So it turns out I love reading all of your Y/N fics but I couldn't write one because Maggie felt so specific to me. I really picture her as a Margot Robbie sort. I hope you can get past that and enjoy this little story that was stuck in my brain and just had to come out.
TW : ED, SA, Attempted Self Harm
Chapter One
Chapter One (March 2021)
“Cmon baby, pick up." Harry Styles muttered to himself. Each unanswered ring of the phone frazzled his already fr
Chapter Two
TW: Disordered eating
Chapter Two (2018)
Martin Graves was a feared, old school Hollywood producer. While he hadn’t taken on a project in
Chapter Three
Harry punched the address to Maggie's house into his navigation system in the Range Rover. He literally accomplished nothing today. Unless
Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Grammy Night 2021
"Maggie just walked in." Jeff said, eyeing the door.
Harry turned to see her. She was beautiful. Maggie wa
March 2021
Harry wasn’t sure if he woke up because the sun was starting to peek in from the sitting room or because Maggie was so restless
a/n: just a silly little blurb that was in my head.
You are not a dramatic person. You have never been a dramatic person. This is something you would stake real money on.
You are standing in the dried fruit aisle of a Whole Foods on a Saturday afternoon watching your boyfriend take a toothpick sample of a candied walnut from a little paper cup on a folding table, and you are falling apart.
He’d shown up at your door at eleven with a tote bag over one shoulder and that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something, the one that lives in his eyes a few seconds before it reaches his mouth. He wanted to cook tonight. Real cooking, not takeout, not toast. He had a list on his phone, organized by aisle, and you’d thought about teasing him for it and then decided against it because you found it too genuinely sweet.
So you’d come here. Together. Like two people who do this, who are the kind of people that go grocery shopping on a Saturday and argue about olive oil and hold hands in the produce section. He’d swung your hand a little while you walked, just slightly, like he wasn’t thinking about it. He’d put something in the cart you hadn’t asked for and when you looked at him he’d shrugged and said trust me, and you had, because four months in you’ve learned that trusting Harry on small things is almost never the wrong call.
You’d been happy. That’s the part that makes this hard. You had been standing somewhere between the tomatoes and the pasta feeling something you hadn’t let yourself look at directly yet, something you’d been keeping in your peripheral vision, and you’d thought: this. This is what people mean.
And then there was the sample table.
He spotted it the way he spots most things he wants, with the easy certainty of someone who has never once talked himself out of a small pleasure. He pulled you over by the hand, already reaching, already popping the walnut into his mouth before you’d even finished stopping.
You watched his face.
He chewed once. Twice.
And then he closed his eyes and said, with complete sincerity, with nothing held back:
“Mmm. Yummy.”
Not good. Not oh, that’s nice. Not even try this, which would have been fine, which would have been a completely normal thing for a person to say.
Yummy.
The sample lady smiled at him. He smiled back. He reached for another toothpick, utterly unbothered, and you stood there and felt something shift in your chest that you did not ask for and cannot explain.
Here is the thing about the ick. It isn’t about the thing. You know this. You are self-aware enough to understand that a grown man saying yummy in a grocery store is not, by any reasonable measure, a dealbreaker. You know that. You could make that argument to anyone.
And yet your body had already decided.
He turned to you, still chewing, and held out a toothpick with a walnut on the end, the way he offers you most things, easy and obvious, like of course you’d want it.
“Try it,” he said. “It’s so yummy.”
Twice.
“I’m okay,” you said.
He tilted his head. That look he gets, the one that means he’s reading you, finding things on your face you didn’t know you’d left there. Something about the attentiveness of it made the ick worse, actually. He was so present. So thoroughly, earnestly present in this Whole Foods, saying yummy about a walnut with his whole chest, and you are supposed to be falling in love with him.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Fine. Let’s get the olive oil.”
He watched you a beat longer than was comfortable, then dropped his toothpick and fell into step beside you. He didn’t take your hand back and you told yourself it had dropped naturally, that he hadn’t noticed, that you were a grown woman fully capable of processing one irrational feeling without it showing up all over your face.
But Harry notices everything.
He didn’t say anything until the pasta aisle, until you’d spent three silent minutes pretending to read the back of a box of rigatoni you’ve bought so many times you could recite it. Then, quietly: “Something happen?”
“No.”
“You went somewhere.”
“I’m here, Harry.”
He looked at you. You looked at the pasta.
“Was it the yummy thing?” he asked.
You looked up before you could stop yourself.
His face was open, genuinely curious, and underneath that the faint edge of someone who already knows and is just giving you the chance to say it first. No accusation. Barely even surprise. Just that patient, full-attention look that usually makes you feel lucky and right now is making you feel like a person who got the ick about the word yummy, which is what you are.
“It was a little bit the yummy thing,” you said.
Something moved across his face. Not quite hurt, not quite amusement. Somewhere in the narrow honest space between them.
“Yummy,” he said slowly, like he was hearing it for the first time. Holding it up.
“Harry.”
“That’s given you the ick.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He picked up a box of pasta, looked at it without seeing it, put it back. “Yummy,” he said again, quieter, private, like he was cross-referencing it against everything he thought you already knew about him and had decided to keep.
You felt a pang of something you hadn’t quite earned yet. Because he wasn’t making you pay for it. He was just standing there in a pasta aisle turning the word over, trying to figure out how he’d gotten to thirty-something saying yummy to a stranger about a walnut without once considering how it might land on the woman he was trying to impress.
“It’s not a big deal,” you said.
“Right,” he said.
He put his hand back in yours. Deliberate. Fingers sliding through and settling, and you let him because you always let him, because whatever the ick was doing it hadn’t touched that part yet.
He found the pasta he wanted. He compared two cans of tomatoes with his reading glasses on, holding them out, squinting, and something about it made the warmth come back on its own, quiet and persistent, like it had been waiting just off to the side the whole time.
At checkout, while the cashier scanned everything through, he leaned down to your ear and said, very quietly, completely straight-faced:
“The tomatoes, by the way. Very yummy.”
You closed your eyes.
He was already smiling when you opened them. Not the public one. The one that takes its time.
It didn’t fix anything. The image was still there, the toothpick, the closed eyes, the word said with such unguarded pleasure that you had nearly needed to sit down in a grocery store like a person in a medical drama. It would probably always be there. You’d be thirty years from now reaching for something and your brain would simply serve it back, uninvited.
But his hand was in yours in the parking lot, and the night was still ahead, and he caught you looking at him and said what in that voice that already knew exactly what, and you shook your head and said nothing and he let you have it.
Where you’re a week from the altar and a stranger with green eyes at the bar makes you realize you’ve been saying yes to the wrong person.
Word count: 5.7k
You used to think about your wedding like it was Christmas morning.
Not the dress, exactly, though you had opinions about that too. It was the specific image of standing at the end of an aisle with the noise of the world gone completely quiet, looking at someone who looked back at you like you were the only thing worth looking at. You were maybe seven when you first had that thought, watching your aunt cry through her vows on a Saturday afternoon in a church that smelled like candle wax and old wood, and something in your chest had clicked into place like a key turning. This. Someday this.
You carried it with you quietly, not talking about it too much because talking about it too much made it feel breakable. You let it live in the back of you while you grew up and got your heart broken a few times and learned that love wasn’t always soft. You still believed in it though. The aisle. The quiet. The person at the end of it.
And then you met Daniel and you thought, okay. Him. It’s him.
Three years and a ring later you weren’t so sure.
The fight had started over something that felt small on the surface and wasn’t small at all underneath it.
You’d been getting ready in the bathroom, mascara in hand, when he appeared in the doorway already dressed. Good jeans. A button down he’d ironed himself, which he only did when he was going somewhere he actually cared about. He was checking his phone when he said it, almost casually, like he was reading off a grocery list.
“The guys booked Allure for tonight.”
You knew what Allure was. Everyone knew what Allure was.
I loved this. I felt so much joy for the main character. Far too many women just go with it. Not our girl and then she got Harry. Cmon now.. dream come true.
After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.
No Boats Involved
One Slice of Cheese
Plane Tickets Pending
The Magic Happens Later
Good Things Take Time
One Peach Led to Another
I’ll Buy You A Coat
Alphabetically, By Color, And By Feelings
Forty Minutes Early
Authors Note: Thank you to my friend @zclhes for making the new cover photo for this story!
There has been a fic Renaissance on this site. This series is so good. I have been reading slowly and trying to savor it. The feelings, the dialogue, the original character are all so incredibly well written. I am excited to see more of this couple.
Harry is back on stage, back on the road, and back where the world loves him most. But this time, tour feels different, because you’re there for all of it.
From quiet backstage moments to chaotic travel days, from emotional show nights to the silly little in-betweens, Together Together Diaries follows Harry and y/n through the love, laughter, nerves, and magic of tour life.
So I binged this entire series and to say I am obsessed would be an understatement. The original character has such a distinct voice. I love her and the natural relationship. I am a addicted. The saddest part of tour ending eventually will be the end of this series.
✨ summary: where harry and y/n are in vegas and the joke turns into the truth
📝 word count: 5.1k
⚠️ content warning: none! Just ❤️
Y/n wakes up tangled in white. Too many pillows. Too many sheets folded and tucked and layered like the bed was made for someone who never actually sleeps in it. The curtains are half drawn but doing a poor job. Vegas light sneaks in anyway, pale and persistent, the kind of light that does not soften for anyone. It does not care who you are or what you did a few hours ago.
The room smells like last night. Clean hotel linen mixed with whatever sharp citrus cleaner they use to erase evidence. Like the space is constantly being reset. Like nothing is meant to linger.
She stays still for a moment. Takes inventory. The low hum of traffic somewhere below. The faint whir of air conditioning. Her own breathing, slower than usual.
Harry is asleep beside her.
He is flat on his back, one arm thrown above his head, fingers relaxed like he finally let himself fall instead of hovering. There is a faint crease between his eyebrows. It always shows up after shows. An echo of adrenaline that has nowhere to go. In sleep, without the lights and the noise and the performance layered on top, he looks younger. Softer. Less like someone who stood in front of forty thousand people less than twelve hours ago and more like someone who simply ran out of energy.
She watches his chest rise and fall. Counts a few breaths without meaning to.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
She does not touch it.
Another buzz follows. Then another. The sound is familiar. Rehearsals later. Soundcheck adjustments. Someone asking if he can squeeze in a quick interview since he is already in town. The world lining up neatly outside the door, tapping its watch.
Harry groans softly and turns his head toward her, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.
“Tell them I died,” he mumbles.
Y/n smiles into the pillow. The kind of smile that stays private. “I think they would still ask what time.”
He cracks one eye open. Looks at her like he has to place himself. Like he needs a second to remember where he is and who he woke up next to and which version of himself exists this morning.
“Morning,” she says quietly.
“Morning,” he answers. His voice is different now. Lower. Real. His hand finds her waist without looking, fingers settling there like muscle memory. Like confirmation.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The phone buzzes again and Harry exhales, long and slow, like the sound physically weighs something down inside him.
“What time is it,” he asks, eyes still half shut.
Y/n leans across him to grab her own phone instead, careful not to wake him fully. She checks the screen. Grimaces.
“Too early for someone who saved the world last night.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That feels generous.”
“You looked pretty heroic from where I was standing.”
His mouth twitches. Compliments always land strangely on him the morning after a show. Like they belong to a different version of himself. Someone he temporarily loaned his body to.
He rolls onto his side, closer now, forehead nearly touching hers.
“I have rehearsal at noon,” he says. “Interview at three. Something acoustic they want me alert for.”
“Rude of them.”
“Unforgivable.”
His fingers trace absent shapes at her waist. Not sexual. Familiar. Anchoring. Like he is checking that she is still here.
Outside, a siren wails faintly. Vegas pretending to be awake this early.
“I hate how fast it all comes back,” he says quietly. “Like I only get a few hours where I’m just me.”
Y/n does not answer right away. She watches him instead. The crease between his brows softens as he speaks, like saying it out loud lets it loosen.
“You are still you,” she says finally. “They just borrow you sometimes.”
He looks at her like that landed somewhere important.
“Stay with me today,” he says. Not dramatic. Just honest. “Even if it’s boring. Even if I’m in meetings and you’re stuck scrolling.”
“I was planning on it.”
Something in his shoulders releases at that. Like a hook finally slips free.
The phone buzzes again.
He groans and buries his face in the pillow. “If they ask me what last night meant to me, I might throw the phone.”
Y/n laughs softly. “Tell them it was loud.”
He peeks up at her, smiling now. Then quieter, almost to himself, “It was.”
He reaches for her hand and holds it there between them. The room still half asleep. The day waiting patiently to take him back.
