off the record — eight (Patreon)

A/N: THE SECRET IS OUT! 🚨 And Harry Styles remains the absolute blueprint for the ultimate protective boyfriend. "It's a family show... or is it?" I am weak for him!

Y/N’s eyes scanned the bold, black letters again and again, but the words refused to change.

EXCLUSIVE: HARRY’S SECRET BABY! British Vogue Photographer Y/N L/N Five Months Pregnant With Pop Star's Child.

The tablet was suddenly, gently pulled from her hands.

Harry tossed it face-down onto the mattress. His jaw was locked so tightly a muscle feathered beneath his skin. The fluffy, sleepy boy from the night before was completely gone, replaced in a split second by a sharp, hyper-focused edge.

"Right," Harry murmured, his voice low and entirely steady. "Where is your phone?"

"On... on the nightstand," she stammered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

He leaned across her, snatching her phone from the bedside table. The screen was already lighting up like a frantic light. Texts, missed calls, and Instagram notifications flooding the lock screen in rapid succession. Without a single moment of hesitation, Harry held the power button down and swiped the screen to black, completely severing her from the outside world. He tossed the dead phone onto the armchair.

Jeff walked into the bedroom a second later. He wasn't yelling, and he wasn't pacing. He looked entirely exhausted, his face set in a grim, calculating mask. He had his own phone pressed to his ear, his voice dropping into a cold, clipped, professional tone.

"No, do not issue a "no comment". A "no comment" just confirms it. Tell the London desk to hold all statements until I approve them. Put a block on the hotel switchboard. Yes. Call me back in ten."

Jeff hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket and looking directly at Harry.

"The Sun ran it twenty minutes ago," Jeff stated, keeping his voice painfully calm and tactical. "The Daily Mail has already scraped her entire professional portfolio. They are linking the timeline back to the Vogue shoot. It is trending globally, mate."

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing both of Y/N's trembling hands. "Did we figure out who leaked it?"

"We are looking into it, but it doesn't matter right now," Jeff said flatly. "The cat is out of the bag. The priority is containing the physical perimeter. The Ritz security is good, but the street is packed."

Harry frowned. He stood up, walking over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. He reached out, pulling the heavy, velvet blackout curtain back just a fraction of an inch to look down.

Y/N scrambled out of the bed, the silk sheets pooling on the floor as she hurried over to his side to peer through the tiny gap.

It wasn't a screaming riot, which somehow made it feel infinitely worse. It was a siege.

Down on the street, clustered directly around the hotel's ornate front doors and the ramp to the underground parking garage, were dozens of men. Some were leaning against idling mopeds, smoking cigarettes. Others were standing in small, predatory packs, holding massive, long-lens cameras that looked like weapons. They were just waiting. Staring up at the windows, waiting for a single slip-up, a single silhouette to photograph.

"They know you have soundcheck at three," Jeff noted from behind them. "They have blocked the garage exit. We can get the vans out, but they are going to swarm the vehicles the second the tires hit the pavement. Flashes right against the tinted glass. It's going to be rough."

Harry let the curtain drop shut, plunging the room back into a dim, heavy silence. He let out a slow, tight breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

He turned to look at Y/N. The sheer panic in her chest was threatening to completely choke her, but Harry's green eyes were incredibly entirely steady. He reached out, cupping her face in his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over her cheekbones.

"Hey. Look at me," he commanded softly, his British accent thick and grounding. "It is just a bunch of blokes with cameras. They cannot touch you. They cannot get in here. You and the baby are completely safe. We just have to sort out the logistics, yeah?"

Y/N nodded weakly, leaning her face into his palm. "My editor is going to kill me. And Marnie... oh god, Marnie's flat in London."

Harry turned his head slightly to look at his manager. "Jeff. Give me ten minutes with her, and then we will figure out the statement."

Jeff gave a single, tight nod. "Ten minutes. I'll be in the other room."

Harry walked over to the armchair, picking up her dead phone. He held it in his hand for a second, rubbing his thumb over the screen.

"Right," he sighed softly, sitting back down next to her on the bed. "I am going to turn this on. But you're absolutely not opening Twitter, yeah? And no Instagram. You are only calling Marnie."

