better than Hackney."

"Paris in April," Harry grinned, the dimple making an appearance. "I’ll buy you a crepe. I’ll hold your purse while you look at art. It’ll be romantic. We can baby-moon."

"Don't call it a baby-moon," she laughed. "But... okay. I’ll check the dates. If I’m not puking my guts up, I’ll come to Paris."

Harry beamed. He pulled himself up, burying his face in the crook of her neck, pressing a lingering kiss to her pulse point.

"Good," he whispered against her skin. "That makes leaving tomorrow about five percent less terrible."

The alarm went off at 5:00 AM. It was a hateful, shrill sound.

Harry groaned, burying his face in the pillow for a solid ten seconds before forcing himself to sit up. His hair was a chaotic mess, his eyes puffy with sleep.

"I hate this part," he mumbled, his voice thick and raspy.

"I know," Y/N whispered, her eyes still closed. She didn't tell him to get up. Instead, she shifted closer, sliding her arm over his waist and pressing her face against his warm back. "Maybe if we stay very quiet, the plane will wait."

Harry let out a soft chuckle, covering her hand with his own. "I wish."

He stayed there for another minute, just letting her hold him, stealing sixty more seconds of peace before the chaos of his life resumed. Finally, he sighed, lifting her hand to kiss her palm before gently untangling himself.

"Okay," he whispered. "Up I get."

Twenty minutes later, the reality had set in. Harry was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, his bag slung over his shoulder. The black car was already idling downstairs; they could see the headlights cutting through the pre-dawn fog.

They stood in her hallway. The air was cold, but Harry made no move to open the door. He just stood there, staring at her.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, shivering slightly in her thin pajamas. "You're going to miss your flight if you keep staring at me."

"I'm memorizing," Harry said softly. He dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy thud and stepped into her space. "Come here."

He didn't wait for her to move. He pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply, letting out a long, shaky sigh that vibrated against her chest.

"You smell so good," he mumbled into her skin. "I’m going to smell like recycled airplane air in an hour, and I’m already mad about it."

"I smell like sleep and pregnancy vitamins," Y/N laughed, trying to keep the mood light because if she didn't, she might cry.

Harry pulled back, framing her face with his large, warm hands. He used his thumbs to stroke her cheekbones, his expression devastatingly tender.

"You look beautiful," he said, and he sounded so serious it made her breath hitch.

"Harry, I’m a mess. My hair is—"

"You look beautiful," he interrupted firmly. "You look soft. You look like home. And I hate that I have to walk out that door."

"It's just work," she whispered, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

"It feels like leaving a limb behind," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’m going to worry about you every second. I’m going to be the most annoying person in your phone contacts."

"I’m counting on it."

He looked down, his gaze softening even more as he moved one hand to rest flat and warm over her stomach. He rubbed his thumb over the fabric of her shirt.

"Bye, little bean," he whispered to the bump. "Take care of your mum for me, yeah? She’s precious. Don't give her too much trouble."

Y/N felt a tear slip down her cheek. Harry caught it with his thumb.

He leaned in then. He was so close. His eyes dropped to her lips, darker now, heavy with want. The air between them crackled with electricity. He hovered there, his breath mingling with hers, and Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut, waiting for it.

He wanted to. She could feel the restraint in the tension of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened slightly in her hair.

But he stopped.

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose.

"You have no idea," he rasped, "how badly I want to stay."

Instead of her lips, he pressed his mouth firmly against her forehead. It wasn't a quick peck; he held it there, warm and grounding, like he was trying to brand the affection into her skin.

"I’ll FaceTime you when I land," he murmured against her forehead. "Pick up. Even if you look like a mess. especially if you look like a mess."

"I will," she promised, her voice wobbling.

He pulled away reluctantly, his hand trailing down her arm, his fingertips grazing hers until the connection broke. He grabbed his bag.

He opened the door, but paused on the landing. He looked back at her one last time, a sad, crooked smile on his face.

"Go back to bed, Y/N. Get warm."

"Bye, Harry."

"See you soon, love."

He turned and jogged down the stairs, taking them two at a time as if he had to run away before he changed his mind.

The magazine hit the stands on a rainy Tuesday in early March.

Y/N walked into her local corner shop for milk, shaking her wet umbrella off at the door. She glanced at the magazine rack by the counter—and froze.

There he was.

