off the record — 5 (Patreon)

Author's note: Hi loves, I hope you’re all doing well. I know this is long overdue, and I’m sorry. As you know from my previous posts, I’ve been going through a lot these past few weeks. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy and focused on school and writing while also figuring out how to cover my tuition.

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Wednesday morning started like always with a grey sky. It had rained the entire night before, leaving the grounds of the house damp and cold. The warmth inside of their small bubble over the last few days seemed to evaporate the moment that the intercom buzzed at 9:00 A.M sharp.

Harry was alredy dressed and ready. He wasn’t wearing soft sweatpants or a vintage t-shirt. He wore black jeans, a crisp shirt, and sambas. He looked like the pop star.

“They’re here” he said, checking his watch after buzzing them in. He turned to Y/N, who was stading by the kitchen island, clutching a mug of tea with both hands, like a shield. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked, trying to give him a reasuring smile but failing.

“You always have a choice,” Harry said seriously, walking over to her. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “We can call it off. You can stay here.”

“No,” Y/N shook her head. “I’m coming. I’m not staying here alone.” her hand gently touchiching her swolllen lower abdomen.

“Okay,” Harry nodded. He took a deep breath, his shoulders tensing up. “Let’s go meet the suits.”

They walked into the formal dining room. A room that they hadn’t used once in the last four days. Two men were already standing there, settling down each on one seat.

Y/N recognized them instantly, though she had never formally met them. She had seen them on the periphery of the Vogue shoot, hoving in the background like crowls.

It was Jeff Azoff, Harry’s manager. And Julius, his head of security. The atmosphere in the room was heavy. There were no smiles, no casual pleasantries. This wasn’t a social gathering. It was a crisis management meeting.

“Jeff. Julius” Harry said, his voice dropping, “This is Y/N”.

Jeff was sharp-eyed and efficient. He didn’t look at her like a fan or a friend. He assessed her. He look at her fce and then inevitably, his eyes flicked briefly to the oversized sweater she was wearing, looking for the bump.

“Y/N,” Jeff nodded, extending a hand. “Please to finally meet you. Wished it were under calmer circumstances”

“Hi,” Y/N said, shaking his hand. It was firm. Business-like.

Julius was a mountain of a man, rading a calm and dangerous competence. He placed a thick file forder on the mohagany table.

Harry sat at the end of the table, pulling a chair out for Y/N directly to his right. He didn’t just sit next to her, but he angled his body towards her. A subtly physical barried between her and his team. Under the table, his hand found hers and squeezed it tight.

"Right," Jeff started, opening a laptop. "We have a tight window. The plane leaves from Luton at 11:30. We need to go over the protocol for Paris. This isn't a normal tour stop anymore. The leak on Sunday changed the landscape."

He turned the laptop screen toward them. It showed a graph of social media mentions. The spike was vertical.

"The narrative is that you are dating," Jeff explained, his tone clinical. "The 'source' about the Fashion Awards has given them a timeline. They are hungry for a confirmation shot. A hand-hold, a dinner date, anything. Our job is to give them absolutely nothing."

Jeff looked directly at Y/N.

"Y/N, because you are coming with us, you are now a protected asset. But to keep you safe, and to keep the... situation... private, we have had to take extreme measures."

"What kind of measures?" Y/N asked, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

"NDAs," Julius interjected, tapping the file folder. "Non-Disclosure Agreements."

He opened the folder. It was thick.

"As of this morning, every single member of the touring crew, the band, the dancers, the catering staff, and the local runners in Paris has signed a specific addendum to their contracts," Julius said. His voice was deep and flat.

"It states that they are to disregard your presence entirely. They are not to speak to you about personal matters. They are not to look at... physical changes. And most importantly, they are strictly forbidden from discussing your presence with anyone outside the inner circle. The penalty for a breach is immediate termination and a lawsuit that will bankrupt them."

Y/N stared at him, horrified. "You made the band sign that? Mitch? Sarah?"

"Everyone," Julius confirmed. "No exceptions. Friends or not, this is business. And right now, the business is protecting privacy."

"It’s to keep you safe," Harry added softly, sensing her distress. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "If one person talks, it’s over. We can't risk it."

"So I’m..." Y/N searched for the word. "I’m a ghost."

"Essentially," Jeff nodded. "To the outside world, you are not in Paris. To the crew, you are invisible. You see nothing, you say nothing. That is the rule we have given them."