"Okay," Y/N promised, taking a deep, shaky breath.

Harry held the button down. The second the screen illuminated, the device essentially vibrated right out of his hand. It pinged relentlessly, an endless cascade of notifications. He ignored all of it, tapping directly into her contacts and hitting Marnie's name before handing the phone over.

Marnie picked up on the very first ring.

"Y/N? Oh my god, babe, are you alright?" Marnie's voice was loud and completely frantic through the speaker.

"I'm okay," Y/N breathed out, sagging slightly against Harry’s side. He immediately wrapped a heavy arm around her shoulders. "Are you okay? Have you seen it?"

"Have I seen it? Babe, I am currently living it," Marnie let out a breathless, slightly hysterical laugh. "It is an absolute madhouse. There are about fifteen paps camped outside my flat right now. They've been shouting through the letterbox asking if I am the godmother. I've had to close all the blinds.”

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut, a heavy wave of guilt washing over her. "Oh god, Marnie. I am so sorry. I didn't think they'd come after you."

Harry leaned in toward the phone, keeping his voice calm and entirely normal.

"Alright, Marnie, it's Harry," he said casually, though his jaw was still tight. "Are you locked in?"

"Hi, Harry. Yeah, locked in," Marnie replied, sighing heavily. "Just can't exactly pop down to the shops for a pint of milk, can I?"

"Yeah, no, don't leave the flat," Harry instructed, pulling his own phone out of his pocket and typing with one hand. "I’ll have two of our security blokes sent to your door to clear the stoop. Just sit tight, alright?"

"You're a lifesaver. Thank you," Marnie exhaled. "Just... look after her, yeah?"

"Course I will," Harry murmured softly, dropping a quick kiss to the side of Y/N's head. "Talk later, Marnie."

They hung up. But before Y/N could even process the relief of knowing Marnie was safe, a new email notification aggressively bannered across the top of her screen.

It was from Harriet, the Editor-in-Chief of British Vogue.

Y/N felt her stomach entirely drop. She clicked the email open, her eyes skimming the short, clinical text.

Y/N. The board has been calling me all morning. This leak is unprecedented. As you are on our payroll and your professional connection to the magazine is explicitly named in the tabloids, we are being bombarded for comments. Call me immediately. We need to discuss how to manage this, and whether we can secure the exclusive maternity shoot before another publication gets to you.

Y/N let out a dry, humorless laugh, dropping the phone onto the duvet.

"What?" Harry asked, leaning over to read the screen.

"My editor," Y/N whispered, rubbing her hands over her face. "She's not even asking if I'm alright. She just wants to know if Vogue can get the exclusive pregnancy shoot."

Harry read the email. He let out a sharp, entirely amused scoff, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.

"Jesus," he muttered, dropping his head back against the headboard. "They waste absolutely no time, do they? Fucking vultures."

He reached over, picked up the phone, and tossed it back onto the armchair.

"Just leave it," he told her, pulling her completely flush against his side and resting his chin on top of her head. "We're just ignoring that. They're taking the piss if they think we're doing a photoshoot right now. Just... don't even think about it."

"I have to reply eventually, Harry. She's my boss."

"Yeah, well, today she can sod off," he mumbled into her hair, his thumb resuming a slow, grounding sweep over her hip. "Today you're just staying right here."

Before Y/N could argue, Jeff walked back into the bedroom. He had a printed sheet of paper in his hand, his expression purely all business.

"Alright," Jeff said, looking between the two of them. "The PR team in London has drafted a strategy. But neither of you are going to like it."

He held a single sheet of printer paper. He didn't hand it over immediately. Instead, he stood at the edge of the mattress, looking down at Harry and Y/N with an expression of pure, exhausted pragmatism.

"The statement itself is completely standard," Jeff started, his voice flat and entirely professional. "We confirm the pregnancy. We use your full names to take the wind out of the tabloid's sails, and we formally request privacy. It's boring, it's clinical, and it gives them absolutely nothing new to chew on."

"Fine," Harry said simply, not moving his chin from the top of Y/N's head. "Release it."

