off the record — 4 (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello everyone! I start school tomorrow. I am just making sure that everything is scheduled for this week. This one is a bit shorter than other chapter but that is because I am setting up for next chapter. I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!

word count: 6.2k

The silence that settled over the studio after the kiss wasn't empty; it was heavy, charged with a month’s worth of unspoken longing and the sudden, overwhelming reality of him standing there in the flesh.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her, his forehead still resting against hers. His breathing was audible, a soft, ragged rhythm in the quiet room. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the green of his irises, and his lips were swollen, red from the force of the kiss.

"We need to go," he whispered, though he made no move to step away. His hands were still framing her face, his thumbs stroking the skin beneath her eyes as if checking she was real. "If we stay here, I’m going to fall asleep standing up, and you..."

He glanced down at the bump pressed against his coat, his expression softening into something so tender it made her chest ache.

"You need to rest. Real rest. Not hunching over a laptop editing photos until midnight."

Y/N laughed, a breathless, shaky sound. "I wasn't sleeping. I was working. Since the Vogue cover... it’s been busy."

"I know," Harry murmured, finally stepping back, though he looked reluctant to break the contact. "I’m proud of you. But right now, I’m kidnapping you."

He turned, his boots squeaking on the polished concrete floor, and walked over to her desk. He surveyed the equipment scattered there—her laptop, the heavy lenses, the hard drives. Without asking, he began to pack.

"Harry, I can do that," Y/N protested, moving to help him. "You just got off a long-haul flight. You're exhausted."

"I’m fine," he said simply, easily sliding her laptop into its leather case. He reached for her main camera bag—the one loaded with two bodies and three heavy lenses. It weighed a ton. He swung it over his shoulder like it was a tote bag.

"Harry, that weighs fifteen kilos," she warned.

"I’m here now," he said, turning to look at her. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, his face serious. "You don't carry the heavy stuff anymore. Not when I’m around."

He reached out his free hand, palm up, waiting.

"Come on. Let’s go home."

The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by the time they stepped out of the building. The London street was slick and black, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlamps.

Harry didn't let her walk to the car uncovered. He pulled his long wool coat open, wrapping one side of it around her shoulders as they dashed across the pavement to the waiting black Rover.

Once inside, the silence of the car wrapped around them like a cocoon. The engine purred to life, the windshield wipers swishing rhythmically against the glass.

"My place?" Harry asked, his hand hovering over the gear stick. It wasn't really a question. It was a statement of intent.

"I need my things," Y/N said, fastening her seatbelt. She had to adjust the strap so it rested comfortably above the bump—a new habit she hadn't needed a month ago. "If I’m staying with you for five days... I need the pillow. And the vitamins. And clothes that actually fit. My jeans have officially retired."

Harry nodded, putting the car into drive. "Hackney it is. Then we go north”.

He drove one-handed, steering the large car through the wet streets with an ease that betrayed how tired he was. His right hand drifted across the center console, finding hers in the dark. He interlaced their fingers tightly, bringing her hand up to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. He didn't let go as he drove.

Entering Y/N’s flat felt different this time.

Usually, it was her sanctuary. It was cozy, cluttered with art books and prints. But seeing Harry Styles standing in her narrow hallway, filling the space with his presence, made the walls feel closer. He looked too big for the room, too expensive for the scuffed floorboards and the drafty windows.

"It feels like it’s been a year," Harry murmured, toeing off his boots by the door.

He walked into the living room, and Y/N saw the moment the reality of the last month hit him.

He stopped in the middle of the room. His eyes scanned the space, landing on the small, tell-tale changes that had happened while he was touring the world.

On the coffee table, there was a stack of books that hadn't been there before: What to Expect When You're Expecting, The First Forty Days, and a pamphlet from Dr. Gowda’s clinic about nutrition.

On the kitchen counter, next to her coffee machine (which was now gathering dust), sat a large bottle of prenatal vitamins and a packet of ginger biscuits left open.

And on the sofa, taking up almost two-thirds of the seating area, was The Beast.

Harry walked over to it. He stared down at the massive, U-shaped grey pregnancy pillow that was currently twisted like a pretzel.

"What..." he poked it with a fascinated finger. "What is that?"