Harry shifts onto his back again, one arm flung out like he is trying to claim as much of the bed as possible before the day takes him back. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, eyes unfocused, then turns his head toward Y/n.
“Do you want to go out for breakfast,” he asks. His voice is still rough, sleep clinging to it. “Or order room service and pretend we don’t exist yet.”
Y/n does not answer right away.
She stretches slowly, deliberately, like she is testing how much time they still have. Her toes brush his calf beneath the sheets. The fabric whispers as she moves. The idea of putting on real clothes already feels offensive. Makeup even worse. The hallway outside feels loud just thinking about it.
She exhales and lets her head fall back into the pillow.
“Order in,” she says finally. “I want to be lazy for a tiny bit.”
He hums in agreement. Low. Absent. The sound slips out of him without thinking. Approval without words. He reaches for his phone at last, squinting at the screen like it personally betrayed him.
“Pancakes,” he reads aloud. “Eggs. Something called a wellness bowl that feels a little judgmental.”
“Pancakes,” Y/n says immediately.
He smiles, relieved. “Pancakes feel honest.”
He scrolls, pauses, then adds extra sides like he is stocking up for a minor emergency. Hash browns. Bacon. Fruit he knows they will barely touch. Coffee for both of them.
When he sets the phone back down, he does not move away from her. He just turns his head, watching her like he has time. Like he is not being counted down somewhere.
The quiet stretches.
Not awkward. Not empty. Just full.
Y/n notices the faint red line across his collarbone where his shirt must have pressed into his skin during the show. Notices the way his hair is flattened on one side, refusing to behave even now.
“Does it ever feel weird,” she asks carefully, “always waking up somewhere that isn’t home.”
He does not answer immediately. His thumb rubs slow circles against her hand, grounding himself in the motion.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Sometimes it feels like I live out of a bag. Like everything important has to fit into something I can carry.”
She turns toward him a little more. “Does that get lonely.”
He exhales. “Yeah.”
The word lands without drama. Just fact.
Then he looks at her, softer now. “But with you it feels like I brought home with me.”
Something in her chest tightens. Not painfully. Just full. Like the air shifted.
The knock comes sooner than she expects. Polite. Controlled. The world announcing itself again.
Harry sighs, but he smiles as he gets up. He pulls on a t shirt and tugs it down like it might anchor him. When he opens the door and wheels the cart inside, the room fills with the smell of coffee and sugar and something fried.
Normal things. Ordinary things. Things that make the moment feel real.
They eat cross legged on the bed. Pancakes torn apart with fingers. Syrup on his thumb that she wipes away without thinking. He watches her do it like he wants to memorize the motion. Like it is something he will want to recall later.
Halfway through, his phone buzzes again. He groans with his mouth full and flips it face down without looking.
“If that’s my manager,” he says, “I am physically unavailable.”
Y/n laughs. “You are literally covered in syrup.”
“Exactly. Vulnerable state.”
He wipes his hands on a napkin and finally checks the screen. Reads it. Snorts softly. Then sets the phone back down like it lost its privilege.
“What,” she asks.
“Someone from the label asking if Vegas treated me well,” he says. “Winky face included. Threatening energy.”
She rolls her eyes. “God forbid.”
He takes another bite, chews slowly, then tilts his head at her.
“You know what everyone always says about Vegas.”
She looks at him. “I’m already suspicious.”
“That you’re supposed to get married here,” he says lightly. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right.”
It sounds like a joke. Tossed out between bites. Casual. The kind of comment that usually disappears the second it lands.
Y/n snorts. “Absolutely not.”
“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. “Horrifying.”
They both laugh.
It should end there.
But something lingers after the laughter fades. Not tension. Curiosity. Like a thought accidentally left on the table between them.
He picks at the edge of his plate, eyes down. “I mean. Can you imagine.”
She watches him now. The way he keeps his voice easy. The way he is not meeting her eyes.
“Imagine what,” she asks, even though she already knows.
“Us,” he says. Then quieter, “Like that. Married.”
She studies him. The way the joke is doing a lot of work. The way it is failing.
“In a thrift store dress,” she says, playing along. “At some stupid chapel.”
“With a man named Todd,” he adds.
She laughs. “There would absolutely be Elvis.”
He laughs too, real and surprised. Then softer, “Yeah.”
The phone buzzes again. He does not reach for it.
They sit there, knees touching, plates forgotten, the idea hovering between them like it is waiting to be invited closer.
Y/n looks at him more carefully now.
“You said that kind of seriously,” she says.
He exhales through his nose. Not defensive. Just caught. “Did I.”
“Yes,” she says. “Like more serious than a joke.”
He leans back against the headboard, fingers lacing together in his lap. The ceiling suddenly feels safer than her eyes.
“I do that sometimes,” he admits. “Hide real thoughts inside stupid comments.”
She shifts closer. “So which is this.”
He hesitates. Then tells the truth.
“I don’t know,” he says.
Y/n lets the silence stretch instead of filling it. She has learned this about him. That if she does not rush, he will keep talking.
He stares at the ceiling like it might give him an out. Then his shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath.
“I wasn’t planning on thinking about it,” he says. “It just… slipped out.”
She nods. “That happens when things matter.”
His mouth curves at that, small and appreciative. He turns his head toward her again.
“You’re on tour,” she says gently. “You have rehearsal in a few hours.”
“I know.”
“You have interviews.”
“I know.”
“You barely know what city you’re in half the time.”
He smiles at that, a little sheepish. “Also true.”
She watches his face carefully. “So why does it not feel like a joke.”
He is quiet for a long moment.
“I spend so much time doing things that make sense on paper,” he says finally. “Things that are safe. Predictable. This doesn’t fit anywhere. And that’s why it keeps staying with me.”
Her heart picks up just slightly. Not panic. Attention.
“You’re not joking,” she says.
He looks at her then. Really looks. No smile to hide behind.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think I am.”
The room feels smaller. Not trapped. Focused.
Outside, someone laughs loudly in the hallway. A door slams. Life continuing like nothing just shifted.
Y/n takes a breath. “That’s a big thought to have over pancakes.”
He huffs a soft laugh, grateful for the gentleness. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drop it like that.”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s okay. I just needed to know if you meant it.”
He reaches for her hand again, grounding himself. His thumb brushes over her knuckles like he is making sure she is real.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean something by it,” he says quietly.
That is the moment it stops feeling hypothetical.
Y/n studies him, searching for the exit ramps. The humor. The deflection. None of it is there.
“Are you actually being serious,” she asks. “Like serious serious. Go get married today. At a tiny chapel with Elvis.”
He laughs softly, disbelief threaded through it, but he does not pull away. If anything, his grip tightens.
“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”
Then he adds quickly, like he does not want to trap her with it. “And it’s okay if you’re not. It is a wild idea. Objectively. We can absolutely pretend I never said it and go back to pancakes and bad coffee.”
She watches him brace himself. The way his shoulders set like he is already preparing to let it go.
“I don’t need it to mean more than it does,” he continues. “I just know how it feels when I imagine it. And I don’t hate that feeling.”
Something in her steadies instead of spirals.
She nods once. Then again, smaller. Like she is aligning herself with the truth.
“Okay,” she says.
He blinks. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she repeats. “Let’s do it.”
For a second, he just stares at her. Like the words have not reached his brain yet.
“Wait,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You mean…”
“Yes.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
“At the chapel.”
“Yes.”
“With Elvis.”
She laughs. “Unfortunately.”
His laugh breaks out, bright and startled. Relief crashes through it. He presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breath shaky.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re incredible.”
She smiles against him. “You asked.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her, grounding himself again.
“We don’t have to tell anyone,” he says. “We can keep it ours. No spectacle. No explanation.”
“I want it to be ours,” she says.
“Okay,” he says, like the word settles something deep.
The decision sits between them. Quiet. Heavy. Real.
Outside, Vegas keeps humming.
He studies her again. Careful. “You’re sure.”
She nods. “I’m sure.”
He exhales slowly and runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath like his life keeps surprising him.
“Okay,” he says. “Then we should probably prepare.”
“For what,” she asks. “Emotionally or logistically.”
“Both,” he says. “But mostly logistically.”
She smiles. “I figured.”
“You’ll need a dress,” he adds.
She raises an eyebrow. “I did not pack a wedding dress.”
“That feels like an oversight.”
“Harry.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “But hear me out. Thrift store. Something old. Something that already lived a life.”
Her chest warms. “That actually sounds perfect.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I thought so.”
He checks his phone, scrolling through his schedule like it is suddenly optional.
“I can move rehearsal,” he says. “Interview can wait.”
“You are casually rearranging your entire day,” she says.
He looks at her, serious. “This feels like the right reason.”
They move through the room then. Purposeful but unhurried. She showers while he steps into the other room, voice low and steady as he makes calls. She hears him say personal matter. Needing the afternoon.
When she comes out wrapped in a towel, he is sitting on the bed, phone in his hand.
“I found three chapels,” he says. “One has Elvis. One has a drive through. One looks like it might also sell fireworks.”
“Obviously Elvis.”
“Obviously.”
They get dressed. Sunglasses. Hats. Ordinary clothes for an extraordinary choice.
Before they leave, he stops her near the door. Takes her hands.
“No matter what,” he says, “we do this because we want to. Not because it’s funny. Not because we are here.”
“I know.”
“Okay.”
He kisses her. Not dramatic. Certain.
When the door clicks shut behind them, the room becomes just a room again.
They step out into the hallway and the door clicks shut behind them. The sound is small but final. The room they woke up in immediately becomes just another hotel room. Someone else’s problem soon enough.
The elevator ride down is quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just concentrated. Harry leans against the mirrored wall, hat pulled low, sunglasses already on even though they are indoors. Y/n watches their reflection overlap in the glass. Two people about to do something wildly irreversible, standing shoulder to shoulder like this is any other morning.
When the doors open, Vegas hits them all at once.
Heat. Light. Noise that never quite sleeps. The sun is too bright, stripping the strip of its illusion. Neon looks tired in daylight. Signs blink half heartedly like they did not expect to be seen sober.
Harry hunches slightly out of habit. Fame muscle memory. Y/n slips her arm through his anyway. A quiet refusal to make space.
They walk without direction at first. Past casinos that smell like carpet cleaner and last night. Past people already drinking. Past souvenir shops selling plastic shot glasses shaped like body parts.
“This place is unhinged,” Y/n mutters.
He hums. “I respect the commitment.”
They duck into a mall off the strip when the heat gets aggressive. Air conditioning blasts over them like relief. Fluorescent lights. Escalators humming. A strange mix of luxury storefronts and places that look like they have not been renovated since the nineties.
Harry stops in the middle of the walkway. “Okay. We need a plan.”
“We absolutely do not,” she says. “We need vibes.”
He laughs. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
They drift again. Slower now. Then Y/n sees it. A small storefront wedged between a nail salon and a closed smoothie place. Vintage dresses crowd the window, lace and cotton and silk already softened by other lives.
“Oh,” she says, already walking faster.
Harry follows without hesitation.
Inside, the air smells like dust and fabric softener and something faintly sweet. Racks packed tight. A bell jingles when they enter. The woman behind the counter barely glances up.
Y/n moves slowly. Fingers brushing fabric. She pulls one dress free, then another. Something simple. Something too loud. Something with buttons missing. She disappears into the fitting room with three options.
Harry leans against the wall outside, phone buzzing relentlessly in his hand. He does not answer a single one.
When she steps out in the second dress, he goes still.
“That’s it,” he says immediately.
She looks down at herself. “You did not even see the third one.”
“I don’t need to.”
His phone buzzes again. He silences it without looking.
She smiles like she understands exactly what she just witnessed.
At the counter, the woman folds the dress neatly and wishes her luck without asking why. Y/n tucks the bag close to her side as they step back into the mall.
The energy between them has shifted. The joke is gone. What is left feels quieter and steadier.
They find a menswear store with neutral walls and clean lines. Harry moves slowly through it, fingers brushing hangers like he is actually present.
A plain white t shirt. Black trousers. Clean lines. Nothing performative.
“This feels right,” he says.
She smiles. “Very you.”
White Vans after that. Practical. Familiar. He slips them on, hands in his pockets, testing the version of himself they allow.
Her phone buzzes. She ignores it. His buzzes too. He does not check.
At the register, no one looks twice. No recognition. No whispers. Just another man buying clothes.
Outside, he takes her hand again.
“Civilian enough,” he asks.
“Completely.”
He squeezes her hand once. “Good.”
His phone rings. Not a buzz. A call.
Harry stops walking.
She feels the shift before he says anything. The way his shoulders lift slightly like he is bracing.