"Releasing the statement isn't the problem, Harry," Jeff sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It's the logistics. The moment we confirm this, that swarm downstairs is going to double. The paparazzi aren't going to just read the statement and pack up their cameras. They are going to want the first official photo of the two of you. The bounty on a clear shot of her bump just skyrocketed to six figures."

Y/N felt completely sick. The idea that her body, was suddenly a high-priced commodity for a bunch of men with long lenses made her want to crawl under the massive silk duvet and never come out.

Harry's arm tightened around her shoulders like a steel band. "Get to the point, Jeff."

"The point is, the Ritz is a fortress, but it's a very public one," Jeff said, looking directly at Y/N now. "We need to get her out of Paris. The London PR desk has a secure, gated property in the Cotswolds. Total privacy. No press access within two miles."

Y/N frowned, pulling back from Harry's chest just enough to look at Jeff. "You want me to leave?"

"Just until the news cycle turns over," Jeff assured her smoothly. "It’s standard procedure. Here is the plan: Harry, you leave for soundcheck at three o'clock in the decoy van. We let the press swarm it. While they are entirely distracted by you at the arena, we take Y/N down through the hotel kitchens. We put her in a blacked-out car, drive her to Le Bourget airport, and put her on a private jet to England before anyone even realizes she's gone."

Silence fell over the bedroom. It was thick, heavy, and absolutely suffocating.

Y/N stared at the crisp white sheet of paper in Jeff's hand. Logically, she knew he was right. She understood how the press worked. She had been on the other side of the camera for British Vogue; she knew how relentless the media machine could be when it smelled blood in the water. Sneaking out the back door was the safest, smartest, and most logical thing to do. It would protect the baby. It would protect Harry's tour.

She opened her mouth to agree, to say that she would pack her bags, but Harry spoke first.

He didn't yell. He didn't make a grand, dramatic scene. He just let out a short, completely dry breath that sounded almost like a laugh, and shook his head.

"No."

Jeff blinked. "Harry, mate, be reasonable. Have you looked at the street outside? It's absolute madness down there."

"I said no, Jeff," Harry repeated, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register. He finally unraveled himself from Y/N, sitting up straight on the edge of the mattress. "I am not doing that."

"It's the safest option—"

"It makes her look like a dirty little secret," Harry interrupted, his British accent completely clipped and hard. "You want to sneak her through a bloody hotel kitchen and shove her in the boot of a car while I go sing pop songs? No. Absolutely not. We are done sneaking about."

"Harry," Jeff argued, his professional mask slipping to reveal genuine frustration. "If she stays with you on this tour, it is going to be a complete circus. Every hotel, every arena, every time you step outside."

"Then let it be a circus," Harry fired back, standing up from the bed. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring his manager down. "They already know her name. They already know she's having my kid. What exactly are we hiding from anymore? If we sneak her out the back door in the middle of the night, it validates their entire rubbish narrative. It makes it look like it's a scandal. Like it's something we are ashamed of."

Harry paused, running a hand aggressively through his messy hair. He looked back at Y/N, his green eyes softening instantly before he turned back to Jeff.

"She isn't a scandal," Harry stated firmly. "She's my family. And I am not sending my pregnant girlfriend to hide in the countryside like some sort of problem you've solved."

Jeff let out a long, slow exhale, staring at the ceiling for a second before looking back at his client. He knew that specific, stubborn tone. Once Harry Styles made up his mind about something, the entire world could burn down around him and he still wouldn't budge.

"Fine," Jeff relented, tossing the printed statement onto the armchair next to her dead phone. "But how do you suggest we get to the arena today? Because the garage is currently blocked by fifty photographers who are very eager to blind you with flashbulbs."

Harry looked toward the heavy velvet curtains, his jaw ticking. He stood there for a long moment, simply breathing, processing the massive, irreversible shift that was about to happen in his life.

He walked back over to the bed, reaching out and gently taking Y/N's hands, pulling her to her feet. He didn't let go. He laced their fingers together, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles.

"Soundcheck is at three," Harry said, his eyes locked entirely on Y/N's face, though he was speaking to Jeff. "Tell Miller to bring the van around. But don't bring it to the underground garage."

Jeff froze. "Harry. You cannot be serious."