"That," Y/N sighed, dropping her keys in the bowl, "is my boyfriend. His name is U-Shape. He’s the only reason I’ve slept more than three hours a night."

Harry turned to look at her, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "I’ve been replaced by a pillow?"

"You were in Tokyo," she reminded him gently, walking past him to the bedroom. "A girl has to cope."

Harry didn't laugh. He followed her into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe as she pulled a duffel bag from the top shelf of the closet. He watched her move. He watched the way she rested a hand on her lower back when she stood up straight. He watched the way she bypassed her usual high-waisted vintage denim and reached for soft, stretchy fabrics.

"I missed it," he said quietly.

Y/N paused, holding a pair of leggings. She looked up. "Missed what?"

"This," he gestured vaguely at the room, at the vitamins on the counter, at her. "I missed you buying the books. I missed you needing the pillow. I missed... figuring out what you can eat."

He walked into the room, coming to stand in front of her. He took the leggings from her hand and tossed them into the bag, then took her hands in his.

"I hate that you were here doing all of that alone," he admitted, his voice rough with guilt. "Buying vitamins and reading books by yourself while I was singing songs."

"I wasn't alone," Y/N said softly, squeezing his hands. "You were calling me five times a day. You were here, Harry. In every way that mattered."

"Not physically," he countered. He looked down at her stomach again, the wonder returning to his eyes. "But I’m here now."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Pack everything," he commanded gently, pulling back. "Pack the vitamins. Pack the books. Pack the giant pillow boyfriend. We aren't coming back here until I leave for Paris."

"Everything?"

"Everything," he confirmed. "I want all of it at my house. I want to wake up and see the vitamins on my counter. I want to trip over the pillow."

Y/N smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. "Okay. Even the ginger biscuits?"

"Especially the ginger biscuits."

It took them ten minutes to pack. Harry insisted on carrying the pillow himself. It was a comical sight—Harry Styles, international rockstar, wrestling a five-foot-long grey pillow down a narrow staircase in Hackney, shielding it from the rain with his own body as he shoved it into the back seat of the Rover.

"Secure?" Y/N asked, watching him buckle the seatbelt around the pillow.

"Secure," Harry nodded, slamming the door. He turned to her, rain dripping from his curls, looking exhausted but fiercely satisfied. "Let’s go home."

The drive north was a transition. As they moved away from the neon glare of Central London and wound their way up the leafy, rain-slicked streets of Hampstead, the tension in Harry’s shoulders visibly unspooled.

When the heavy iron gates of his home swung open, Y/N felt a physical weight lift off her own chest. The Rover crunched over the wet gravel, passing the high hedges that shielded the house from the street. As the gates clanged shut behind them with a definitive, mechanical thud, the rest of the world—the tour, the magazines, the noise—was officially locked out.

Harry killed the engine.

The silence was instant and profound, broken only by the soft, rhythmic drumming of rain on the car roof.

He turned to her, the dashboard lights casting a soft, amber glow on his tired features. He didn't say anything immediately. He just reached across the console, his large hand finding the back of her neck. His thumb brushed the sensitive skin there, warm and grounding.

"We’re here," he murmured, his voice rough with relief. "You okay?"

"I'm okay," Y/N whispered, leaning into his touch, closing her eyes for a second. "It’s quiet."

"I like quiet," Harry said softly. "Let’s get you inside."

The house was not cold, despite being empty for a month. Harry had smart-heating, apparently, because the moment they stepped into the foyer, they were enveloped in warmth. The air smelled faintly of cedar, old paper, and the expensive, woodsy candle he always burned.

It smelled like him.

Harry dropped the bags and the giant pregnancy pillow on the hallway rug, ignoring them completely. His priority was the door.

He turned the heavy brass lock with a satisfying click. Then the deadbolt. Then, he slid the security chain into place. He leaned his forehead against the wood for a second, exhaling a long breath he seemed to have been holding since Tokyo.

"That’s it," he said to the door, or maybe to himself. "Five days. No one gets in."

He turned around, shaking the rain from his hair like a wet dog, a small, boyish smile finally breaking through his exhaustion.

He saw Y/N standing by the bench, looking at her boots. She shifted her weight, a small grimace of discomfort crossing her face.