"Okay," Y/N whispered. "I understand."

"Good," Julius moved on, pulling out a floor plan of the hotel. "Now, logistics. We cannot travel together. If you are seen in the same car as Harry, the story is confirmed. If you are seen entering the hotel with him, confirmed."

He pointed to a diagram of the Ritz Paris.

"Harry will travel in the primary convoy—three SUVs, police escort. That draws the fire. The paparazzi will follow him."

"And me?"

"You will be in a separate vehicle. Unmarked. Tinted windows. Driven by one of my guys, Miller. You will leave the house twenty minutes before Harry. You will board the jet first. When we land in Paris, you will deplane last."

Julius traced a line on the hotel map.

"Harry enters through the front or the VIP garage. You will enter through the service bay on the west side. It’s the freight entrance. Kitchen staff and deliveries only. Miller will take you up the service elevator directly to the penthouse floor."

Y/N felt a chill run down her spine. Service elevators. Unmarked cars. It wasn't romantic; it was a military operation. She wasn't just Harry’s girlfriend; she was contraband.

"Once you are in the suite," Jeff added, "you do not leave. Not for coffee, not for a walk. Room service only. If you need anything—anything at all—you text Julius. You do not go down to the lobby."

Jeff paused, his expression softening just a fraction.

"I know this sounds harsh, Y/N. But Harry tells us this is important. And if it’s important to him, it’s our job to make it happen without a single camera lens seeing it. We are building a wall around you."

Y/N looked at the file, then at the serious faces of the men who controlled Harry’s world. Then she looked at Harry.

He was watching her, his green eyes filled with a mixture of apology and fierce determination. He hated this—she could tell—but he was letting them do it because he was terrified of the alternative.

"I can do it," Y/N said, sitting up straighter. She gripped Harry’s hand back, hard. "I can be invisible."

"Excellent," Julius closed the file with a snap. He stood up. "Miller is outside with the transport. Your bags are already loaded. You leave in ten minutes."

The meeting was over, and Y/N’s live had officially changed forever.

Ten minutes later, Y/N was standing in the foyer, her bag slung over her shoulder.

The goodbye was brief and functional, overseen by Julius who was checking his earpiece every five seconds. There was no lingering kiss, no long hug. They were on the clock.

"Miller is out back," Julius announced, his voice crackling with static from the radio. "The decoy convoy is lining up at the front gate. We have about three minutes before the paps realize the back exit is active."

Harry stepped into her space. He reached out, squeezing her upper arms, his thumbs digging in slightly. He looked frantic, his eyes darting from her face to the door.

"I’ll see you in the air," he said, his voice low and urgent. "You get on the plane, you go to the back bedroom, and you stay there until we take off. Okay?"

"Okay," Y/N nodded, her throat tight.

"I love—" he cut himself off, glancing at Julius. "I’ll see you soon."

He let go.

Y/N turned and followed Julius through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the grey morning drizzle.

Waiting there was not a luxury SUV. It was a nondescript, silver Volkswagen van with blacked-out windows. It looked like a catering vehicle. Miller, presumably, stood by the sliding door. He didn't smile. He just nodded, took her bag, and slid the door open.

Y/N climbed into the dark interior. The door slammed shut, sealing her in.

As Miller pulled away, driving slowly down the service lane to avoid kicking up gravel, Y/N looked out the tinted window. She saw the front gates in the distance. Flashes of light were popping. The paparazzi were swarming the main convoy of black Range Rovers that Harry would be in.

They were screaming his name. They were fighting for a shot.

And she was slipping out the back in a silver van, unnoticed and unknonwn.

The drive to the private terminal at Luton was silent. Miller didn't speak. He didn't turn the radio on. He drove with a terrifying precision, eyes constantly checking the mirrors.

When they arrived, they didn't go through the main terminal. They drove directly onto the tarmac.

The jet was there. A sleek, white Gulfstream that looked like a spaceship against the grey sky.

"Straight up the stairs, ma'am," Miller instructed, opening the door. "Head down, hood up. Don't look at the fence line."

Y/N pulled her hood up and walked quickly across the wet tarmac. She felt exposed, even though the airfield was secure. She hurried up the stairs and ducked into the cabin.

Inside, it was a different world. Cream leather, walnut wood, the smell of fresh coffee. A flight attendant was already there, arranging flowers in a vase. She looked up, startled, then immediately averted her eyes, remembering her NDA.