He glances at the screen. “It’s Jeff.”
“You don’t have to answer,” she says.
“I know,” he replies. Then, after a beat, “But I want to.”
He steps a few feet away, turning his back slightly, hand dragging through his hair before he answers.
“Hey,” he says. Calm. Grounded.
Jeff talks fast. Concern wrapped in irritation.
“I’m fine,” Harry says. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
He listens. Nods even though Jeff cannot see him.
“I moved things,” he continues. “I should’ve said something first.”
More talking. Louder now.
Harry exhales slowly. “No. I didn’t disappear. I just needed the day.”
The reflection in the storefront glass shows him steady. Tired but resolved.
“I’m getting married,” he says.
The words sit there. Unadorned.
A long pause.
“Yes,” Harry says. “Today.”
Jeff reacts. Harry listens. Does not interrupt.
“I know how that sounds,” he says finally. “But I’m happy. I’ll deal with everything else later.”
He ends the call before it can turn into a negotiation.
The phone slips back into his pocket.
He turns back to Y/n, searching her face.
“Well,” he says quietly. “That part’s done.”
She steps into his space and takes his hand. “You okay.”
He nods. Once. Then again. “Yeah. Actually yeah.”
They stand there for a moment while the mall rushes around them.
Then he smiles, small but real. “Guess we should go find Elvis.”
They slide into the backseat of the car like they have done a hundred times before, but this time it feels deliberate. Intentional. Harry’s driver glances at them in the mirror, polite and unreadable.
“Where to,” he asks.
Harry says the name of the chapel without hesitation. Like he has already practiced it once in his head.
The driver nods and pulls into traffic. No questions. No raised eyebrows. Just another destination on the day’s list.
Y/n watches the strip blur past the window. Neon in daylight looks tired. Stripped of its magic. Billboards promise things that feel irrelevant now. She presses her thumb against the paper bag at her feet, feeling the shape of the dress through it like proof that this is not just a thought anymore.
Harry’s knee bounces once. Then stills when she places her hand over it. He exhales and leans back, fingers lacing with hers like a habit he is allowed to keep.
“You okay,” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m good.”
He nods and trusts it. That alone feels like something new.
The chapel is smaller than she imagined. White paint that has seen better years. A sign out front promising weddings, renewals, vow upgrades. An Elvis cutout stands crooked near the entrance, sunglasses slipping down its nose.
Harry snorts under his breath. “This is… perfect.”
Inside, the air smells like carpet cleaner and artificial flowers. A woman behind a plexiglass window smiles brightly, practiced.
“Marriage license,” she chirps. “First time for both of you.”
“Yes,” Y/n says.
Harry squeezes her hand like punctuation.
They pay. Cash and card sliding across the counter like this is something ordinary. Clipboards appear. Pens attached to strings. They sit side by side filling out forms, knees brushing.
Names. Dates. Places of birth.
Harry pauses before signing. Looks at the paper. Then at her. Then writes his name with care, like it carries more weight today.
“You sure,” he asks quietly. One last check.
She meets his eyes. Calm. Steady. “Yes.”
He nods and finishes signing.
The woman disappears and returns with a smile that feels almost reverent despite the setting.
“We can get you married in about fifteen minutes,” she says.
Harry exhales slowly and looks at Y/n like the room has narrowed to just her.
“Guess this is really happening.”
She smiles. “Guess it is.”
They are guided to a small waiting area. Plastic chairs. A mirror with fingerprints on it. A sign reminding people to silence their phones.
Harry sits close. Knees angled toward hers. He takes her hand again, thumbs rubbing slow circles like he is grounding himself.
“I want you to know,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on their hands, “this isn’t me cutting corners.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“I’m going to get you a ring you love,” he continues, almost shy. “One you pick. This one is just today.”
He nods toward the simple band waiting on the counter nearby.
“And when we get home,” he adds, “we can do this again if you want. With people. With my mum watching everything like a hawk.”
She laughs softly. “She is going to kill you.”
“Oh completely,” he says. “But I’ll be married.”
He finally looks at her then. Open. Earnest.
“I just didn’t want to wait to choose you,” he says. “The rest can come later.”
Her throat tightens. She squeezes his hand. “That sounds perfect.”
Relief washes across his face like he needed that reassurance more than he realized.
A door opens down the hall.
“We’re ready for you,” someone calls.
Harry stands and offers his hand like it is the most natural thing in the world.
“Ready,” he asks.
She takes it. “Yeah.”
The ceremony room is smaller than she imagined. White walls. A few fake flowers. Elvis stands to the side adjusting his sunglasses like this is just another afternoon.
They face each other anyway.
Harry takes her hands immediately. His thumb brushes her knuckles once, steadying himself.
The officiant speaks about love and choice and today. The words blur. What matters is the way Harry is looking at her. Focused. Undistracted. No performance. Just presence.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the officiant says.
Harry swallows and breathes out.
“I’m not very good at doing things the expected way,” he says. “I’ve tried.”
She smiles through the ache in her chest.
“But I know what feels right,” he continues. “And you feel right. You feel like home even when everything else is loud.”
His voice wavers just enough to make it real.
“I promise to choose you when it’s easy and when it’s inconvenient. When the world is watching and when it isn’t. I promise to protect this. To make space for you. To keep coming back to us.”
He squeezes her hands. “This isn’t a joke to me. It’s a decision. And I’m really happy it’s you.”
She takes a breath and lets herself answer honestly.
“I didn’t plan this,” she says. “I didn’t wake up today thinking I’d get married in Vegas.”
A quiet chuckle from Elvis.
“But I did wake up knowing I wanted to stay,” she continues. “With you. Before the world came back.”
Her voice steadies. “I promise to choose you too. To meet you where you are. To remind you who you are when everything else tries to claim you. I promise to build something real with you. Even if it starts here.”
Harry exhales, eyes bright.
“By the power vested in me,” Elvis says, unexpectedly sincere, “I now pronounce you married.”
Harry does not wait.
He pulls her in and kisses her like the decision just became permanent. Like the world can wait.
Someone claps. Music plays from a cheap speaker. It feels absurd and perfect.
He rests his forehead against hers and laughs softly.
“Hi,” he says.
She laughs back. “Hi.”
And just like that, it is done.
They sign one last form. Ink drying too quickly. Someone slides a thin envelope across the counter like a receipt. No pause. No ceremony beyond what already happened.
Married.
The word sits oddly in her chest. Heavy and light at the same time.
They gather their things. Her dress bag. His shopping bag. Sunglasses pushed back onto faces that look the same as they did an hour ago and completely different underneath.
When they step back outside, the sun is still too bright. Cars pass. Someone laughs down the block. Vegas does not acknowledge them at all.
Harry stops suddenly.
“Come here,” he says, grinning like he just remembered something.
Before she can respond, he scoops her up. Easy. Familiar. Like he has carried her through kitchens and hallways and half asleep moments before.
“Harry,” she laughs, arms looping around his neck automatically.
“I just married you,” he says. “I think I’m allowed.”
He carries her past the crooked Elvis sign, past the little white building that just rewired their lives, and lowers her gently into the backseat of the car. He slides in beside her and the door closes with a soft, definite sound.
The car pulls away.
Harry takes her hand again immediately. Thumb brushing over the new ring like he needs to keep checking that it is real.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
The adrenaline drains slowly. The quiet rushes in behind it.
He leans over and presses a kiss to her temple. Not celebratory. Reassuring.
“So,” he says softly. “We did that.”
She smiles. “We did.”
He exhales a laugh that sounds almost disbelieving. “I feel… calm.”
She turns toward him. “Me too.”
He nods like that surprises him. “Usually after big things, I feel like I’m bracing for the fallout. But this just feels… settled.”
She squeezes his hand. “Maybe that’s the point.”
He looks at her then. Really looks. Like he is recalibrating his future in real time.
“My wife,” he says quietly, testing the words.
Her chest tightens. “Yeah.”
He smiles. Small. Real. “I like it.”
The driver clears his throat gently. “Where to now.”
Harry glances at her. A silent question.
She thinks for a moment. The day wide open. The world temporarily muted.
“Back to the hotel,” she says. “I want to sit with it for a minute.”
Harry nods. “Yeah. Me too.”
The drive back is quieter than the one there. Less nervous energy. More weight.
When they reach the hotel, the lobby looks the same. Marble. People milling around. No one knows.
They ride the elevator up in silence, hands still linked. When the doors open, the hallway looks unchanged. The same patterned carpet. The same hum.
Harry opens the door.
The room smells faintly of syrup and coffee. Evidence of the morning still there.
He shuts the door behind them and locks it.
For a moment, they just stand there.
Then Harry laughs softly and presses his forehead to hers again.
She laughs.
They move slowly now. Shoes kicked off. Bags set down. He drops onto the edge of the bed and pulls her with him, arms wrapping around her like he needs the contact.
They sit there. Breathing. Processing.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly.
She pulls back enough to look at him. “For what.”
“For trusting me,” he says. “For not making me feel like this was reckless.”
She cups his face. “It wasn’t reckless. It was honest.”
His eyes soften at that. He leans into her touch.
They lie back together, limbs tangled again, the same bed they woke up in now holding something entirely new.
Outside, the noise of Vegas rises and falls. Inside, the world feels smaller. Safer.
Harry traces the ring again. “We should probably tell someone besides Jeff.”
She smiles. “Eventually.”
“Not today,” he says immediately.
“Definitely not today.”
He relaxes at that, arm tightening around her.
“Today,” he says, “I just want to be here.”
She rests her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Slower now.
“Me too.”
The room settles around them. The day stretches open. No alarms. No countdown.
Was going to attempt to buy Harry tickets today. Then my husband reminded me - we are not spending a dime today. No work. No school. No spending. General strike today!
Synopsis: Before Harry and Nora built their little family, they almost fell apart. Nora was tired of getting only the scraps of him left over after the world had taken its share, and when he missed one of her biggest milestones, it felt like the final straw. This is the story of the near-ending that forced Harry to decide what — and who — he would truly show up for.
Word Count: Approx 3.4k
Find my masterlist here.
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The kettle clicked off and sighed into silence. Nora stood in the kitchen, cupping the still-empty mug like it could warm her before anything was inside it. The morning felt delicate, like tissue paper—one wrong move and the whole day would tear.
Harry shuffled in, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his wrist, curls a little flattened on one side. “Morning,” he yawned, reaching for the French press. “Stay where you are. I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got a rehearsal in an hour,” she said, but she didn’t move. The sweet spot of him when he was barefoot, sleepy, domestic was her favorite mirage.
“I’ll be on time.” He measured out the grounds with theatrical care. “Big day.”
“Big night,” she corrected, then softened it with a smile. “You don’t have to play barista. I can—”
“I want to,” he said, and there was that quick, earnest smile that always got her. “Let me be good at something that isn’t loud.”
She watched him pour the water, watched the steam drift up and fog the morning light. “You forgot your other skill.”
“Oh?” He pressed the plunger with two careful hands.
“Calendar optimism,” she said dryly. “Saying yes to three different events that magically overlap.”
He grimaced. “Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
He set a mug in front of her and stepped in close, bracketing her hips with his hands on the counter. “I moved the interview. Soundcheck at four, off by five-thirty. Car’s booked to yours at six. I’ll be at the venue by six-thirty, and I’ll make uncharitable comments about the MC into your hair by six-forty.”
She let the picture settle inside her, then nodded. “Because—” She hated the tremor in her voice. “They’re doing a little editors’ recognition before the actual award. It’s nothing, really, but… it would mean—”
“I’ll be there,” he said softly. “Nora, I’ll be there.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. She let herself believe him anyway.
He kissed her forehead and pulled back. “Wear the green dress.”
Her mouth quirked. “Which green dress?”
“The one that makes me forget words.”
She pointed to the door. “Go to rehearsal. Be a rock star. Then be my plus one.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted with the mug, then glanced back from the doorway. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
When the door clicked shut, she breathed. The kitchen kept on humming, the kettle cooling, the street outside waking properly now. She opened her wardrobe and touched the silk of the dress he’d named, the one he always stared at like it owed him money.
At noon, she laid it across the bed, snapped a photo—the green slant of fabric, the corner of the window light—and sent it with: for your consideration.
Three hearts bubbled back a minute later, then: swooning. see you tonight.
She read it twice. Then she ironed the hem that didn’t need it and practiced not caring whether he made it in time. She was very bad at that.
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At 3:07 p.m., a selfie—tongue out, guitar tech photobombing, the caption running early. growth.
At 4:01, soundcheck starting. love you.
At 5:10, still on track. promise.