"Don't you dare," Harry said softly, moving toward her.

"I can do it," Y/N started, reaching for the zipper.

"Y/N," he stopped her, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. He guided her gently to sit on the velvet bench. "Sit."

He didn't tower over her. He dropped to his knees.

Harry Styles—wearing a coat that cost more than her car—knelt on the hardwood floor of his hallway without a second thought. He took her left foot in his hands.

" swollen?" he asked quietly, his thumb running over her ankle bone.

"A little," she admitted, feeling self-conscious. "It happens when I’m on my feet all day."

"I know," he murmured. He unzipped the boot slowly, careful not to snag her sock. He slid it off, setting it aside, and then immediately wrapped both of his warm hands around her foot. He massaged the arch, just once, firm and perfect.

Y/N let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-moan.

Harry looked up, a spark of satisfaction in his green eyes. "Good?"

" heavenly," she whispered.

He smiled, moving to the other foot. "I’ve got you. You know that, right? For the next five days, you don't lift a finger. You don't carry anything heavy. You don't cook. You just... be."

"I think I can manage that," she smiled down at him.

He finished with her boots and stood up, extending a hand to pull her up. But instead of letting go, he pulled her into a hug. It wasn't a desperate hug like the one at the studio; it was a slow, swaying embrace. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

"Go to the living room," he mumbled into her neck. "Pick a spot. I’m going to make this place feels like a furnace."

Twenty minutes later, the main living room had been transformed.

Harry had moved with a domestic efficiency that was fascinating to watch. He had disappeared into the bedroom and emerged wearing soft grey sweatpants and a worn-out vintage t-shirt, looking softer and younger than he had in months.

He had knelt by the massive fireplace, stacking logs and kindling with practiced hands, nursing a small flame until it roared into a crackling, golden fire that bathed the room in orange light.

Now, Y/N was sitting on the thick rug in front of the coffee table. She had changed into her leggings and Harry’s oversized hoodie (which he had thrown at her head with a grin).

She watched him walk into the kitchen, phone in hand.

"Thai?" he called out.

"Yes. Pad Thai. And maybe spring rolls?"

"Vegetarian spring rolls, got it. And the green curry? You liked that last time."

"If it’s not too spicy. The heartburn is real."

"Mild green curry. Done."

He tapped on his phone, then did something unexpected. He walked over to the sideboard, opened a drawer, tossed his phone inside, and shut it.

"Gone," he declared, walking back toward her.

He didn't sit on the sofa. He came right down to the floor with her.

He grabbed the giant grey pregnancy pillow, and arranged it in a U-shape around them, creating a soft barricade against the rest of the room.

"This is ridiculous," Y/N laughed as he settled in next to her, pulling a cashmere throw blanket over their laps.

"It’s not ridiculous," Harry corrected, shimmying down until his shoulder was pressed against hers. "It’s architecture. We have built a nest."

He stretched his long legs out toward the fire, sighing contentedly. The rain lashed against the windows, but in here, with the fire popping and the warmth of his body seeping into hers, it felt like they were the only two people on earth.

Harry turned his head to look at her. The firelight caught the gold of his eyes. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her jawline.

"I missed this," he whispered. "I missed just... sitting. With you."

"Me too," Y/N admitted. She rested her head on his shoulder. "The studio is lonely at night."

"No more lonely nights," Harry promised, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

They sat like that for a long time, watching the flames, waiting for the food, existing in the quiet, warm bubble of the fortress they had built.

It was perfect. It was safe.

And it was the perfect moment to tell him.

Y/N reached for her bag, which was sitting just outside the pillow wall.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" he hummed, his eyes half-closed, looking sleepy and content.

"I have something," she said softly.

Harry’s eyes opened. He turned his head slowly. "What?"

"The gender," she whispered, her heart starting to beat faster. "I have the envelope."

Harry sat up instantly. The sleepy, contented haze that had settled over him vanished, replaced by a sharp, electric alertness. He scrambled up from his slouch, crossing his legs on the rug, his knee bumping against hers.

"You have it?" he whispered. "Right now? In your bag?"

"It’s been burning a hole in there since yesterday," Y/N admitted. She reached over the wall of the grey pillow and pulled the creamy white envelope from her bag.