Harry’s face took up the entire front cover of British Vogue. It was from that day at his house in Hampstead—the day they had seen each other for the first time since their one night together.

And there, in crisp white letters in the bottom right corner: Photography by Y/N L/N.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket before she could even pick up a copy.

FaceTime Request: Harry Styles

She answered, angling the phone so he couldn't see that she was standing next to a display of Cadbury bars.

"Hello?"

"Did you see it?" Harry’s face filled the screen. He was clearly backstage somewhere—the lighting was harsh, and there was a rack of sequined outfits behind him—but he was grinning ear to ear. He was holding up a physical copy of the magazine.

"I’m looking at it right now," Y/N smiled, reaching out to touch the glossy cover on the rack. "It’s... weird. Seeing that specific moment printed so big."

"It’s perfect," Harry said, tracing the headline. "But forget the cover. Look at page four. The masthead. Look at the credit line."

He shoved the magazine so close to his camera lens that it went blurry, but she could make out her name in bold print.

"That’s my girl," Harry beamed, pulling the magazine back. He looked ridiculously proud. "You’re on every coffee table in London, Y/N. 'Photography by Y/N L/N.' It sounds professional. It sounds expensive."

"It sounds like I got lucky with the lighting in your living room," she deflected, feeling a flush of pride warm her chest.

"Nonsense," Harry shook his head. "You captured it. That whole day... the vibe... you got it on film. I’m framing a copy for my house. Actually, I’m framing two. One for the kitchen, one for the studio."

"You are embarrassing," Y/N laughed, grabbing a carton of oat milk. "Go do your soundcheck, Styles."

"I am merely celebrating the mother of my child’s artistic genius," he retorted. "Congrats, love. You deserve it."

The weeks bled into one another, marked not by days on a calendar, but by the size of Y/N’s waistline and the time difference between London and wherever Harry was.

Harry was right about one thing: he didn't let the distance feel like distance. He was a constant, digital presence in her pocket.

And he was right about the cravings, too.

It happened on a rainy Wednesday, at 2:34 AM.

Y/N woke up with a hunger so specific and violent it felt like a medical emergency. She lay in the dark for ten minutes, trying to convince herself to go back to sleep, but her stomach was making noises that sounded like a disgruntled whale.

She needed salt and vinegar chips. Not just any chips—specifically the kettle-cooked ones with the balsamic glaze from the deli near her old flat. But she also needed something sweet. Maybe chocolate buttons? No, chocolate covered pretzels.

She groaned, rolling over and grabbing her phone. She checked the time.

02:35 AM.

Everything in her neighborhood was closed. Even the 24-hour Tesco was a fifteen-minute walk in the rain, and she felt too nauseous to move that far.

She opened her messages. She knew Harry was in Tokyo, which meant it was roughly 11:30 AM for him.

Y/N [02:36 AM]: I hate London.

The three dots appeared instantly.

Harry [02:36 AM]: Good morning to you too. Why do we hate it?

Y/N [02:37 AM]: Because it sleeps. Why does nothing stay open past 11 pm? It is a failure of infrastructure. I am starving, Harry. I am going to eat my own duvet.

Harry [02:37 AM]: Please don't eat the bedding. High thread count, low nutritional value. What does the bean want?

Y/N [02:38 AM]: Salt and vinegar chips. The really crunchy ones. And chocolate covered pretzels. And maybe a Fanta. The orange one. Not the lemon one.

Harry [02:38 AM]: On it.

Y/N [02:39 AM]: Harry, don't be ridiculous. You are in Japan. You can't make a bodega open in Hackney by sheer force of will.

Harry [02:40 AM]: Watch me. Give me an hour.

Y/N dropped the phone on her chest and stared at the ceiling. There was no way. He was probably in a meeting, or a soundcheck, or getting his hair styled. He couldn't possibly coordinate a snack run from 6,000 miles away.

She dozed off for a moment, dreaming of salty potatoes.

BZZZZZZT.

The intercom by the door screamed, making her jump out of her skin.

She stumbled out of bed, grabbing her phone. It had been exactly nineteen minutes.

Harry [03:00 AM]: Answer the door. And put a robe on, please.

Y/N threw on her dressing gown and pressed the buzzer. "Hello?"

"Delivery for... uh... 'The Bean'?" a confused male voice crackled through the speaker.