She pinned her hair slowly, methodically, until her hands stopped shaking. Haadiyah texted Editor Queen!!! and Nora sent back a crown emoji she immediately regretted as hubris.
At 5:50, pushing ten mins. don’t hate me. car’s waiting.
At 6:10, we’re nearly wrapped. five more. promise.
She stared at that word until it blurred. Then she slid into her cab alone.
The venue was all gleam—polished wood and white linen, fairy lights throwing soft coins of light across the room. Her table was near the middle: colleagues, a debut author she’d coached through three panic attacks and a mid-draft existential crisis, her boss, who wore his tie too tight when he was nervous.
“You look like a problem,” Haadiyah announced as Nora sat. “In the Old Hollywood way.”
Nora smiled and sat on her hands so she wouldn’t check her phone again. “He’s on his way.”
“Good,” Haadiyah said, then lowered her voice. “But if he isn’t, I will be your trophy husband for the evening.”
“At least someone will be,” Nora muttered, then winced at herself. “Sorry.”
“You’re allowed,” Haadiyah said, eyes kind.
At 6:45, the MC launched into polished patter about “the invisible hands of publishing.” Nora applauded on cue. She checked the door between claps. Her boss leaned in. “Your fellow coming?”
“Yes.” Nora took a breath she tried to make sound casual. “He’s—yes.”
At 6:58, her phone buzzed against her thigh. Still going. They added a run-through. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave the second it’s done.
She slid the phone beneath her leg like she could smother the message with her thigh.
Names were called. Editors stood to polite applause. She recognized faces, clapped until her palms stung, smiled at jokes she’d heard before, glanced at the door that didn’t open.
At 7:12, Ten more. Don’t kill me.
She pictured his mouth saying it. Pictured his manager’s mouth saying something else. Pictured herself, exactly as she was: waiting for a man in a dark room.
The MC said her name. The sound landed in her ribcage like a dropped glass.
Haadiyah squeezed her hand; it hurt in a good way. Nora stood. The walk to the stage felt longer than it was. Under the lights, the room blurred into a lake of faces.
“Editors,” she began, and her voice steadied by will alone, “are sometimes accused of being invisible. But the best part of this job is making someone else’s voice louder.” She thanked the people who made her brave. She was funny once and got a real laugh. She looked at the door once and got nothing at all.
She sat. She did not cry. Haadiyah slid a napkin toward her anyway and said nothing as Nora pressed it to the corner of one eye with surgical precision.
At 7:40, her phone buzzed. Here. Parking. Two mins.
At 7:43, Reception. They won’t let me in mid-segment. Will wait by the bar.
“Go,” Haadiyah murmured.
Nora stood on legs that didn’t feel like hers and walked out to the lobby.
He was by the column, cap low, T-shirt and blazer—industry camouflage. Relief brightened his face when he saw her. “There she is.”
She stopped a few feet away, kept her clutch gripped in both hands. “Hi.”
“I’m—” He took in her, properly, the breathing space between them suddenly a canyon. “Nora. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” she said.
His mouth opened. Closed. “Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?” Her voice was gentle in a way that made him panic. “You’re here now. It’s like showing up at the hospital after the baby’s already born.”
His head jerked. “That’s not—”
“Fair?” She smiled without teeth. “No.”
He took a half-step closer. “I left as soon as I could. They—”
“They always need five more minutes,” she finished, not unkind. “I know. I’ve learned.”
“We can still catch the main award,” he said, grasping for logistics like driftwood. “We can—”
“It’s done.” She kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “They did the bit. I went up. It was fine.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I wanted to be there.”
“You wanted to be in two places.” She tipped her head. “You chose one.”
He swallowed. “Nora…”
“I’m tired,” she said, and the words came out like steam, quiet and visible. “Not because I wore heels or because I did a twelve-hour day. I’m tired because I only ever get scraps of you.”
He flinched like she’d struck him. “That’s not—”
“You say yes to everything until you’re empty,” she went on, each word softly placed. “And then you give me whatever’s left. I don’t want leftovers, Harry. I want you.”
“I’m here,” he said, hating how it sounded like a defense.
“Now.” The corners of her mouth lifted without joy. “For the five minutes you carved out between fifty other commitments.”
He reached for her hand and stopped when she kept both wrapped around the clutch. “Please don’t do this here.”
“Where then?” she asked, and the question wasn’t rhetorical. “At my flat after midnight when you’re already half asleep? On FaceTime between your car and your door? Which slot did your assistant leave for the girlfriend who wants a life with you?”
“Honey—” It slipped out before he could catch it. He saw the way her eyes softened and then steeled against it.
“I want a life,” she said, and her voice cracked on the word like something giving way. “I want dinners that don’t get canceled and Sundays that belong to us and—” She paused, let herself hurt. “I want to dream about kids and a marriage and not feel stupid for wanting it with someone who’s never home.”
He didn’t reach for her. He wanted to. He didn’t. “You think I don’t want that with you?”
“I think you want it in theory.” She held his gaze. She had never looked braver. “And in practice you are terrified to cost anyone anything. So you say yes to everyone and leave nothing for me.”
Silence. The bartender pretended not to listen, polishing the same glass past the point of reason.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said softly.
He laughed, because terror is a strange alchemist. “This conversation?”
“This version of us.”
His mouth opened around her name. She spared him.
“I love you,” she added, and that hurt more than anything. “But I won’t beg to be chosen.”
“Come home,” he said, and the words felt like a prayer. “Please. We’ll talk there.”
“I’m going to Haadiyah’s.” She reached and touched the sleeve of his blazer—a benediction, a mercy, a goodbye—and then she turned and walked back toward the noise and the lights and everything that wasn’t him.
He didn’t follow. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he recognized the line she had drawn and he refused to be the man who stepped over it.
———————————————————————————
Two weeks were both long and nothing. He called the first night and the second. By the third he stared at his phone like it was a lit stove and left it alone.
He watched her in other people’s pictures: couch night at Haadiyah’s, Nora in pajama shorts and an overwashed hoodie that was absolutely his, legs tucked under her, smile small but real. He saw a bookstore bag at her feet and wanted to know what she bought and if she liked it and whether there was a funny copyedit on page 213. He did not text.
Anne called. “You’ll hate this,” she began. “Love isn’t only in the big yeses. It’s in the noes you say to make room for the person you picked.”
“I’ve tried,” he said.
“Try harder,” she replied, and he could hear her smile.
He bought a paper planner because the seriousness of a pen felt like accountability. He wrote NORA across three consecutive Sundays and underlined them hard enough to dent the page underneath. He didn’t send her a picture of it because that would make it a performance. He closed the book and put it on top of his guitar case.
He called Nora’s Dad. “Can I take you to lunch?”
He hummed, unfooled. “You can.”
They ate at a pub that smelled like wood and onion gravy. Harry talked about nothing at first—the dog, the neighbor who sang off-key, the biscuit brand he was inexplicably loyal to and he let him. Then, poised over his tea, the father of the love of his life said, “If you love my girl, you’ll have to learn to disappoint the world sometimes.”
Harry stared at his hands. “I’m not very good at that.”
“Start small,” he said. “Work up.”
Harry started small. He said no to a shoot that would have been shiny and mostly empty. He said no to a panel that would have let him talk about himself for forty minutes. He said yes to a long walk with no destination. He booked therapy and sat with a stranger and said, “I am scared of not being enough so I try to be everything and end up being nothing to the person who matters.”
On a Thursday, he stood under Nora’s office awning at 7:45 a.m. with a tray: oat milk, one sugar; a ginger shot she would hate but drink; a croissant she would nibble and forget on her desk.
She turned the corner in a trench coat and sensible shoes, hair damp at the ends from the shower. She saw him, stopped, didn’t move closer.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, neutral.
“Delivering to my favorite editor,” he said. When she didn’t smile, he sobered. “Just coffee. No conversation required.”
She looked at the cup like it might be a trap. Then she took it. “You can’t… you can’t think this—”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “It’s not a fix. It’s a morning.”
She nodded, a microscopic concession. “Thank you.”
He didn’t ask to walk her the rest of the way. He stood there after she went inside and watched the door until it swallowed the last hint of her coat.
He sent flowers once, neutral and quiet: white ranunculus and eucalyptus, a small card that read Proud of you. No reply needed. — H. He did not text to ask if they arrived.
He replaced the squeaky hinge on her bathroom cabinet the next week because it had bugged her for months and he remembered the way she’d flinch every time it complained. He left a note on the mirror: WD-40 is my love language and a smiley face that made her snort despite herself.
He went to therapy again. Said, “I confuse urgency with importance. I fill my days with urgent things. The important thing is a person who doesn’t shout.”
On a Sunday, he took a risk. There’s a table in the corner at Ella’s, he texted at 9:04. If you want space, I’ll leave. If you want pancakes, I’ll be there. Either answer is okay.
She left him on read. He sat anyway, hands folded, every cell braced to stand without protest.
At 9:28, the bell over the door jingled. She walked in, sweater sleeves pushed over her hands like she was colder than she looked.
“What are you doing here,” she said, but the bite was dulled.
“Waiting or leaving,” he said. “Dealer’s choice.”
She slid into the booth. “I only have an hour.”
“I’ll take ten minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll shut up and let you finish your pancakes in peace.”
She gestured. “Proceed.”
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. He let it sit until the words meant something. “I’m not sorry because it looks bad. I’m sorry because I hurt you. Because I made you feel like a placeholder in your own life. Because I kept pretending I could be everywhere and ended up nowhere you needed.”
Her eyes flicked up. The diner clattered around them. A kid dropped a fork and giggled. She said nothing.
“I can’t mend it in one speech,” he continued. “But I can change the way I choose.” He swallowed. “I have been. Quietly. Not for credit. For us.”
“Harry,” she said carefully, “I don’t want you to hate your job. I don’t want you to give up things that light you up.”
“I’m not giving up the things I love,” he said. “I’m giving up the things I agreed to so I wouldn’t disappoint anyone.” He almost smiled. “Turns out disappointing strangers is survivable.”
“What happens when your calendar looks like Jenga again?” she asked. “When it’s all shiny and urgent and you’re the one everyone wants?”
He glanced at the window, then back at her. “Then I ask if any of it matters more than sitting on your sofa while you read me paragraphs out loud and ask, ‘Does this sentence land?’ Most times it won’t. Sometimes it will. But I am done letting ‘sometimes’ be an excuse to leave you waiting.”
She stared at him like he was a text she’d read a hundred times and was only now understanding. “Where were you,” she said finally, “when they called my name?”
He didn’t hedge. “In the reception area, behind a column, wishing I could be the kind of man who deserved the smile you gave the room.”
She took a breath that looked like a decision. “I don’t trust you yet.”
“I know,” he said, and the lack of defense was the bravest thing he’d done in years. “I’ll earn it.”
The server set down pancakes. They split them without ceremony. He didn’t fill the silence with charm. She didn’t patch the holes with grace.
After, she shrugged into her coat. “I have errands.”
He stood. “Can I carry the heavy bag from the pharmacy?”
Her mouth twitched. “Fine.”
They walked. He carried. At her door, he didn’t ask to come up. He nodded toward the bag. “Text me if you need anything that requires either strength or ridiculous amounts of patience.”
“That’s specific,” she said, amused despite herself.
“Those are my only two other talents,” he said. “Besides hot beverages.”
She unlocked the door. “Okay.”
He called the next day and left a message that said only: I hope your Monday is kind. She texted a thumbs up. He didn’t screenshot it and send it to anyone. It lived by itself in his phone like a rare bird.
On Wednesday, he stood at the back of a bookshop because her author had a reading and Haadiyah had sent him the flyer with come if you want; don’t be weird. He tucked himself behind a pillar and watched Nora introduce the author. She was luminous in a way that had nothing to do with lights.
After, he waited. When she finally saw him, she stopped like she’d run into a glass door.
“You came,” she said, not a question.
“Wednesday matters too,” he said.
She sighed, and it felt like a thaw. “Walk me home.”
They did. They didn’t hold hands. It was fine.
At her stoop, she said, “I can’t do declarations.”
He nodded. “I can do steady.”
She searched his face for the joke. Didn’t find it. “Okay.”
She kissed his cheek. The universe shifted an inch back toward its axis.
It didn’t fix in a montage, but it did, slowly, change.
He said no to Paris for a very cool collaboration and yes to bagels and a nap on her sofa. He left an afterparty at eleven instead of three because she had a migraine and “no one is expecting Harry Styles to be responsible” had stopped being a cute punchline and started being a lie he didn’t want to tell.