She held it out.

Harry stared at it like it was a live grenade. He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, his breathing hitching.

"I didn't want to open it without you," she said softly.

"Thank you," he breathed out, his eyes locking onto hers. "Okay. Okay."

He scooted closer until their legs were tangled together under the cashmere throw. He reached out, his large hand trembling slightly as he gripped one corner.

He tore the top strip off. The sound was loud in the quiet room. Harry slid her fingers inside and pulled out the single folded sheet of paper.

Harry leaned in, his shoulder pressing hot against hers.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

They unfolded it.

The firelight danced over the page. There were charts, medical jargon, and chromosomal graphs. But right in the center, in bold, undeniable capital letters:

FETAL SEX: FEMALE

The silence in the room stretched—one second, two seconds—suspended in time.

"Female," Harry whispered. The word came out as a breath of air.

He read it again. And again.

"It’s a girl," he said, his voice rising, cracking on the last word. He looked up at Y/N, his eyes wide and shining, looking almost panicked in his joy. "It’s a girl? Y/N, it’s a girl?"

"It’s a girl, Harry," she laughed, feeling the tears hot on her own cheeks. "We’re having a daughter."

Harry let go of the paper. It fluttered to the rug.

He threw his head back and let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.

"A girl!" he exhaled toward the ceiling. "I’m having a baby girl."

He looked back at her, and his face crumbled in the most beautiful way. Tears spilled over his cheeks, fast and free. He didn't bother wiping them away.

"Come here," he choked out.

He didn't just hug her. He pulled her into him, burying his face in the crook of her neck, holding her tight. He was shaking with it—the relief, the joy, the terror.

"I’m done for," he mumbled into her skin, rocking them back and forth. "I am absolutely done for. She is going to ruin me. She’s going to ask for a pony and I’m going to buy her a stable. I know it."

"You probably will," Y/N sniffed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck.

Harry pulled back, framing her face with his wet hands. He was beaming, his eyes red-rimmed and radiant.

"She’s going to be just like you," he whispered, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe his luck. "Smart. And stubborn. And beautiful."

"And she’ll have your curls," Y/N smiled, wiping a tear from his cheek. "And your chaos."

"My chaos," Harry laughed wetly. "Poor thing."

He shifted then. The frantic energy settled into something quieter, something deeper.

He moved his hands from her face down to her waist. His fingers caught the hem of the oversized hoodie she was wearing—his hoodie.

"Can I?" he asked softly, his eyes dropping to her midsection.

Y/N nodded.

Harry slowly pushed the fabric up, bunching it under her chest, exposing the creamy skin of her stomach to the warmth of the fire. The curve was gentle but distinct, glowing in the amber light.

Harry let out a soft breath. He didn't speak to it. He just looked, his expression filled with awe.

He reached out, placing his large, warm palm directly onto her skin. He spanned the curve, his thumb stroking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes lifting to meet hers. He wasn't just saying it. He looked mesmerized. "I know you feel tired, and I know it’s hard... but Y/N, you wear this so well. You were made for this."

He looked back down at his hand on her skin, watching his thumb trace the curve.

"It suits you," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Being a mum. Carrying her. It really suits you."

He leaned forward then, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the warm skin just above her belly button. He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in, his hand still caressing the side of the bump.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark and intense.

"My girls," he said softly.

He looked so happy. So open.

Without thinking—driven purely by the joy of the moment and the way he was touching her—Y/N leaned forward. She pressed a quick, impulsive peck to his lips.

"I'm so happy you're home," she whispered against his mouth.

She started to pull back, but Harry didn't let her.

His hand flew up from her waist to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, holding her there. He chased her lips, capturing them 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 emotion of the news all pouring out at once. His lips were soft but demanding, moving against hers with a rhythm that made her toes curl.

Y/N melted into him, her hands gripping his shoulders, the fire popping in the background, the rain hammering on the roof, safe inside their fortress.

Usually, her mornings in Hackney were a symphony of urban noise. The garbage trucks reversing down the narrow street, the neighbors arguing two floors down, the relentless hum of traffic. But this silence was heavy, expensive, and peaceful.

There was a solid, heavy warmth pressed against her back. An arm was draped over her waist, the hand resting possessively flat against the cotton of her t-shirt, right over her stomach.