Y/N buzzed him in. She opened her front door and waited. A young man in a motorcycle helmet appeared at the top of the stairs, looking breathless and holding two massive carrier bags from an upscale 24-hour concierge service.

"Are you..." He looked at his clipboard. "The Bean?"

"That’s me," Y/N sighed, taking the bags. "Thank you."

She carried the bounty into the kitchen and dumped it on the table.

Harry hadn't just ordered chips. He had ordered the entire snack aisle.

There were six bags of kettle chips (Sea Salt, Vinegar, Black Pepper). Three bags of chocolate pretzels. A six-pack of Orange Fanta. A box of high-end ginger biscuits. And, inexplicably, a jar of pickles.

Her phone buzzed with a FaceTime request.

She propped it up against the Fanta cans and answered. Harry was sitting in a makeup chair, a white cape around his neck, looking fresh-faced and awake.

"Did it arrive?" he asked immediately, ignoring the stylist who was trying to fix his hair.

"Harry," Y/N laughed, holding up a bag of chips. "You are insane. How much did this cost?"

"Doesn't matter," he waved a hand. "Are you eating? Show me."

Y/N ripped open the bag and crunched on a chip. The vinegar hit her tongue, and she actually moaned with relief. "Oh my god. It’s so good."

Harry watched her through the screen, a soft, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Better?"

"Much better," she admitted, wiping crumbs from her lip. "Thank you. Even though you're an enabler."

"I am a provider," he corrected, winking. "Now eat your Fanta and go back to sleep. I have to go be famous."

"Bye, provider," she smiled.

"Bye, love."

The break in his schedule came two weeks later. Five glorious days between countries.

It was a rainy Thursday night, just past 10:00 PM.

Y/N was alone in her studio in East London. The large industrial space was dark, lit only by the glow of her dual monitors and the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement outside.

She groaned, stretching her arms over her head. She clicked through the proofs on her screen, frowning at a lighting adjustment.

Click. Click. Click.

The sound of the heavy studio door unlatching echoed through the empty room.

Y/N froze. She spun her chair around. "Marnie?" she called out. "I told you, I’m almost done—"

"Not Marnie," a raspy, familiar voice answered from the shadows near the entrance.

Y/N stood up so fast her chair spun wildly behind her.

Harry stepped into the pool of light. He was wearing a grey hoodie with the hood up and a long coat, carrying a battered leather duffel bag. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, hair messy from the flight—but the second his eyes landed on her, his whole face softened.

"Harry?" she breathed.

She felt the tears before she could stop them. They welled up instantly, hot and fast. She smiled, but a sob escaped her throat.

"Hi," he whispered.

Harry dropped his bag. It hit the concrete with a heavy thud. He crossed the studio in three long strides, closing the distance between them.

He didn't look at her stomach. He looked right at her eyes.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, reaching out to cup her face in both of his large, warm hands. "Don't cry, love."

"I'm sorry," she laughed wetly, leaning into his touch, her hands gripping his wrists. "I just... I missed you."

"I missed you too," he said, his thumbs brushing the tears from her cheeks with infinite tenderness. He tilted her head back slightly, studying her face like he was trying to memorize it all over again.

His eyes roamed over her features—her eyes, her nose, her mouth—drinking her in.

"God, look at you," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are so pretty”.

"I look tired," she sniffed. "And puffy."

"No," Harry corrected firmly, his voice low and serious. "You are glowing. You are actually radiating light. You look breathtaking."

He looked at her with such open, raw adoration that Y/N couldn't help herself. It was instinct. It was the hormones. It was the way his thumbs were stroking her cheekbones.

She leaned up and pressed a quick, soft peck to his lips.

It was meant to be fleeting—a hello, a thank you—but it was the spark Harry had been waiting for.

The second her lips touched his, he made a low noise in his throat. He didn't let her pull away. His hands slid from her cheeks into her hair, holding her steady, and he chased her mouth, capturing it in a real, firm kiss.

It wasn't tentative. It was a release. It was weeks of FaceTime calls, missing her at 3 A.M., and the overwhelming relief of finally being in the same room. His lips were soft but demanding, moving against hers with a rhythm that made her toes curl.

Y/N melted into him, her hands sliding up to grip his shoulders.

Harry deepened the kiss, tilting her head back to get better access. It felt inevitable. It felt like coming home.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathless, foreheads resting against each other. Harry’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide, his breathing heavy.

"Hi," he whispered against her lips, a crooked smile appearing.