He messed up once. Double-booked. He called before she found out. “I did a stupid,” he said. “Option A: I cancel the studio day and suffer the consequences. Option B: I move our dinner to tomorrow and book the place you like with the chairs that don’t squeak. Option C: you choose C because neither of those is secretly the right answer, you are.” She picked A because she wanted to see if he meant it. He did.
Three Sundays in a row, he showed up and did nothing with her. They sat. They read. He played two chords and stopped because her book was getting good and he wanted to hear the end of the scene where the detective finally confessed. She read it out loud, voice shifting for each character, and when she finished she said, “Tell me if the rhythm works,” and he did.
One morning, he texted: Bagels or pancakes or nothing?
She answered: Sit first. Then pancakes.
He knocked twenty minutes later with coffee and the ginger shot and a stupid grin.
“You showed up,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“That’s the plan,” he said, and it wasn’t a line. It was a calendar, in ink.
She looked at him for a long heartbeat like she was still deciding. Then she stepped into him, arms sliding around his waist, cheek pressed to his chest, green dress replaced by an old T-shirt and no audience, no bar, no column to hide behind.
“Okay,” she said into his shirt, and in that one word were all the other words they were no longer rushing to say.
He kissed the top of her head. “Okay.”
Years later, on a Sunday that happened to be Father’s Day, when he cried and told her he never thought he’d get this life, he remembered the bar and the column and the pancakes and the hinge he’d oiled and the Sundays he had underlined. He had almost lost her.
Synopsis: Bringing her father home should feel like safety, but for Wren it only sharpens the edges of everything she can’t control. Amara is steady, capable, kind—and still Wren can’t stop hovering, can’t stop wearing herself thin. Work demands the version of her that never falters, while home pulls her into another shift she can’t clock out of. Finances unravel, old wounds resurface, her mother’s presence leaves her smaller in her own skin. Even Harry—always the constant—finds himself cornered with questions he can’t answer. Why did he choose the life he has now? Why can’t he fix Wren’s world with the ease of writing a cheque? Some truths gnaw louder in silence, and neither of them are ready to face the cost.
Word Count: 8.4k
Trigger Warning: This story and its chapters contains themes that may be distressing to some readers, including depression, anxiety, infidelity, chronic and terminal illness, parental illness, strained family relationships, and grief. While not all chapters will contain these elements, they form part of the ongoing narrative. Read with care!
Find my masterlist here.
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The van doors opened. Cold air slid in and took her breath with it.
“Alright, Bird,” Cliff rasped from the stretcher, eyes bright with a tired pride. “Fancy new furniture.”
“It’s temporary,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We’ll put everything back. After.”
The two attendants were efficient and kind, guiding the stretcher up the little ramp and through the front door. Wren hovered at Cliff’s elbow, hands outstretched like she could catch him if gravity tried anything. The oxygen concentrator hummed to life in the corner; the sound made the room feel smaller.
They lifted him onto the bed in a practiced pivot. Wren fluffed a pillow, adjusted the sheet three times, then four, smoothed the blanket even though it didn’t need smoothing.
“Love,” one of the attendants said gently, “he’s comfortable.”
“I know,” she said, and did it again anyway.
When they’d gone, the house exhaled. It smelled faintly of antiseptic now, threaded with the more familiar comfort of detergent and the cinnamon candle she’d lit on the kitchen counter because it made the place feel less like he’d brought the hospital home with him.
A knock sounded; Wren startled. A woman in a navy cardigan and sensible trainers stood on the step, a tote bag bumping her hip.
“Hello, Wren Calloway? I’m Amara—your carer from the agency. I’m on evenings this week, ten till six. We’ll see how he does and adjust if needed.”
Wren stepped back to let her in. “Hi. Yes. Sorry. Come in.”
Amara’s eyes took in the bed, the equipment, the whiteboard. Approval flickered across her face. “You’ve done well to get this ready. I know it’s a lot.”
“It’s fine,” Wren said, reflexive. “I’ve got a system.”
“I can see that.” Amara smiled. “Let me show you mine. Then we’ll make a good one out of both.”
She washed her hands, spoke to Cliff first—“Mr. Calloway, I’m Amara. I’ll be helping you and your daughter”—then opened her tote and laid out calm little islands of order: gloves, wipes, a folder with a typed MAR chart, a plastic beaker with measurements on the side.
Wren stood too close, reading every label.
“So,” Amara said in her unhurried voice, “we’ll do personal care together the first time, and you tell me what feels right. He’ll need help with turning—pressure care every two hours at night until we see how his skin tolerates the bed. Meds here; I’ll chart. Fluids—he’ll sip. No rushing. District nurse is booked for tomorrow to check dressings and tweak anything with the meds. And you—” her tone shifted just slightly “—you are the daughter. Let me be the carer. You be his girl.”
Cliff huffed a laugh that turned into a small cough. “Hear that, Wren? You’ve been demoted.”
“I’m not—” Wren started, then stopped. “I’m not very good at not… doing.”
“We’ll practice,” Amara said. “We’ll be a team.”
Wren nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”
The first hour was a lesson in slowness. Amara showed her how to slide the sheet, how to count the turn—“one, two, three”—how to tuck a pillow to take pressure off his hip. Wren’s hands shook more than she wanted them to; she hid it by being very precise. She labelled a drawer LINENS, taped a note to the concentrator—NO SMOKING though nobody smoked, wrote CALL GP RE: breakthrough pain on the whiteboard and circled it twice.
“Bird,” Cliff murmured when Amara stepped into the kitchen to wash a cup. “Come sit. You’re hovering holes into the floor.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and immediately stood again. “You’re too close to the draft.”
“Then shut the draft,” he said, amused, “and sit.”
She shut the draft. She sat. Up close, the lines of his face looked deeper and softer at once. He reached for her hand; she gave it, and he rubbed his thumb over the spot he’d always rubbed when she was small and fidgety.
“Home,” he said, as if the word itself might hold him together. “You brought me home.”
“Of course,” she said. “Where else would you be?”
He smiled. “You always did win the good arguments.”
Amara reappeared with a tidy tray—water for Cliff, tea for Wren, biscuits she must have conjured from thin air. “Small sips,” she told Cliff. To Wren: “You drink too. Caregivers forget.”
“I’m fine,” Wren said.
Amara placed the mug in her hand. “Then you’ll be fine with tea.”
Cliff sipped, coughed, settled. Wren watched the tiny lines tighten in his forehead and reached for the morphine bottle before anyone asked. “He looks uncomfortable.”
“Not yet,” Amara said gently. “Let’s not chase pain that isn’t there. We’ll stay ahead of it but not drown him. He’ll tell us.”
“He won’t,” Wren said. “He’s stubborn. He’ll try to be—” She broke off, jaw working. “I won’t let him be in pain.”
Amara’s eyes were kind. “Neither will I.”
The post vanished slid through the letterbox and made her jump. She gathered it like it might explode. The top envelope wore an NHS logo; another featured the agency’s letterhead; a third had the insurance company’s name in stern blue. She carried them to the kitchen, spread them in a row, stared until the numbers blurred.
“Bird?” Cliff called softly from the bed.
“Coming,” she said, and stayed where she was. She ran a finger along a paragraph about contributions and exemptions and home equipment that was “means-tested.” Her chest tightened.
“Wren,” Cliff said again.
She took a breath that didn’t do anything it was meant to and walked back. “It’s—there are bills.” The word scraped her throat on the way out. “And forms. And my boss left a voicemail about ‘tentative dates for return’ and I—” Her voice clipped off; she pressed her palm flat to the duvet, as if she could iron the panic out of herself. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
Cliff squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to make it fine for me.”
“I do, actually,” she said too quickly, and then softer, “I want to.”
He looked past her to Amara. “She’ll need prying away in shifts.”
“We’ll pry kindly,” Amara said. “Mr. Calloway, would you like me to show your daughter how to work the bed controls before I warm some soup?”
“I’ll let her drive if you promise to nick the remote after,” he said. “She’ll have me doing wheelies.”
Wren rolled her eyes and blinked away the sting. Amara placed the remote in her hand. “Up, down. Head, feet. Stop when he looks like a prawn.”
“I do not look like a prawn,” Cliff muttered.
She pressed the button. The bed whirred; he rose a little. “Prawn-adjacent,” she said, and he grinned, brief and boyish, and she swallowed hard against the rush of love that hurt more than anything.
“Bird.”
“Mm?”
“Breathe.”
She realized she’d been holding her breath since the van door had opened.
Amara excused herself to the kitchen and returned with a simple miracle—soup steaming in two mismatched bowls, a slice of bread cut into corners Cliff could manage. Wren hovered with the spoon until Amara’s hand closed over hers. “Small. Let him lead.”
Cliff took a mouthful, closed his eyes like warmth itself was a taste he’d forgotten. “That,” he said, “is living.”
“I can make better,” Wren said automatically.
“It’s perfect,” he said, and meant you’re perfect and she heard it and shook her head and fed him another spoonful.
They finished the bowls (Cliff half, Wren the rest because Amara’s look brokered no argument). The light outside softened into that blue-grey that made her want to pull the curtains early and pretend the day had been kind. Amara checked the chart, glanced at the clock. “I’ll do the first turn at nine,” she said, “and again at eleven. You sleep between.”
Wren laughed without humor. “Sure.”
Amara tilted her head. “We can’t pour from empties, remember? You give me three hours. I’ll wake you if I need you.”
“I’ll lie down on the sofa,” Wren conceded, like it was a treaty. “But shout if—”
“We will,” Amara said. “Promise.”
Cliff’s eyes had drifted, heavy-lidded. Wren smoothed his hair back though it didn’t need smoothing.
“Wren.”
“I’m right here.”
He reached clumsily; she leaned so he could pat her cheek like when she was five and fell off her bike. “Home,” he said again, the word a blessing. “You did good.”
Her throat closed on a sob she didn’t let out. “Sleep,” she ordered lightly. “We’ve got a big day of bossing me about tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he murmured, already slipping. “Can’t wait.”
He slept. Amara charted quietly. The concentrator hummed like a machine had learned to purr.
Wren washed the bowls and had to grip the sink when her hands started to shake. She dried them, stacked them with their brothers, wiped a counter that did not need wiping.
Amara’s reflection appeared in the dark window. “Go sit,” she said softly. “Be his girl. I’ll be everything else.”
Wren turned, nodded, and crossed back to the bed, curling into the chair she’d dragged close enough to rest her head on the mattress. She tucked her fingers under Cliff’s palm, felt the slow, steady warmth of him, and let her eyes close for the length of a breath that almost, almost went all the way in.
———————————————————————————
The kitchen table was covered in paper. White, cream, pale blue, each stamped with a logo or a reference number, lined up like a firing squad. Wren had been staring at them so long the numbers swam, whole paragraphs bleeding into each other until all she could see was Amount Due and Contribution Required and Outstanding Balance.
Her phone buzzed again on the counter. She didn’t even have to look — Sally. Same clipped voice message, same undertone: when are you coming back, Wren?
Her hand shot out and snapped the phone face-down like she could crush it into silence.
The front door creaked open. “Wren?” Harry’s voice carried down the hall, warm, tentative.
“Kitchen,” she called back, too sharp, and immediately hated the way it sounded.
He appeared in the doorway, coat still on, paper coffee cup in each hand. He smiled a little when he saw her. “Brought you one. Mum bullied me into it, said you’d pretend you didn’t want it but—”
“I don’t,” she cut in. Her voice wobbled. “I can’t—Harry, not now.”
He froze, the smile sliding. His eyes flicked to the table. “That bad, huh?”
Wren laughed once, harsh. “That bad? Try catastrophic. Try impossible. Try —” She grabbed one of the letters and shoved it toward him. “Do you understand any of this? Because I don’t. One says he qualifies, one says he doesn’t, another says they’ll ‘review the case.’ Review it? What does that even mean when he needs the care now?”
Harry set the coffees down carefully, hands up. “Okay, let’s—let’s take a breath.”
“No, you don’t get it.” She pushed back from the table, pacing. Her cardigan slipped off one shoulder, her hair falling out of its tie. “I don’t have time to take a breath. There are bills, Harry. Bills. And work breathing down my neck, and Dad in the other room, and this woman—this saint Amara—doing more for him in an hour than I can manage in a day. And I’m—” She broke off, pressing her palms to her eyes. “I’m drowning.”
Harry took a step closer. “You’re not alone—”
“Yes, I am!” she snapped, spinning toward him, tears sharp in her eyes. “You don’t get it. You just—you get to go sing your songs and live your life, and I’m here—” She gestured wildly at the papers, the oxygen machine humming down the hall. “I’m here trying to figure out how to keep him alive without going bankrupt, and nothing makes sense, and everyone wants something from me, and—”
Her breath shuddered out, ragged.