She blinked her eyes open, disoriented for a fraction of a second before the smell hit her. Cedar, laundry detergent, and him.

Harry.

She shifted slightly, and the arm tightened reflexively, pulling her back against a broad chest. "Mmm, no," he mumbled into the back of her neck, sounding like he was miles away. "Too warm. Don't go."

Y/N smiled, watching the rain streak against the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of the room. The light was grey and soft—typical London morning—but inside the master bedroom, it felt like a sanctuary.

"It’s ten o'clock, Harry," she whispered.

"No," he groaned, burying his face deeper into the crook of her neck. "It’s midnight. Go back to sleep."

She turned in his arms, shuffling around until she was facing him. Harry’s eyes were squeezed shut, his hair a riot of curls against the white pillowcase. He looked younger like this, the strain of the tour erased by a solid eight hours of sleep in his own bed.

He cracked one eye open. The green was bright, even in the dim light.

"Hi," he whispered.

"Hi," Y/N replied.

His gaze dropped instantly to her stomach, then back up to her face. A slow, lazy grin spread across his face, accompanied by a deep dimple.

"Still a girl?" he asked.

Y/N laughed, the sound muffled by the duvet. "Yes, Harry. Still a girl. She didn't change her mind overnight."

"Good," he murmured, sliding his hand down to rest on the bump again. "Good morning, tiny person. Be nice to your mum today. No nausea."

"She’s actually being very polite," Y/N noted, realizing with a start that she didn't feel sick. Usually, the morning nausea was a clockwork beast. "Maybe she likes the mattress."

"She has expensive taste," Harry agreed, closing his eyes again. "Like her father. We’re staying in bed all day. I’m making an executive decision."

"We can't stay in bed all day."

"Watch me. I have an en-suite bathroom and I can order Uber Eats to the window. We are never leaving."

They didn't stay in bed all day, but they certainly didn't rush.

There was a slowness to the morning that felt luxurious. Harry eventually rolled out of bed, stretching his long limbs with a groan, and padded into the bathroom. Y/N lay there for a moment, just listening to the sound of the shower, marveling at the strangeness of it.

A month ago, she was evading him. Two days ago, they were separated by thousands of miles. Today, she was lying in his bed, pregnant with his daughter, listening to him hum Fleetwood Mac in the shower.

When he emerged, he was wearing fresh sweatpants and a towel draped around his neck, his hair dripping wet.

"Breakfast," he announced, walking over to the bed. "I’m making pancakes. Do we want blueberry or chocolate chip? And don't say plain, Y/N, because plain is illegal in this house."

"Chocolate chip," she decided, sitting up. "But I can help—"

"Ah," Harry held up a finger, stopping her. "Rule number one. You do not lift a finger. You come downstairs, you sit on a stool, and you look pretty. I cook. I serve. I clean."

"You clean?" she raised an eyebrow. "I have seen your dressing room, Harry. You do not clean."

"I am a domestic god," he scoffed, pulling her gently out of bed. "Prepare to be amazed."

True to his word, he installed Y/N on one of the bar stools at the island, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders like she was a fragile porcelain doll. He placed a glass of water and a bowl of strawberries in front of her ("For the vitamins," he said seriously) before turning his attention to the stove.

Y/N watched him move. There was something incredibly intimate about watching Harry Styles struggle with a bag of flour. He was focused, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he whisked the batter, flour dusting the front of his black t-shirt.

"Music," he muttered, tapping the screen on the wall.

Soft jazz filled the room. It was painfully domestic. It was the kind of scene she had seen in movies and rolled her eyes at, thinking it wasn't real.

"So," Harry started, dropping chocolate chips into the sizzling pan. "Names."

Y/N almost choked on a strawberry. "Harry, it’s been twelve hours."

"I know," he glanced over his shoulder, a spatula in hand. "But I’ve been thinking. Since about 4 A.M."

"You were awake at 4 A.M.?"

"I was excited," he admitted, flipping a pancake with a flourish. "And terrified. But mostly excited. What do we think about... floral names? Lily? Rose? Daisy?"

"A bit classic," Y/N mused. "But pretty."

"Okay. What about place names? Paris? Since... you know."