"Bring it to the front doors," Harry commanded, a quiet, absolute certainty settling over his features. "We're walking out the front."

Jeff stared at Harry for a long, heavy moment, searching his face for any sign of a bluff. When he found none, the manager simply let out a resigned breath.

"You are going to give the entire security team a massive ulcer," Jeff muttered, already pulling his phone back out of his pocket. "Front doors. Right. I'll go tell Miller."

Jeff walked out of the bedroom, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The sudden silence in the room was deafening.

Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding in for ten minutes. He reached up, running both hands through his curls, pushing them back from his face. He turned back to Y/N, offering her a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Right," he said, clapping his hands together once. "We should probably get dressed, then."

He took a step toward his open suitcase, but Y/N didn't move. She stayed rooted to the floor by the edge of the bed, her arms wrapping protectively around her stomach.

"Harry, wait," she said quietly.

He stopped instantly, turning back to look at her. "What is it? Are you alright?"

"Maybe he's right," Y/N whispered, her throat incredibly tight.

Harry's face fell. He dropped his hands to his sides, the forced, practical energy draining right out of him. "What?"

"Jeff. Maybe he's right," she repeated, forcing herself to say the words even though they tasted like ash. "Maybe I should go back to London. Or the Cotswolds. Just... just for the rest of the pregnancy."

Harry stared at her, completely completely taken aback. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, his brows pulling together in genuine confusion and hurt. "Y/N, no. I just told him we aren't doing that. You aren't a secret."

"I know I'm not a secret to you," she argued weakly, looking down at the carpet because looking into his blazing green eyes was too difficult. "But look at what is happening out there. I can't live in a fishbowl, Harry. I can't have people analyzing my body, shouting at me every time I step out of a car. If I go back to London, I can just... be quiet. I can go to my appointments without needing a bodyguard. I can just exist."

"And what about me?" he asked. His voice was completely quiet, stripped of all the media training and the bravado.

Y/N finally looked up.

Harry looked absolutely devastated. He wasn't angry; he just looked incredibly sad, staring at her like she had physically knocked the wind out of him.

"If you go back to London," Harry continued, his British accent thick with emotion, "I don't get to see you. I'm on tour for the next three months, Y/N. I'll be in different countries every other day."

He took a step closer, gently taking her arms and rubbing his thumbs over her elbows.

"Why should I be punished?" he asked, his voice cracking just a fraction. "Why do I have to miss out on this? I've already missed a lot . If you go hide in a house in the countryside, I'm just going to be getting text updates from you like I'm some distant relative. I won't get to feel her kick. I won't get to wake up next to you. I won't get to actually be a dad until she's already born."

He let out a frustrated breath, dropping his forehead against hers. "It's not fair. I didn't ask for them to print that rubbish. I shouldn't have my entire fatherhood robbed from me just because some blokes with cameras want to make a quick quid."

Y/N felt a hot tear finally spill over her eyelashes. She didn't want to leave him. The mere thought of going back to an empty flat and sleeping in a cold bed for the next four months was agonizing. But the sheer terror of the outside world was entirely paralyzing.

"I'm just really scared, Harry," she admitted, her voice breaking into a soft sob. She buried her face against his chest, her hands fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt. "I'm so scared. I'm a photographer. I'm supposed to be behind the lens. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to walk out those front doors with a hundred people screaming at me."

Harry's entire posture melted instantly. The hurt vanished, completely overridden by his instinct to comfort her. He wrapped his arms tightly around her back, resting his cheek heavily on top of her head.

"I know, love. I know," he murmured, his voice incredibly gentle, soothing her exactly like he had the night before. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made it about me. You have every right to be terrified. It's an absolute nightmare out there."

He held her while she cried quietly against his chest, just letting her get the fear completely out of her system. He swayed them slightly, a slow, grounding motion in the middle of the quiet bedroom.

After a few minutes, Y/N pulled back, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hands. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to pull herself together.

"Okay," she whispered, looking up at him. "Okay. I'll stay. I'm not leaving."

Harry let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. I'm not going to let a single one of them get close to you."