Harry didn’t argue. He just closed the space between them and pulled her into his arms. For a second she was stiff, hands pressed flat against his chest, like she wanted to push him away. And then she sagged. Her forehead pressed against his collarbone, her fists curled into his coat. The sob ripped out of her before she could stop it.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered, muffled against him. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Harry murmured into her hair. “Not alone. Not all of it. But you’re not alone.”
She shook her head, her voice breaking. “I already am.”
Harry’s chest ached at the words. He tightened his arms around her, his hand smoothing circles over her back. She was so thin under his touch, sharp edges where there should’ve been softness. He pulled back just enough to look at her. Her face was pale, hollowed, her cheeks drawn tight.
“Bird,” he said softly, tilting her chin up with a finger. “When’s the last time you ate?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “I—I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” he said firmly. “Look at you. You’re running on fumes.”
She laughed bitterly, tears streaking her cheeks. “I don’t have the luxury of being tired, Harry. Or hungry. Or—” Her voice cracked. “Or anything.”
“You’re human,” he said. “Not a machine. You can’t keep this up.”
Her lip trembled. “If I stop, he’ll suffer. And I can’t—” She pressed her fists to her chest. “I can’t let him suffer.”
Harry smoothed her hair back, his thumb brushing the damp tracks on her cheek. “Then let us help. Let me help.”
She stared at him, eyes red-rimmed, and whispered, “What if I’m not enough for him? What if he needs more than I can give?”
“You are enough,” Harry said fiercely, without hesitation. “You’ve always been enough.”
The words broke her open again. She buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly, her whole body trembling.
They stood like that for a long time, the papers on the table untouched, the machines in the next room humming steady.
When her breathing finally steadied, Harry glanced over her shoulder at the bills scattered across the wood. Bold black numbers glared back at him. He memorized them without meaning to.
“You don’t have to carry all of it. Not anymore.”
She pulled back, shaking her head. “Don’t—don’t say things like that. You don’t understand.”
“Then make me,” he said, eyes steady on hers. “Show me how.”
But she only shook her head again, pulling away, her walls snapping back into place. She gathered the letters in a messy stack, her hands trembling.
“I can’t,” she muttered. “Not right now.”
Harry let her retreat, his jaw tight, his heart hammering with everything he couldn’t say.
———————————————————————————
The house smelled faintly of Anne’s cooking — still warm in the oven, though none of them had really eaten much. Harry had gone straight from Wren’s place to his own, head thick, chest buzzing with everything she’d said, everything she hadn’t said.
Lauren was curled on the sofa, legs tucked under her, scrolling absently on her phone. Anne sat across from her in the armchair, knitting needles clicking softly, the rhythm steady and calming like it always was. Harry stood by the window with a mug of tea he hadn’t touched, staring out into the dark.
Anne glanced up from her knitting. “You were with Wren earlier, weren’t you?”
Lauren sat up straighter, interested now. “How is he? Wren’s dad? I keep meaning to send a card or something.”
Harry swallowed, throat tight. “He’s… not great. They’ve moved him home.”
“Oh.” Lauren’s face softened, sympathetic. “That must be so hard on her. Poor thing.”
Something in him bristled at the words. Poor thing. Like Wren was a project, a cause. Not the woman he’d just held while she broke apart in his arms.
“She’s not a poor thing,” he said, sharper than he intended.
“She’s going through hell, alright?” The words shot out before he could stop them. “She hasn’t slept, she hasn’t eaten, she’s drowning in bills and work crap and looking after him, and she’s—” His voice cracked. He gripped the mug tighter, staring at the floor. “She’s not fine. So don’t sit there acting like she’s fine.”
The room went very quiet. The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the wall.
Lauren’s mouth opened, closed again. Finally she said softly, “Harry… I wasn’t dismissing her. I was being kind.”
He let out a harsh breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just—” He shook his head, trying to reel himself back in. “Forget it.”
Anne set her knitting down carefully on her lap, her eyes steady on him. “You’re worried,” she said simply.
Harry looked away, jaw tight. “Wouldn’t you be? She won’t let anyone in. She’s… she’s wasting away in front of me.”
Lauren rose from the sofa, crossing to rest a hand on his arm. “You’ve always been protective of her,” she said gently. “It’s one of the things I admire about you. But don’t carry it like it’s yours alone, Harry. She has people.”
“She doesn’t let them help,” he muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. “She thinks she has to do everything on her own.”
Anne’s gaze softened, but she said nothing. She knew better than to push.
Lauren rubbed his arm once more, then leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Come to bed,” she whispered. “You’re exhausted. And tomorrow’s another day.”
Harry nodded, set down his untouched tea, and followed her upstairs.
But lying in the dark later, Lauren’s back warm against him, he stared at the ceiling with his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over Wren’s name. He didn’t press it. He just lay there, the words circling like vultures.
She’s not fine.
She’s not mine to have.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t know which truth hurt more.
———————————————————————————
The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Wren poured water into a mug, watching the tea bag bob and swirl like her whole life had been reduced to these small, controllable actions. Behind her, Amara hummed under her breath while folding a stack of fresh linens, precise and methodical. The hum was grounding.
“Wren,” Amara said gently, “these don’t need ironing. Don’t give yourself another job.”
“They look neater,” Wren muttered, smoothing a pillowcase across her knee.
Amara smiled without looking up. “And you look tired. Let me be the one to fuss.”
Before Wren could reply, the doorbell rang. She frowned, set the pillowcase down, wiped her hands on her cardigan. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
She opened the door.
And froze.
Her mother stood there, glossy hair perfectly set, a cashmere coat belted at the waist. A bouquet of lilies rested in one arm, their scent already clinging. Her lips curved into a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Darling.”
Wren’s whole body went rigid. Her fingers gripped the door so tight her knuckles burned. “Mum.”
“You weren’t going to tell me?” Her mother’s tone was light, but sharp underneath. “I had to hear from a neighbour that your father was home, and in this state no less.”
“I’ve been a little busy,” Wren said flatly.
Her mother’s smile didn’t falter. “I can see that. May I come in?”
Every muscle screamed no. But Wren stepped aside anyway.
Amara looked up from the linens as the woman entered. “Hello,” she said warmly. “You must be Mrs. Calloway.”
“Ex-Mrs. Calloway,” Wren’s mother corrected smoothly, setting the lilies down on the counter. “But yes. And you are?”
“Amara,” she said. “Carer.”
“Of course,” her mother said, already dismissing her, gaze swinging back to Wren. “You look pale. Have you been eating?”
Wren’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“Mm.” Her mother’s eyes swept her from head to toe, lingering on the cardigan hanging loose on her frame. “You could try a bit of colour, sweetheart. That grey does nothing for you.”
Wren’s stomach dropped. Same old digs, dressed up as advice. She pressed her arms around herself, shoulders curling inward.
“Bird?” Cliff’s voice drifted weakly from the living room.
Wren turned instantly, grateful for the excuse, and crossed to his bedside. “I’m here, Dad.” She perched on the chair, smoothing his blanket.
Her mother followed, heels clicking against the floorboards. She stopped by the bed, her eyes softening theatrically. “Oh, Cliff.” She reached for his hand. “You should’ve called me sooner.”
Cliff smiled faintly. “Didn’t want to worry you.”
“You always did think you could shield me,” she said with a sigh, brushing his knuckles. “But look at you. My poor darling.”
Wren stiffened. My darling? The woman who broke him into pieces with her affair? She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron.
“Mum,” she said tightly, “he needs rest. Don’t crowd him.”
Her mother’s eyes flicked to her, sharp for half a second before the smile returned. “Always so protective. Just like your father.”
Cliff patted Wren’s hand weakly. “She’s a good girl. Always has been.”
Wren swallowed hard, blinking fast.
Her mother tilted her head, her voice laced with mock concern. “Though she looks worn out, Cliff. Have you been working her too hard?”
“I’m fine,” Wren repeated, quieter this time.
“Of course you’ll say that,” her mother said, a small laugh escaping. “You’ve always been dramatic about carrying the world on your shoulders. But no one can keep it up forever.”
Amara, silent in the corner, set the folded linens down with deliberate care. Her eyes flicked toward Wren — steady, grounding.
Cliff chuckled weakly, trying to ease the air. “She’s stubborn, just like her mum.”
The words landed like a stone in Wren’s chest. She stared at him, then at her mother, who was smiling triumphantly, like she’d won something.
Wren stood abruptly. “I’ll make tea.”
She fled to the kitchen, chest tight, fists trembling as she ripped open another tea bag. The lilies sat on the counter, their perfume heavy, suffocating. She wanted to throw them straight in the bin.
Her mother’s voice floated in from the living room: “She gets that temper from me, you know.”
Wren pressed her palms flat to the counter, willing herself not to scream.
Amara appeared quietly at her side, laying a hand gently on her arm. “Breathe,” she murmured.
Wren’s eyes stung. She nodded once, swallowing the words burning in her throat.
When she finally carried the tray of tea back in, she held herself smaller. Shoulders tucked. Words clipped. The resentment stayed, coiled tight, but she didn’t let it out. Not here. Not in front of him.
And her mother sat by the bed, sipping delicately, as though she hadn’t been the one to break the family to pieces.
Her mother stayed another twenty minutes, filling the room with soft sighs and remarks that pressed like bruises. When she finally left — air-kisses, lilies in place, “Call me if anything changes” — the house felt both quieter and heavier.
Wren busied herself collecting the mugs, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the tray so no one could see how hard she was gripping it. She walked them to the kitchen, set them in the sink with more force than necessary, and stood there, palms pressed flat to the counter, trying to breathe.
Behind her, Amara appeared, drying her hands on a towel. She leaned lightly against the counter, giving Wren her space, but not leaving her alone.
“You alright?” Amara asked softly.
Wren’s laugh came out brittle. “Fine. Always fine.”
Amara tilted her head, studying her in that quiet, steady way she had. “Parents,” she said after a moment. “They have a way of touching the oldest wounds, even when they don’t mean to. And sometimes… especially when they do.”
Wren’s throat tightened. She kept her eyes fixed on the tap. “She—she cheated on him. And he still… he still looks at her like she’s…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “Like she’s someone worth loving.”
Amara’s gaze softened. “That’s his grief to carry. His choice. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it easy for you.”
Wren’s shoulders shook once, quick, like her body was betraying her. She shook her head. “It makes me feel… small. Like I’m twelve again, trying to be enough for both of them, and failing.”
Amara let the silence hold for a beat before answering. “You’re not twelve. You’re a grown woman holding this whole house together with your bare hands. That’s not failure, Wren. That’s strength.”
Wren blinked rapidly, staring at the silver gleam of the tap until it blurred.
Amara’s voice gentled further. “Sometimes the people who should’ve loved us best are the ones who teach us to doubt ourselves most. Doesn’t mean their voice is the truth. Just means it’s loud.”
That cracked something open in Wren’s chest. She pressed a fist against her sternum, like she could hold herself together physically. “I hate that she can still make me feel this way.”
Amara reached out, not grabbing, just resting a warm hand on her arm. “That’s because you care, even when you wish you didn’t. It’s not weakness. It’s just the scar talking.”
For a long moment, Wren stood there in the kitchen with her chest aching, her mother’s perfume still hanging in the air, Amara’s hand anchoring her like a weight tied to shore.
Finally, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Amara gave her arm the gentlest squeeze. “Go sit with your dad. I’ll finish up here.”
And for the first time in hours, Wren let someone else carry the weight.
———————————————————————————
The café was warm against the January chill, all steamed-up windows and the low hum of chatter. Harry kept his cap low, his sunglasses perched on the table like armour he’d already stripped off. A paper cup sat in front of him, untouched. Across from him, Gigi leaned back in her chair, scarf looped carelessly, watching him like she’d been waiting for him to speak.
He rubbed his thumb along the rim of the cup. “She’s not okay, G.”
Gigi didn’t flinch. “I know.”
His head lifted. “That’s all you’re going to say?”
“You asked me to meet you,” she said evenly. “Not to be surprised by what we both already know.”
Harry exhaled hard, leaning back, dragging a hand through his hair. “She said she’s alone. That she already is. And she—fuck, she believes it. Like she really thinks she’s got no one.”
“Because that’s how she feels,” Gigi said simply. “That’s her reality.”
“But she talks to you,” Harry said, his voice sharp. “She lets you in. She tells you things. And me? I show up and it’s like—like she slams a door in my face.”
“Maybe because you’re trying to kick it down,” Gigi shot back.
Harry blinked. “I’m just—”
“You’re frustrated she won’t lean on you. I get it.” Gigi leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on his. “But Harry, you don’t get to decide who she lets in. You don’t get to be angry at her for choosing what feels safe.”