"Absolutely not," Y/N laughed. "We are not naming her after the city where her father is playing a concert."

"Fair point. Too cliché," he agreed, stacking the pancakes onto a plate. He brought the stack over to her, sliding it across the marble counter. He leaned his elbows on the island, chin in his hands, watching her. "Stevie?"

"Stevie?"

"Like Nicks."

Y/N paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "Okay. That’s actually cool."

"Right?" Harry beamed, looking inordinately proud of himself. "Stevie Styles. It sounds like a rockstar."

"Let’s just eat the pancakes before we christen her," Y/N suggested, taking a bite. She closed her eyes. "Oh my god."

"Good?"

"Amazing.”

Harry’s smile softened. He reached out, his thumb brushing a crumb from the corner of her lip. He didn't pull his hand away. He just rested it on her cheek, his eyes searching hers.

"I could get used to this," he said softly. "Making you breakfast."

"I could get used to eating it," she countered lightly, though her heart was hammering.

"I’m serious, Y/N," his voice dropped, losing the playful edge. "I really like you being here. I like you in my space. The house... it’s usually so quiet. With you here, it feels like a home."

The vulnerability in his eyes made her chest ache. He wasn't just talking about the pancakes. He was talking about the loneliness that haunted him, the emptiness of the big, gated house when the tour wasn't happening.

"I like being here," she whispered back.

Harry leaned across the counter, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Eat up. Then we are moving to the sofa. I have a list of movies I want the baby to hear. We’re starting with Notting Hill."

The rest of the day passed in a haze of laziness.

They moved from the kitchen to the living room, rebuilding the pillow nest. Harry threw logs on the fire until the room was toasty warm.

They watched Notting Hill. Harry quoted every line.

They napped. Actually napped. Around 2:00 P.M., the grey light and the warmth of the fire lulled them both to sleep. Y/N woke up an hour later to find herself sprawled across Harry’s chest, his arm clamped tight around her waist, his breathing slow and steady under her ear.

She stayed there for a long time, just listening to his heart beat.

It was in this quiet moment, watching the wind blow outside, that the fear started to creep in for her.

This was perfect. This was a bubble. But bubbles pop.

She looked at the locked front door. Outside that door was a world that wanted a piece of him. A world that would tear her apart if they found out. She knew that come Tuesday, he would put on his suits and his stage persona and belong to the world again.

Harry stirred beneath her, his hand drifting up to rub her back.

"I can hear you thinking," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"I’m just watching the rain," she lied.

"You're worrying," he corrected. He opened his eyes, looking up at her from the pillow. "Stop it. We have three more days. Just us."

"And then?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

Harry tightened his grip on her. "And then we figure it out. But I’m not letting you go, Y/N. I meant what I said last night. You both girls are my priority".

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of cuddling, firelight, and a level of domestic intimacy that felt almost illicit. They didn't leave the house. They didn't answer emails. They existed solely within the coordinates of the living room rug and the kitchen island.

By Friday evening, the fortress was in full swing.

The rain was still lashing against the windows, but inside, the room was glowing warm and gold. A generic 90s sitcom was playing softly on the TV, canned laughter filling the silences, but neither of them was watching it.

They were tangled together on the deep velvet sofa. Y/N was lying back against Harry’s chest, his legs bracketing hers, a heavy knitted blanket pulled up to their chins. Harry held an iPad propped up on her stomach lightly, carefully, and his chin was resting on her shoulder as he scrolled.

"Absolutely not," Y/N said, tapping the screen. "Harry, that is not a crib. That is a Cinderella carriage."

"It’s classic," Harry argued, his voice rumbling against her back. "It’s hand-carved walnut. It looks regal."

"It looks like a Victorian ghost child sleeps in it. No."

Harry chuckled, swiping left. "Okay, no Victorian ghost beds. What about this one? 'The Scandinavian Minimalist Cloud'."

"Better," Y/N mused. "But does it come in grey?"

"We are not getting a grey nursery," Harry scoffed, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. "We are having a girl. We need color. We need... pink velvet. We need flowers."

"You just want to turn the nursery into a Gucci suit," she teased.

"Maybe," he grinned. "She needs to have style."