He stepped back, turning toward his massive open wardrobe trunk in the corner of the room. He began rummaging through the neat stacks of designer clothes, completely bypassing the silk shirts and tailored trousers.

"What are you looking for?" she sniffled, watching him practically throw a Gucci jacket onto the floor.

"Hold on," he muttered.

Finally, he found what he was looking for at the very bottom of the trunk. He pulled out a massive, incredibly thick, dark grey hoodie. It was easily three sizes too big for him, which meant it was going to be absolutely colossal on her.

He walked back over to her, holding it open. "Here. Arms up."

Y/N obediently raised her arms, and Harry carefully pulled the heavy cotton over her head. The material smelled exactly like him, woodsy cologne and clean laundry. It dropped all the way down past her thighs, the thick fabric completely and totally obscuring the shape of her body.

Harry reached forward, adjusting the oversized sleeves so her hands could poke through, and carefully smoothed the front down over her stomach. With the hoodie on, her bump was entirely invisible.

He looked at her, his green eyes fierce and incredibly determined.

"We are walking out the front doors," Harry told her gently, his hands resting on her shoulders. "But they don't get everything. If you don't want them looking at her, they don't get to look. We give them exactly what we want to give them, and absolutely nothing more. Alright?"

Y/N looked down at the massive, protective layer he had wrapped her in, and then back up at his solid, unwavering expression. For the first time since the article broke, she actually felt like she could breathe.

"Alright," she nodded, reaching out to grab his hand. "Let's go."

The elevator ride down to the lobby was the longest of Y/N’s entire life.

The descent was completely silent. Harry stood right beside her, his large hand completely enveloping hers. He was holding on so tightly her fingers were starting to tingle, his thumb rubbing a relentless, nervous, but grounding rhythm over her knuckles.

When the polished brass doors finally slid open to the grand lobby of the Ritz, the sheer scale of what they were about to do hit her like a physical blow.

Through the massive glass revolving doors at the front of the hotel, she could see a terrifying, pulsating wall of white light. The flashbulbs were firing so rapidly it looked like a strobe machine. Even through the thick, soundproofed glass, the muffled roar of the paparazzi crowd sounded like a swarm of angry hornets.

Miller, Harry’s head of security, was waiting for them in the lobby with four other massive, broad-shouldered bodyguards. He looked incredibly tense.

"Alright, H," Miller said gruffly, stepping up to them. "We've got the police holding the barricades, but they are absolutely feral out there. The van is parked exactly ten feet from the door. Do not stop. Do not look up. We are going to form a complete box around you both."

Harry gave a single, sharp nod. His jaw was locked, his green eyes dark and completely unreadable as he shifted into a tactical mode she had rarely ever seen.

Instead of hiding her behind him or tucking her under his arm like a shield, Harry shifted his grip. He laced his long fingers deliberately through hers, palm to palm, locking their hands together in an absolute, undeniable iron grip. It was a clear, physical statement to anyone with a lens: she is with me.

"Just look at the back of my shoulder, yeah?" Harry ordered softly, his mouth hovering just an inch from her ear. "Do not look at the cameras. Keep your head tucked down, hold my hand, and just match my steps. I've got you."

"Ready?" Miller asked.

Harry squeezed her hand one last time. "Go."

The security team pushed through the side doors, and Harry led her out right beside him.

The moment the Parisian air hit them, it was absolute, unadulterated chaos.

The noise was deafening. It was a terrifying cacophony of French and English, dozens of grown men screaming at the absolute top of their lungs to get their attention.

"Harry! Harry, over here!""Y/N, is it true? How many months?""Look up, darling! Give us a smile!""Harry, are you leaving her? Did Vogue leak it?"

The flashbulbs were blinding, exploding in her peripheral vision so violently she felt physically dizzy. It was entirely disorienting, the smell of exhaust fumes and cigarette smoke thick in the air.

Y/N did exactly what she was told. She dropped her chin, burying the lower half of her face into the massive collar of Harry's oversized grey hoodie, and kept her eyes glued to the back of Harry's shoulder and their tightly joined hands.

Harry walked with a heavy, steady, entirely uncompromising stride, pulling her safely along with him. When the crowd surged forward, threatening to break the police barricade, one frantic photographer managed to slip past a bodyguard, shoving a long-lens camera directly into their path, mere inches from Y/N's face.