"Refreshments are on the bar," she said to the wall. "Mr. Styles will be arriving shortly."

Y/N walked past her, feeling a flush of shame, and went to the back of the plane as Harry had instructed. She sat in the small, private bedroom, staring at her hands.

Twenty minutes later, the plane shook as heavy steps bounded up the stairs.

"Right, let’s go, let’s go!" Harry’s voice boomed from the main cabin. "Wheels up in five, yeah?"

There was the sound of bags being dropped, the murmur of Jeff and Julius talking, and the heavy thud of the main door sealing shut.

Only then did the bedroom door fly open.

Harry stood there. He looked breathless, his hair damp from the rain, his cheeks flushed. He scanned the room, saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, and let out a long, shuddering exhale.

"Hi," he breathed.

He crossed the room in two strides and wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"I hated that," he muffled into her neck. "I hated putting you in that van. I hate it."

Y/N ran her hands through his damp curls, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "I'm okay, Harry. It was just a car ride."

"It’s not just a car ride," he argued, pulling back to look at her. "It’s... it’s treating you like luggage. I’m sorry."

"It’s the job," she said softly, quoting Jeff. "We’re protecting the asset."

Harry grimaced at the word. He stood up, pulling her with him, and kissed her forehead. "Come on. We’re in the air now. You can come out. I told the stewardess to make you that ginger tea you like."

The flight was short, barely forty-five minutes. They spent it huddled together on the sofa in the main cabin, Harry reading a book while Y/N edited photos on her laptop. It felt normal. It felt like them.

But the moment the wheels touched down at Le Bourget in Paris, everything changed again.

"Okay, same drill," Julius announced, standing over them as the plane taxied. "Y/N, you hold back. Harry, you disembark first. Miller is waiting with the B-Team car."

Harry squeezed her hand one last time, his eyes apologetic, before putting on his sunglasses and stepping into the role of 'Harry Styles'. He walked down the stairs and into the flashing lights of the few photographers who had figured out where they were landing.

Y/N waited ten minutes. Then, she walked down the stairs into the waiting silver van.

The drive into Paris was a blur of grey highways and graffiti, eventually giving way to the elegant, limestone architecture of the city center. But Y/N didn't get to see the Eiffel Tower or the Seine.

The van didn't pull up to the gold-leafed entrance of the Ritz.

It circled the block and turned into a narrow, damp alleyway smelling of wet cardboard and exhaust fumes.

"Service entrance," Miller announced, putting the van in park.

They were parked next to a garbage truck. A man in a chef's uniform was smoking a cigarette by the loading dock. He barely glanced at them.

Miller opened the door. "Quickly, please."

Y/N grabbed her bag and stepped out. She followed Miller up a concrete ramp, dodging a crate of vegetables being unloaded. They walked through a heavy steel door into the bowels of the hotel.

It was loud. Kitchen staff were shouting in French, pots were clanging, and the air was thick with the smell of butter and onions. No one looked at her. They were too busy.

Miller led her past the laundry carts and the dishwashing station to a scuffed, industrial elevator in the corner. He swiped a key card.

The doors rattled open. It wasn't the gilded, mirrored elevator of the lobby. It was a metal box lined with protective padding, used for moving furniture.

"Penthouse floor," Miller said, pressing the button. "The elevator opens directly into the service pantry of the suite. Harry is already there."

The doors closed with a heavy clank, sealing her in the metal box.

As the elevator began its slow, jerking ascent, Y/N leaned her head against the padded wall. She was in the most romantic city in the world, in one of the most expensive hotels in existence.

But entering through the garbage dock, hiding in a freight elevator, she didn't feel like a guest.

She felt like a dirty little secret.

The freight elevator shuddered to a halt. The metal doors groaned open, revealing not a hallway, but a pristine, marble-floored butler’s pantry.

Harry was pacing the small room. As soon as he saw her, he stopped, his shoulders dropping two inches.

"You're here," he exhaled.

He crossed the space in three long strides, ignoring Miller, and pulled Y/N into his arms. He held her tighter than usual, burying his nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of rain and stress.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled into her neck. "I’m so sorry you had to come up through the kitchen."

"It smelled like onions," Y/N said into his chest, her voice muffled but attempting lightness. "But I’ve had worse entrances."

Harry pulled back, his hands framing her face, searching her eyes for any sign of cracking. "You okay?"