“I’m not angry at her,” he muttered. “I’m angry at—at the fact that I can’t do anything. That she’s wasting away right in front of me and I can’t—”
“She doesn’t need you to fix it.”
“Yes, she does,” Harry snapped. “She’s drowning, G. She can’t eat, she can’t sleep, she’s juggling bills and her dad and work breathing down her neck—”
“And who’s been next to her through all of that?” Gigi’s voice sharpened. “Not you.”
He froze.
“I’m not saying you don’t care,” she went on, softer but still firm. “I’m saying you care when it fits into your life. You fly in, you hold her for five minutes, you feel the weight of it—and then you go back to your studio, or your tours, or Lauren. Meanwhile, she’s still there at two in the morning, sobbing in a hospital chair. And who do you think answers the phone then?”
Harry’s chest tightened. “You.”
“Yeah. Me. Because she knows I’ll pick up. Because I don’t make it about me.”
His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “I don’t make it about me.”
“You are right now.”
The words landed like a slap. Harry leaned back, swallowing hard, staring at the condensation sliding down the window. “I just… I thought I knew her best. I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought I was the one who understood her.”
Gigi went very still, her gaze pinning him. The café noise swelled around them — clinking cups, bursts of laughter — but at their table, the silence rang sharp.
“Harry,” she said slowly, carefully. “Then why did you propose to Lauren?”
His head jerked toward her. “What?”
“You just sat here and told me how shut out you feel, how she talks to me instead of you, how much it’s killing you that she won’t lean on you. And then you said you thought you were the one who understood her best.” Gigi’s voice didn’t waver. “So tell me—why did you propose to someone else?”
Harry opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He fumbled for words. “Lauren’s… she’s amazing. She’s steady. She—she grounds me. She gets my world, you know? And I want—fuck, I want a family one day. Stability. I thought…”
“You thought it was time,” Gigi finished for him, not unkind.
His jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
“And Wren?” she pressed, softer now.
He looked down at his hands. “Wren’s… complicated. She’s always been complicated.”
“No,” Gigi said firmly. “She’s not complicated. She’s hurt. She’s exhausted. She’s scared out of her mind that she’s going to lose the only person she has. And you—” Her voice gentled again. “You’ve been circling her like you don’t even know why.”
Harry’s throat worked. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, exhaling hard. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Gigi reached across the table, touched his wrist lightly. “Don’t leave. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Just show up. That’s all she needs. Not saviour Harry. Not fiancé Harry. Just her best friend.”
He looked at her, eyes raw.
“And Harry?” Gigi added softly, her hand withdrawing. “Figure out what the hell you actually want. Because this—” she gestured between them, the unsaid name heavy in the air “—isn’t fair on anyone.”
Harry sat back, the weight of it pressing down until he could hardly breathe. Out of nowhere Harry leaned forward suddenly, words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. “What if I just… took care of it?”
Gigi frowned. “Took care of what?”
“The bills. The carers. All of it. I mean—I could. I have the money, G. More than enough. She shouldn’t be worrying about paperwork and debt when she’s already—” He broke off, running both hands through his hair. “It would give her space to just… breathe.”
Gigi’s face hardened. “No.”
Harry blinked. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no,” she said firmly, leaning in across the table. “You don’t get to swoop in with your credit card and play saviour.”
His brows furrowed. “It’s not about being a saviour. It’s about making it easier for her.”
“You think it would make it easier?” Gigi’s voice was sharper now. “Harry, she’d despise it. She’d feel humiliated. Like she couldn’t take care of her own father. Like she was some… charity case.”
Harry’s chest tightened. “That’s not what I’d be saying.”
“But it’s what she’d hear.” Gigi’s eyes were steady, unwavering. “And once you cross that line, you won’t get her back. Not in the way you want.”
He sat back, stung. “So what then? We just watch her drown?”
“No.” Gigi’s voice softened, though her expression didn’t. “We figure something out. Gabriel and I have been talking. We’re… working on it. I don’t know what the answer is yet. But throwing money at her? That’s not it.”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “You make it sound like I don’t care.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Gigi said quickly. “I know you care. I’ve never doubted that. But you care in your way. And right now? Your way could crush her.”
Harry stared at the table, throat working. His hands flexed uselessly against the cup. “I just… I hate feeling this helpless.”
Gigi’s gaze softened, finally letting her guard down. “Welcome to my world.”
He looked up, and for the first time, he saw the shadows under her eyes, the weariness she’d been carrying too.
“Then what do we do?” he asked quietly.
Gigi sighed, leaned back, and rubbed at her temple. “We keep showing up. We don’t stop calling, even when she doesn’t answer. We take turns sitting with her dad so she can shower, or nap, or scream into a pillow if she wants to. We remind her she isn’t alone, even when she swears she is. That’s it. That’s the whole playbook.”
Harry swallowed, nodding slowly, though the frustration still burned hot in his chest. He wanted to do more. To fix it. But he stayed quiet, because for once, he had no ground to stand on.
———————————————————————————
Anne arrived with a paper bag hooked over her wrist and a soft knock that didn’t sound like a demand. Amara opened the door almost at once, wiping her hands on a towel.
“Mrs…?” Amara began.
“Anne’s perfect,” she said with a smile. “You must be Amara. I’ve heard you’re saving everyone’s life one sensible decision at a time.”
Amara huffed a little laugh. “Trying. He’s having a good hour. He’s dozed, he’s eaten some soup. Wren’s in the shower—finally. I threatened to stand outside the door until I heard water.”
“That sounds like you know my girl already,” Anne said, warmth curling around the words.
Amara’s eyes softened. “Stubborn, but quick to laugh when she remembers how.”
Anne touched her arm. “Thank you for being here.”
“Go on in,” Amara said. “He’ll be pleased.”
The living room smelled faintly of cinnamon and antiseptic, a scent that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did. The hospital bed settled where the sofa used to be looked smaller with Cliff in it, his shoulders angled into the pillows, oxygen purring beside him in a steady hum. His eyes were closed, but they opened when Anne’s steps creaked the floor.
“Now then,” he rasped, mouth tipping up. “If it isn’t the best cook in Holmes Chapel.”
“Flattery this early?” Anne set the paper bag on the side table and leaned down to kiss his temple. “You must be angling for something.”
“Angling for a bite of whatever’s in that bag,” he said, eyeing it like a child.
“Tea loaf,” she confessed, drawing it out and unwrapping a corner. “And the shepherd’s pie dish, which I will kidnap back. Your daughter will insist on washing it by hand and alphabetising the cutlery while she’s at it.”
“Sounds about right,” he murmured, lids drooping, fondness softening every line.
Anne set the loaf aside and took his hand. His skin was papery and warm. “I met Amara,” she said. “She’s lovely.”
“She is,” he breathed. “Calm. Doesn’t let Bird pretend she’s a machine.”
“Not many can do that,” Anne said. “She’ll try to outrun a storm rather than put her coat on.”
Cliff smiled faintly, then coughed—a small, mean thing—and waited out the wave with his eyes shut. When it passed, he drew a careful breath and opened them again.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said simply.
“So am I,” Anne replied. “I was coming regardless, but Wren asked me to bring your favourite. I think she’s hoping the smell alone will make you bully your appetite back.”
He gave a ghost of a chuckle. “Bossy girl.”
“The bossiest,” Anne agreed, then let the quiet sit between them until she felt him gather himself.
“Anne,” he said after a while, looking at her with a clarity that had nothing to do with the light. “I need to ask you a few things, and I hate that I do, but I do.”
“Ask,” she said, and folded his fingers more firmly into hers. “I’m yours for as long as you need.”
“First—” He swallowed. “Look after her. Not… not smothering. She’ll kick against it. Just—eyes on her. She won’t be okay for a long time. She’s… trying to be every person at once. Daughter and nurse and accountant and martyr.” He smiled wryly. “Only one of those jobs is needed.”
“I know,” Anne said. “I’ll keep an eye. And I’ll let her do the falling without making a spectacle of catching her.”
His eyes shone. “That’s exactly it.”
He rested, breath shallow but even, then licked his lips. Anne reached automatically for the beaker; he sipped, nodded his thanks.
“Second,” he said, voice rough. “In my wardrobe… top shelf…the ugly tartan box Wren hates. There are letters in there. For her. Not to be opened all at once—she won’t listen to me if I try to tell her when. But they’ve got labels. Open when you can breathe. Open when you’re angry with me. Open on a new year. That sort of thing.”
Anne’s throat tightened. “You thought of everything.”
“I tried,” he whispered. “There are also my journals. All of ’em. She’ll say they’re mine, that she shouldn’t take them. Make her. It’s the only way I know to keep talking to her without… without my mouth.”
“You have my word,” Anne said, the words steady even as her eyes blurred. “I’ll put the box in her hands when she can hold it.”
“Not before,” he added, a spark of old stubbornness catching. “Don’t make the girl carry one more thing before she has to.”
“I won’t,” Anne promised. “Cross my heart.”
He sagged, relieved. “Thank you.”
They sat with it a moment, the oxygen’s soft animal purr, the winter light finding the dust in the air and making it look like something holy. Somewhere down the hall water ran—Wren, finally taking five minutes for herself. Anne glanced that way and then back, catching the way Cliff’s eyes followed.
“She’ll come through this,” Anne said gently. “It won’t feel like it. Not for a long time. But she will.”
Cliff nodded once. “I’m not frightened for me,” he admitted, voice barely more than breath. “I’m frightened for the bit she’ll lose and try to pretend she hasn’t.”
Anne knew that bit. She’d mislaid parts of herself when Robin went—days when she couldn’t find the woman who laughed at small things. “It comes back,” she said, and didn’t add in different colours. “And while it’s gone, we’ll sit with her in the empty space so it doesn’t echo quite so loudly.”
He breathed out, something like a laugh caught in it. “I knew you’d know what to say.”
“I don’t,” Anne replied, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “I only know what I needed to hear and didn’t.”
He turned his head a fraction toward the window. “Do you remember when the girls painted my shed?” The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Purple as sin. Said it would keep the birds interested.”
Anne barked a soft laugh. “I remember you pretending to hate it and then bragging to the postman that it was all your idea.”
“Man’s allowed a little dignity,” he said, and then coughed again, smaller this time. When it passed, his eyes drifted, the room blurring. “Anne?”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t let her harden,” he whispered, urgency flickering. “Not against the world. Not against… her mother.” The word was careful, as if it could break his mouth. “I can’t ask forgiveness of her. I wouldn’t. But don’t let that woman’s choices be the reason Bird forgets how to trust.”
Anne held the weight of it. “I’ll nudge her back toward soft where I can,” she said. “And I’ll stand guard when I can’t.”
He closed his eyes a moment, gathering. When he opened them, a spark lit there—mischief that made him look briefly like the man in the photographs on the mantel. “Your boy,” he said, voice lowering as if they were conspiring, “dotes on her.”
Anne’s lips curved, but she didn’t look away. “He does.”
“Been watching him watch her for years,” Cliff murmured. “Never could decide if he knew it.”
“He doesn’t,” Anne said, fondness and worry threaded together. “And I wouldn’t push it. Not now.”
“No,” Cliff agreed. “Not now. Just—if there’s a way to remind her that she is loved from all sides, even if it’s not the side she—” He ran out of breath and patience at the same time.
“I understand,” Anne said, saving him the effort. “I’ll remind her without naming it.”
He gave a tiny nod. It cost him. “Thank you.”
“Enough heavy,” Anne declared softly, and reached into the paper bag. “One thin slice of tea loaf? Amara will tell me off if I overindulge you.”
He smiled with his eyes. “Rebel with me.”
She broke off a corner, the kind that could melt on the tongue. He tasted it like it was something rare. “Perfect,” he judged, and she pretended not to be obscenely pleased.
Footsteps padded down the hall. Wren appeared in the doorway, hair damp, face scrubbed clean and tired. She paused when she saw Anne, something like relief breaking across her features.
“There she is,” Anne said, as if Wren had been gone days rather than minutes. “I was about to eat all your father’s tea loaf.”
“Don’t you dare,” Wren said, coming closer, a small smile tugging at her mouth that couldn’t quite hold. She tucked the blanket under Cliff’s arm without thinking. “How is he?”
“Being bossed about properly,” Anne said. “And making me share.”
Amara popped her head in. “Medication in twenty,” she said to Wren. And then to Anne: “You’ll stay for a cup?”
“I will,” Anne replied. “If I’m allowed to make it.”
“You and me can fight over the kettle,” Amara teased, then disappeared again.