Harry reacted instantly, but he didn't lose his temper.

He firmly yanked Y/N just a half-step behind his back with his right hand, stepping squarely between her and the lens. With his free left arm, he raised a hand, pressing his palm flat against the barrel of the man's camera to physically stop its momentum, completely blocking the shot.

"Oi. That is enough," Harry said. He didn't shout, but his voice cut through the noise with a sharp, incredibly stern British authority. His tone left absolutely no room for debate. "Step back, please. Give us some space, mate. Have some respect."

The photographer blinked, slightly stunned by the firm reprimand, and Miller immediately stepped in to usher the man back behind the line.

Harry didn't wait a second longer. He turned, tugging her gently but quickly by the hand, and guided her into the open, dark cavern of the black security van.

He scrambled in right behind her, firmly pulling the heavy sliding door shut with a solid, echoing slam.

The absolute silence of the soundproofed van enveloped them instantly.

The tinted windows were completely blacked out. The flashing lights outside were reduced to faint, rhythmic glows against the glass, and the screaming sounded like it was coming from underwater.

Y/N collapsed against the leather seat, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. She was trembling so hard her teeth were actually chattering.

"Drive, Miller," Harry said to the front partition, his voice tight but completely controlled.

The van lurched forward, accelerating smoothly down the Parisian street, leaving the circus behind.

Harry immediately turned to her. He didn't even bother buckling his seatbelt. He slid across the smooth leather, crowding into her space. He was still holding her right hand, but his free hand came up instantly to cup her face, his thumb smoothing her hair back from where it had stuck to her damp forehead.

"Are you alright? Y/N, look at me," he asked, his voice entirely frantic as his green eyes scanned her face, all the stern authority melting away into pure devotion. "Did anyone bump you?"

"No," she choked out, dropping her forehead heavily against his chest, clinging to his hand like a lifeline. "No, I'm okay. I'm okay. Just overwhelmed."

Harry let out a ragged, shaking breath. He wrapped his long arm entirely around her back, pulling her tightly against him. He pressed his face into the hood of the oversized grey sweatshirt, his own heart hammering erratically against her cheek.

"I've got you," he whispered fiercely, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. "You did so well, darling. You were brilliant. It's over now. I've got you."

He didn't let her go for the entire ride to the arena. He simply held her in the dark, their fingers still tightly laced together, making absolutely sure that the world couldn't touch them in here.

Three months later, the absolute, terrifying chaos of that Parisian afternoon felt like a distant, feverish memory, completely eclipsed by the massive, thumping reality of the Italian summer.

Y/N sat on a plush sofa inside the heavily air-conditioned, custom-built artist compound backstage at the RCF Arena in Reggio Emilia. She had her laptop balanced precariously on the very edge of her knees, a logistical necessity, given that her eight-month pregnant belly made it physically impossible to rest the computer properly on her lap anymore. She tapped her stylus against the trackpad, meticulously color-grading a batch of raw files for an upcoming freelance editorial.

She had refused to stop working. Even while moving from hotel to hotel, crossing borders, and living entirely out of suitcases, she had kept her head down and her editing software open. It kept her grounded.

They had survived the European leg of the tour, and they had done it entirely on their own terms.

After the disaster at the Ritz, the paparazzi had relentlessly hunted them for weeks, desperate for the million-dollar "bump shot." But Harry had been militant. Oversized coats, strategic umbrellas, and private loading docks had kept her body entirely hidden from the long lenses.

Until last month.

When Y/N hit seven months and the bump became impossible to hide even under his largest hoodies, Harry had decided enough was enough. He refused to let a tabloid profit off her changing body. So, one quiet morning in Amsterdam, he had grabbed his vintage 35mm camera, had Y/N stand in the soft light of the hotel window in just one of his unbuttoned silk shirts, and took a breathtaking, black-and-white photograph of her beautiful, round stomach.

He hadn't consulted Jeff. He hadn't asked the PR team. He just uploaded it directly to his own Instagram grid with a simple, three-word caption: Not long now.