"I’m okay. I’m here."

"Come on," he kissed her forehead, then took her hand. "Let’s get out of the pantry."

He led her through a swinging door and suddenly, the grit of the service entrance vanished. They stepped into the suite.

It was obscene. That was the only word for it. The ceilings were twenty feet high, painted with frescoes of clouds and cherubs. There were crystal chandeliers, gold-leafed moldings, and velvet furniture in shades of royal blue and cream.

And through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower glittered against the night sky, so close it felt like you could reach out and touch it.

"Welcome to the cage," Harry said dryly, gesturing to the room. "But at least it has a nice view."

Two hours later, the suite had been transformed.

They couldn't go out to the bistros lining the Seine, so Harry had brought the bistro to them. He had dimmed the lights, leaving only the glow of the city outside and the flicker of a dozen candles he had requested from the concierge.

A white linen table had been set up by the window.

They sat across from each other, a spread of steak frites, roasted vegetables, and warm bread between them. Harry had a glass of heavy red wine; Y/N had sparkling water in a crystal goblet.

It was undeniably romantic. It felt like a honeymoon.

But the silence was thick.

Harry reached across the table, his fingers brushing against hers. He traced the veins in her hand, his eyes fixed on the movement.

"You know," he started, his voice low. "We could get used to this. Paris. The view. Just us."

"It is beautiful," Y/N agreed, looking out at the tower. "But it’s not real, Harry. We’re hiding."

"We’re protecting," he corrected gently. He looked up, locking eyes with her. "But the rest of it... the dinner, the talking, the waking up together... that part is real. Isn't it?"

Y/N pulled her hand back slightly, wrapping it around her water glass. "Harry..."

"I want to try," he said suddenly. The words hung in the air, heavy and serious.

Y/N froze. "Try what?"

"Us," Harry said. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I want to try being... us. Not just co-parents. Not just friends hiding from the press. I want to date you, Y/N. properly."

He gestured to the room.

"I know the timing is backward. I know we did the baby part first. But the last four days in Hampstead... that wasn't fake. I felt it. I think you felt it too."

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to say yes. God, she wanted to say yes. She wanted to lean across the table and kiss him and pretend that this was a normal love story.

But the nag of insecurity in her gut—the voice that had been whispering since she saw the positive test—was too loud.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Look at where we are."

"I am looking."

"No, really look. We are in a hotel room in Paris because I am pregnant with your child and the press is hunting us. You are protecting me because you have to."

"I’m protecting you because I want to," he argued, his brow furrowing.

"Do you?" Y/N asked, her eyes searching his. "Be honest with me, Harry. If there was no baby... would I be here right now?"

The question landed like a stone on the table.

Harry opened his mouth to answer immediately, but he stopped. He hesitated. And that hesitation broke her heart a little bit.

"You don't know," she said softly. "You can't know."

"It’s not that simple," Harry said, his voice rough. "Maybe we wouldn't be in Paris right now. Maybe it would have taken longer. But Y/N, we were heading somewhere. Even before you told me. You know we were."

"We were flirting, Harry. We were strangers who had chemistry." She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. "But now... now you’re jumping straight to 'let’s be a couple' because the circumstances demand it. You’re a good man. You want to do the right thing. You want to build a family for this baby."

She placed a hand on her stomach.

"But I don't want you to be with me just because you feel like you should."

Harry stood up. He walked around the table, not stopping until he was standing right next to her chair. He turned it so she was facing him, then dropped to a crouch so he was looking up at her.

He took both of her hands in his. His grip was firm, almost desperate.

"I’m not doing this out of duty," he said fiercely. "I don't do things I don't want to do. I’m selfish, Y/N. Ask anyone."

He reached up, cupping her cheek.

"Yes, the baby accelerated things. I won't lie and say it didn't. But being with you in Hampstead? Laughing about the cribs? Watching you sleep? That wasn't duty. That was me, falling for you."

He leaned his forehead against hers.

"I’m asking for a chance," he whispered against her skin. "I’m not asking for marriage. I’m just asking if we can try. Let me take you on dates. Let me woo you. Even if it has to be in room service for a while."

Y/N closed her eyes. She felt his warmth, his sincerity. She was terrified that he was confusing love with protective instinct, but looking at him now—so open, so hopeful—she couldn't say no.

"Okay," she breathed out. "We can try."

Harry let out a breath of relief, a small, crooked smile appearing. "Okay."