He paused scrolling, his hand drifting from the iPad to rest over her hands, which were folded on the bump. He squeezed them gently.

"We have time," he murmured contentedly. "We have months to argue about furniture. For now... this is nice."

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "It is."

It was perfect. It was the kind of boring, wonderful Friday night she had never thought she’d get to have with him.

But the bubble was thin, and the world was loud.

A sharp, relentless buzzing from Y/N’s phone, which had been banished to the coffee table, broke the spell.

Harry frowned, tightening his arms around her slightly. "Ignore it."

"It’s buzzing a lot," Y/N noted. "It might be an emergency."

She sat up, reaching for the phone. Harry paused the sitcom, the room falling into a sudden, heavy silence.

It wasn't a family emergency. It was a social media avalanche.

There were three texts from Marnie.

Marnie (22:45): Babe.Marnie (22:45): Please tell me you are somewhere safe.Marnie (22:46): Don't open Twitter. Just... don't.

Y/N felt the blood drain from her face. The cozy warmth of the blanket evaporated instantly.

"What is it?" Harry asked, his voice sharpening.

Y/N didn't answer. She unlocked the phone and opened Twitter. She didn't have to search. The photos were everywhere.

They were grainy, long-lens shots taken the night before, outside her studio. But the text accompanying them was what made her stomach drop.

The Daily Mail Celeb account had posted: Harry Styles finally off the market? A source close to the singer has exclusively revealed that Harry has been "quietly seeing" photographer Y/N L/N for months. The insider claims the pair first hit it off at the British Fashion Awards in December and have been "inseparable" ever since. Are things getting serious?

Another update from a fan account read: Sources say Harry and Y/N have been together since the BFAs. He took her to his Hampstead home last night. Timeline checks out... she shot the Vogue cover right after they met.

"They have a source," Y/N whispered, her hand trembling. She turned the screen so Harry could see. "Harry, read it. They know about the Awards."

Harry took the iPad and set it aside. He took the phone from her hand, his expression darkening instantly. The soft, playful man who was looking at cribs vanished; the guarded celebrity returned. He read the article, his jaw tightening.

"They’re building a timeline," Y/N said, her voice rising in panic. "They know we met in December. They know we’ve been 'close' for months."

She pulled her knees up to her chest, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"Harry, if they know the timeline... and if they see me next week... they’ll do the math. December to now. Four months. If they see the bump, they won't just think we're dating. They’ll know."

Harry set the phone down on the table, face down.

"They aren't going to get near you," he said firmly.

"You can't stop them," she argued, tears pricking her eyes. "You leave on Tuesday. I have to go back to work. I have to buy groceries. I can't hide in this house forever. If a 'source' is talking, they are going to be hunting me."

Harry looked at her. He looked at the fear in her eyes, and then at the slight curve of her stomach under the blanket. He thought about leaving her here. Alone. With the press camped outside the gates, armed with a timeline and looking for a scoop. The thought made him feel physically sick.

He turned to her, his decision solidifying in an instant.

"Come with me," he said.

Y/N blinked, wiping a tear. "What?"

"Come with me," Harry repeated. He shifted on the sofa, turning to face her fully, taking both of her hands. "To Paris. Come on tour."

"Harry, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he interrupted, his voice urgent. "Bring your laptop. You can edit from the hotel. But I need you with me."

He squeezed her hands, his eyes pleading.

"I can't leave you here, Y/N. Not with them circling like this. I can't sit in a hotel room in Paris knowing you're here alone. If you're with me, you're safe. We have security. No one gets to you unless I say so."

Y/N looked at him. She saw the desperation, but also the love.

"It’s crazy," she whispered. "Touring? Like this?"

"It’s necessary," Harry said softly. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. "And... I don't want to miss anything else. I missed the first kick. I don't want to miss anything else. I want to wake up and see the vitamins on the counter."

He leaned his forehead against hers.

"Please. Come to Paris. Let me take care of you."

Y/N closed her eyes. She felt the warmth of his hand, the safety of his presence. The idea of being without him for another week suddenly felt impossible.

"Okay," she whispered.

Harry let out a shuddering breath of relief. "Okay?"

"Okay," she opened her eyes, offering him a small, watery smile. "I’ll come to Paris."