It broke the internet in a matter of minutes, but more importantly, it instantly completely killed the paparazzi bounty. By taking the narrative back into his own hands and giving the art away for free, Harry had stripped the tabloids of their power. The terrifying swarms outside their hotels had thinned out almost immediately.

Now, they were finally at the finish line. Campovolo. The absolute massive, sprawling finale.

Even through the thick, soundproofed walls of the backstage compound, Y/N could feel the low, vibrating hum of the crowd. It wasn't an arena tonight; it was a literal airfield. Over one hundred thousand people were standing out there in the Italian heat, waiting for him. The sheer scale of it was completely dizzying.

The heavy door to the trailer swung open, and Harry practically bounded into the room, bringing a rush of warm summer air with him.

He was fresh off the massive stage from final soundcheck, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks flushed a deep, healthy pink. He was wearing loose, comfortable running shorts, a vintage t-shirt, and his absolute favorite, beaten-up Gazelles. He was practically vibrating with that specific, manic energy that always accompanied the closing night of a tour, let alone a show of this magnitude.

"Right," Harry announced, tossing his in-ear monitors onto the coffee table and dragging a towel over his damp face. He made a beeline straight for the sofa. "That is it. Soundcheck is officially done. I am a free man in exactly six hours."

He didn't sit next to her. Instead, he dropped directly onto his knees on the carpet right in front of the sofa, wedging himself smoothly between her legs. He gently pushed the laptop screen down just enough so he could lean in.

"Hello," he murmured, his voice dropping into that horribly soft, devoted tone he reserved entirely for her stomach. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss right through the stretched fabric of her maternity shirt. "Are you listening in there? Your dad has to go sing for a hundred thousand Italians for a bit, and then we are going home. Our actual home."

Y/N smiled, reaching out to run her fingers through his messy, damp curls. "She has been kicking my ribs for the last forty minutes. I think she is just as excited to get back to London as you are."

Harry let out a bright, airy laugh, resting his cheek flat against the curve of her belly. He closed his eyes, simply absorbing the feeling of his daughter moving beneath his skin.

"I cannot wait," he sighed contentedly, wrapping his long arms around her waist to pull himself closer. "I am going to completely revert to my absolute most annoying habits. Go for a proper jog on the without Miller tailing me in a black SUV, and make a massive mess in the kitchen blending my green juice."

He tilted his head back, looking up at Y/N with eyes that were overwhelmingly bright and full of genuine relief. The faint, bruised bags under his eyes from months of relentless touring were prominent, but he looked happier than she had ever seen him.

"I just want to be completely boring with you," he whispered, a profoundly proud smile taking over his face, making his dimples pop. "We did it. We actually survived it, darling."

"Almost," Y/N teased gently, tapping his nose with her finger. "You still have to go out there and entertain a literal city's worth of people tonight without passing out from the heat."

"Easy work," he grinned, utterly entirely arrogant and incredibly fluffy as he pushed himself up just enough to kiss her properly on the lips. "I've got the two prettiest girls in the world cheering for me backstage. I'm going to be brilliant."

The sheer magnitude of a hundred thousand people was something Y/N could not fully comprehend until the sun finally set over Reggio Emilia and the arena lights went completely dark.

When the opening chords of the first song echoed through the massive, custom-built sound system, the roar of the Italian crowd was so loud it actually made the ground vibrate violently beneath her feet.

Y/N was stationed safely on a reinforced road case in the stage wings, strictly guarded by Miller and two other security members. She had the perfect vantage point. She was completely hidden from the audience, but she had a crystal-clear view of the stage, the band, and Harry.

He was an absolute force of nature.

Any exhaustion he had been feeling in the trailer vanished he hit the stage. He sprinted down the massive catwalk, feeding entirely off the chaotic, deafening energy of the crowd. He was wearing custom, wide-leg silver trousers and a sheer, unbuttoned top that was already completely soaked with sweat by the third song. He was blowing kisses, catching flags thrown from the barricade, and singing with a rough, passionate edge that echoed into the warm summer night.

About halfway through the set, the frantic energy shifted. Harry slowed down, grabbing his microphone from the stand and pacing the stage with his usual, cheeky swagger for the crowd-work segment of the show.