He leaned in and kissed her. It was slow, tasting of red wine and promises. It wasn't the desperate kiss of the studio; it was the tender, careful kiss of a man who was trying to build something fragile.

"Now," he murmured, pulling back just an inch. "Eat your steak. You're eating for two, and I paid forty euros for those fries."

Wednesday afternoon at the Accor Arena smelled like ozone, stale beer, and high-voltage anxiety.

Y/N arrived via the loading dock (again), ushered in by Miller. She wore her "Access All Areas" laminate around her neck, but she felt like an impostor.

She had never been to a show of this size before. She had shot indie bands in basement clubs and models in quiet studios, but this was a military operation.

She walked down the long concrete corridor toward the stage, her eyes wide. She passed endless rows of flight cases, armies of men pushing heavy equipment, and racks of costumes being wheeled by frantic assistants.

As she walked, she noticed the ripple effect. A group of lighting techs stopped talking as she approached. A woman with a clipboard looked up, her eyes widening in recognition, before she immediately looked down at her papers, terrified.

They didn't know her. She had never met these people before, but they knew exactly who she was. She was the woman from the leak. The reason for the NDAs. The reason they could lose their jobs if they said the wrong thing.

"Afternoon," Y/N tried to smile at a security guard she passed.

He didn't smile back. He didn't even look at her face. He stared at a point on the wall over her shoulder and gave a stiff nod.

"Ma'am."

It was isolating. In a building full of hundreds of people, she was walking in a bubble of silence. She wrapped her oversized coat tighter around her body, shielding the bump that everyone was pretending didn't exist, and made her way to the floor.

The arena bowl was massive. It felt like a cavern, dark and empty, the rows of seats stretching up into the shadows like the ribs of a whale.

But the stage was blazing with light.

And there was Harry.

Y/N stopped by the mixing desk, her breath catching in her throat. She had seen him in a studio. She had seen him in his kitchen making pancakes. She had seen him sleeping.

But she had never seen him like this.

He looked different. Larger than life. He stood at the center of the stage, guitar strapped across his chest, commanding the room with an effortless authority. He was talking to the monitor engineer, pointing at his earpiece, directing the band.

"Can I get a bit more kick in the left ear?" his voice boomed through the massive PA system, echoing off the empty seats. "It’s getting lost."

He wasn't the soft, goofy guy she knew. He was the Boss. He was the center of gravity for this entire production.

Y/N stayed in the shadows, feeling small. This was what she had signed up for? This was the life she was bringing a baby into?

Harry turned to say something to Mitch, and as he did, his gaze swept across the floor. He stopped. Even from fifty yards away, Y/N saw his body language shift. The "Boss" tension melted instantly.

He squinted against the glare of the spotlights, finding her in the darkness.

"Right," Harry said into the mic, his voice shifting from professional to soft. "Let’s run Sweet Creature. Acoustic."

Mitch looked up, surprised. "I thought we were doing Matilda?"

"Change of plan," Harry said simply. He stepped up to the mic, adjusting the height.

He strummed a chord. The sound was warm, rich, and intimate, defying the massive size of the arena.

Then he looked up. He didn't wave. He didn't call out to her. He just locked eyes with her across the empty space, ignoring the fifty crew members bustling around him.

He started to sing.

"Sweet creature... had another talk about where it's going wrong..."

The crew continued their work, but the energy in the room shifted. Everyone knew who he was singing to. Everyone knew why he had picked this song. But no one looked at her. They kept their heads down, terrified of breaking the spell.

Y/N leaned against the barricade, her heart swelling in her chest.

He wasn't singing to the back of the room. He was singing directly to her. His voice was pleading and incredibly tender, stripping away the lights and the stage until it felt like he was just singing to her in the living room again.

"Sweet creature, sweet creature... wherever I go, you bring me home."

He held her gaze on the line you bring me home.

In that moment, the terrifying scale of the arena faded. The awkwardness of the NDAs faded. It was just him, telling her that despite the chaos, despite the machine, she was his anchor.

As the final chord rang out, echoing into the silence, Harry stayed at the mic for a beat longer than necessary. He offered her a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.

Then, the mask went back on.

"Okay," Harry clapped his hands, turning back to the band, his voice booming again. "Good. Let’s run the finale. High energy, yeah?"

Y/N let out a shakry breath, placing a hand on her stomach.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered to the bump. "Your dad is a rockstar."