He took a sip of water from a plastic bottle, spitting a bit of it out onto the stage like a fountain, making the front rows scream, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I am seeing some absolutely brilliant signs out there tonight," Harry said, his voice echoing across the endless sea of people. He pointed a long, tattooed finger toward a section near the middle. "You, darling, right there. What does that say? 'Name the baby after me'?"

The entire arena erupted into a collective, deafening cheer.

Y/N felt a massive flush hit her cheeks, ducking her head with a laugh as Mitch caught her eye from the stage and winked.

"I appreciate the offer, Isabella, I really do," Harry chuckled, reading the girl's name off the neon poster. He paced slowly toward the edge of the stage, a massive, utterly fond smile taking over his face. "But I think her mum might have a few opinions on that. And let me tell you, she is currently eight months pregnant, and I am absolutely terrified to argue with her."

The crowd laughed, the sound rippling back through the massive field. Harry turned, looking deliberately across the stage, right into the dark wings where Y/N was sitting. He flashed her a bright, completely devastating, cheeky grin.

"But we are very, very excited," Harry continued, looking back out at the crowd, shifting his weight onto one hip. "We had a... very productive few days off in London last winter, clearly."

The fans instantly caught the insinuation. The screaming reached an entirely new, hysterical pitch.

Harry let out a loud, breathless laugh, instantly holding both of his hands up defensively in the air as if to quiet them down, though his dimples were fully on display.

"Oi, behave yourselves!" he scolded playfully into the microphone, his eyes completely crinkling with mischief. "It is a family show!"

He paused perfectly, letting the silence stretch for just a fraction of a second, before lowering his voice into a dry, gravelly murmur.

"...Or is it?"

The crowd absolutely lost their minds. Y/N buried her face in her hands, shaking with laughter. He was an absolute menace, and he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn't a dirty secret anymore; it was just a wildly famous man bragging about his family to a hundred thousand of his closest friends.

The rest of the concert passed in a dizzying, beautiful blur.

When it finally came time for the encore, the atmosphere shifted into something incredibly heavy and emotional. The realization that this was the very last night of a two-year journey settled over the arena.

Harry stood at the center microphone stand, his chest heaving as he looked out at the endless sea of lights from the fans' cell phones. It looked like an actual galaxy. He ran both hands through his sweat-drenched curls, visibly taking a moment to just absorb it all.

"I don't really have the words to tell you what this tour has meant to me," Harry said softly, his voice echoing in the sudden, reverent quiet of the airfield. "You have changed my life in ways I cannot possibly begin to explain. Thank you for buying a ticket. Thank you for giving me a safe space to just... be myself."

He looked down at his boots for a moment, a deeply genuine, overwhelmed smile playing on his lips, before looking back up.

"I am going to go away for a little bit," he announced, the crowd immediately letting out a collective, dramatic groan of protest.

"I know, I know," he laughed softly, shaking his head. "But I have a very important job to do. I have to go and become a dad. I am having a baby "

It was a massive, overwhelming wave of pure love and support.

"Take care of yourselves. Take care of each other," Harry yelled, his voice cracking slightly with emotion as the opening drums for Kiwi began to build behind him. "I love you so much! I will see you soon!"

The final song was an absolute explosion of energy, water, and noise. When the last firework shot into the Italian sky and the stage lights finally went black, Harry didn't linger to soak up the applause.

He dropped his microphone, turned his back to the crowd, and sprinted straight into the wings.

He bypassed his manager, bypassed his vocal coach, and ran directly to Y/N. He dropped to his knees right in front of her road case, burying his wet, sweaty face directly into the crook of her neck. He let out a massive, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around her back as he essentially collapsed his entire weight against her.

"You did it," she whispered fiercely, pressing a kiss into his damp, tangled curls as the crowd continued to roar outside. "You were incredible."

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her. He was absolutely entirely exhausted, completely wrecked, and practically glowing with happiness.

"Tour is officially over," he breathed out, swiping a thumb over her cheek before dropping a heavy kiss to her lips. He stood up, grabbing her hand and gently pulling her to her feet. "Come on, then. Let's go home."

Now, life away from the spotlight true begins!!