Wren hovered, eyes flicking between them. “You two have made friends.”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Anne said lightly. “You’ll have two women telling you to sit down now.”
“I am sitting down,” Wren protested, taking the chair. She tucked her hand under Cliff’s, a reflex. He squeezed, weak but certain.
Anne watched the way Wren’s shoulders lowered a fraction when she felt that pressure back. She caught Cliff’s eye over their hands; he nodded—there, see.
“Right,” Anne said briskly, rising before the room sank too far into its own gravity. “I’m putting the kettle on. If anyone argues, I shall confiscate their biscuits.”
From the doorway, she glanced back. Cliff’s eyes were closed again, Wren’s head bowed over their hands, Amara’s shadow moving in the kitchen. The house hummed with small, ordinary sounds. It was not peace, not exactly; but it was the closest thing they had to it.
Anne turned to the sink, filled the kettle, and let the clatter and steam fill the spaces words couldn’t reach. She had promises tucked into her pocket now—tartan box, journals, watch the girl without caging her. She would keep them. Quietly, like good stitches on the inside of a seam, invisible from the outside but holding everything together.
———————————————————————————
The hum of fluorescent lights felt louder than it should. Wren sat at her desk, shoulders hunched, fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes tracking numbers that blurred into each other. She’d only been back for three hours and already the weight pressed in—emails stacked in double digits, two meetings scheduled back-to-back, deadlines that had apparently waited for no one.
“Finally gracing us with your presence,” Sally’s voice cut across the open-plan office, pitched just high enough that people glanced up from their screens.
Wren didn’t lift her head. “Morning, Sally.”
“It’s nearly noon,” Sally replied smoothly, heels clicking closer. She leaned against Wren’s desk, arms crossed. “Hope you’re ready to play catch-up. It’s been… interesting keeping things afloat while you’ve been away.”
“I’ll manage,” Wren said, her tone clipped, fingers still typing.
Sally’s lips curved. “You always do. But don’t think the rest of us didn’t notice how much landed on our plates.”
Wren finally looked up, eyes cool. “Sally, the numbers are already reconciled, and the client report is nearly finished. If there’s something specific you want me to prioritize, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll handle it.”
There was a flicker—just a flicker—of irritation on Sally’s face before she smoothed it away. “I’ll let you get on, then,” she said, but the words dripped with condescension. She stalked off, the sound of her heels sharp against the floor.
Wren exhaled slowly, turned back to her screen, and finished the report with ruthless efficiency. The client call twenty minutes later ended with, “Brilliant as always, Wren. Don’t know what we’d do without you.” She smiled politely into the receiver, said thank you, muted the line—and let the smile fall.
Her phone buzzed on the desk. She flipped it over.
Harry:
Hey. Just checking in. How’s the first day back treating you?
She stared at the words until they blurred, her thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t reply. Instead, she set the phone face-down again, as if that could muffle the ache in her chest.
Another buzz. She snatched it up automatically—this time, Amara.
Amara:
Morning, Bird. Your dad’s a little off today. Ate only half his breakfast. Don’t worry, we’ll try again in a bit. Focus on your day, okay?
Wren’s throat tightened. She typed thank you and deleted it twice before finally sending just, x. She slid the phone into her drawer, shut it firmly, and pressed her fingers to her temples.
At lunch, she didn’t move from her desk. Her colleagues went out in clumps, the sound of their laughter echoing down the hall. She unwrapped a granola bar from the depths of her bag, stared at it, then shoved it back. The idea of chewing felt exhausting. Instead, she scrolled aimlessly through her inbox until the screen swam.
“Wren,” Sally’s voice came again, sharp as a pin. “You’ll join the afternoon client call, yes? Since you’ve missed the last three.”
Wren forced her eyes up. “Of course.”
“Good girl,” Sally said, and walked away.
Heat rose in Wren’s cheeks, shame coiling with rage. She bent over her notes, forcing her breathing even. She could do this. She always did this.
By the time the call ended, she’d smoothed every rough edge out of her voice, answered every question crisply, charmed the client into another contract renewal. Her colleagues smiled, impressed. Sally pursed her lips but said nothing.
When Wren finally shut her laptop at eight, the office nearly empty, her whole body sagged. She gathered her bag, checked her phone again.
One more message.
Harry:
If you’re ignoring me, I’ll take it. Just… don’t shut me out completely, Wren.
She stared at it for a long time. Her throat burned.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she walked out into the night, the city lights harsh and bright, her steps automatic. Inside, everything was hollow, humming, a careful balance that felt one push away from collapse.
By the time Wren reached the station, her body felt like lead. She found a seat on the train, slumped against the glass, and let the city blur past. She pulled out her phone again, thumb hovering over Harry’s message. Still, she didn’t answer. It felt like admitting too much—like if she typed even one word, everything she’d been holding back would spill out.
She shoved the phone back into her bag.
When she stepped through the front door, the familiar warmth hit her—the smell of soup, the low hum of the oxygen machine, the faint clatter of Amara tidying in the kitchen. For a second, her shoulders dropped, relief easing in. Then she saw the dimmed lights of the living room, the hospital bed that had become the centre of the house, and the weight returned, doubled.
“Bird?” Cliff’s voice, raspier than usual, carried weakly from the next room.
“I’m here, Dad,” she called, dropping her bag by the door.
Amara emerged, drying her hands on a towel. “He’s been asking after you. Ate a little dinner, not much. He’s dozing on and off. I left the tray on the side.”
“Thanks,” Wren said, forcing a smile. “You should get home, Amara. You’ve been here all day.”
Amara tilted her head. “So have you. Difference is, you’ve done a whole other job in between.”
“I’m fine,” Wren said automatically, brushing past her into the living room.
Cliff’s eyes opened as she entered. “There she is,” he murmured, his mouth curving faintly. “Working woman.”
Wren perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing his blanket. “Not much of a woman if she can’t even get her boss off her back,” she muttered, softer than she meant to.
Cliff caught it anyway. “Sally?”
“Always.” She rolled her eyes, then tried to brighten her voice. “But don’t worry about that. How are you feeling?”
“Better now you’re home,” he said, patting her hand weakly. “You’ve got the face on, though. The one where you’re trying not to scowl.”
She huffed a laugh. “It’s been a long day.”
Amara appeared in the doorway again, coat over her arm. “I’ll be back first thing. Don’t let her pretend she doesn’t need sleep,” she said to Cliff, who chuckled faintly.
“Yes, boss,” he rasped.
When the door closed behind Amara, the house fell into that familiar quiet. Wren straightened the half-eaten tray on the side, fussed with the pillows, checked the monitor like she knew what she was looking for.
“You don’t have to hover,” Cliff murmured.
“I’m not,” she lied.
“You’re doing the thing,” he said, eyes closing.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you fuss instead of sit.”
She stilled, caught. Slowly, she lowered herself back into the chair and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I’m sorry.”
He cracked an eye open. “For what?”
“Not… fixing everything.” The words came out small. “At work, here. I feel like I’m splitting myself in half and both sides are still failing.”
Cliff lifted his hand, shaky, and she caught it quickly, threading their fingers together. “Bird, listen to me.” His voice was gravel, but steady. “The only thing failing would be if you weren’t here. And you are.”
Her throat burned. She nodded, squeezing his hand. “I just want you to eat more. Get stronger.”
“I will,” he said, though his eyes slipped closed again.
For a moment she just watched his chest rise and fall, shallow but steady, and let her head drop onto the edge of the bed beside his hand.
This was her life now: one job ending, another beginning. By the time she crawled into bed herself, hours later, she’d barely touched her own dinner. The house was quiet except for the hiss of the oxygen machine and her father’s breathing.
And in her chest, the hollowness grew.
———————————————————————————
Harry leaned back against the kitchen counter, the empty wine glass dangling from his fingers. The house was quiet in a way it rarely was, Lauren away for a few days on a shoot in Milan. No footsteps pacing between rooms, no playlist humming in the background. Just the low tick of the clock and the faint rattle of rain against the window.
Anne was at the table, folding a dish towel, neat in her small rituals. Harry watched her for a long moment before blurting, “Do you think I’ve been picking and choosing when I care?”
Anne’s hands stilled. She looked up, eyes soft but sharp in that way that made him feel twelve years old again. “Where’s that question coming from?”
He sighed, dropped the glass into the sink, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I had coffee with Gigi. She… laid into me. Said I show up for Wren when it suits me. That I fly in, act like I want to help, then disappear back into my own world. And I—I can’t stop thinking maybe she’s right.”
Anne smoothed the towel out flat on the table, buying herself a second before answering. “She’s not wrong to say she’s been there more than you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t care, Harry. It just means Wren’s learned who she can lean on without question.”
He braced his hands on the counter, head bent. “That should be me, though. She used to—she used to tell me everything. And now it’s like there’s this wall, and I can’t get through.” His voice cracked. “I thought I knew her best. Isn’t that what best friends are? The ones who know you better than anyone?”
Anne’s gaze softened, but she didn’t flinch away from the truth. “Harry, knowing someone once doesn’t mean you’re entitled to know them forever. People change when life knocks them down. Sometimes the bravest thing is letting them tell you what they need instead of assuming you already know.”
He let out a low groan, dragging his hands down his face. “She’s… she’s falling apart. I can see it. She’s thinner, she’s… she won’t eat. I hugged her the other day and it felt like holding a bird, like I could break her if I squeezed. And I can’t do anything about it. I thought—” He stopped himself, pacing the kitchen instead, hands restless. “I thought maybe if I paid for the bills, for the carer, all of it—”
Anne’s voice cut in, calm but firm. “No.”
He stopped, stared at her. “Why not? It’d help.”
“It wouldn’t,” Anne said, rising slowly from the table. “Not in the way you think. Wren is clinging to what little control she has left. If you take that from her—if you turn her into a woman who can’t even provide for her father—she’ll despise it. Even if you mean it with all the love in the world.”
“That’s exactly what Gigi said,” Harry muttered, sinking into the chair opposite her. “So what, I just sit here and watch her drown?”
“You sit there,” Anne said gently, “and you stay. You don’t walk away when it gets uncomfortable. You answer when she calls, even if all she does is cry down the line. You sit in the hospital room and let her sleep against your shoulder if that’s what she needs. You stay. That’s the only thing you can give her.”
Harry’s throat ached. He nodded, jaw tight.
They sat in silence for a while, the rain tapping harder at the window. Then, before he could stop himself, the question slipped out: “Do you think I rushed it? With Lauren?”
Anne blinked, taken aback but not shocked. “That’s not for me to answer.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, shame heating his face. “Gigi asked me—why did I propose? And I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say. Lauren’s amazing, she is. She’s steady, she’s—she gets my life. I love her. But it was like I couldn’t find the words, you know? Not the right ones.”
Anne folded her hands, watching him carefully. “Lauren is a wonderful woman. But she is not Wren. They are different kinds of steady. And the question isn’t who’s better. The question is why you chose the path you did, Harry. What you were looking for.”
He swallowed hard, staring at the grain of the table. “I thought I wanted stability. A family. Someone who could handle the chaos. Someone who wouldn’t… wouldn’t break when the world got heavy.”
“And now?” Anne prompted softly.
He let out a laugh that was more like a sigh. “Now I don’t know what the hell I want.”
Anne reached across the table, rested her hand over his. “Then don’t make decisions for Wren while you figure it out. She doesn’t need you to decide things for her. She needs you to keep showing up, even when it hurts.”
Harry looked at her, eyes burning. “I’m scared, Mum. I’m scared she won’t make it through this.”
Anne squeezed his hand. “She will. But she’ll be different. Grief makes people sharp, quiet, unreachable. Don’t take it personally. Just stay close enough so she can find you when she’s ready.”
Harry nodded, words stuck in his throat. For the first time in weeks, he felt like someone had given him a map. Not to fix her. Just to stay.
I have been meaning to read this and well I finally got a chance. I read it in one sitting. Don't do that or else you will end up a heaving, sobbing mess of a human. Beautiful and sad.
Author's Note: When I put out a vote for what trope I should explore next, this one came out on top, and honestly, I wasn’t surprised. So many of you connected with Father’s Day and Every Day, and seeing Harry as a dad really seemed to hit home.
So let’s head back into the world of our little family. Let’s revisit those chaotic, beautiful, emotional firsts - the ones that sneak up on you and leave you teary-eyed in the middle of the kitchen. The ones that make parenting feel impossibly hard and impossibly worth it. Thanks for being here, and loving them the way you do 🩷
Read the first entry of Dad Harry, here
Find my masterlist here
———————————————————————————
First time, again.
The house was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that meant chaos was brewing - no suspicious thumps or tell-tale baby wails - but the soft, blissful silence of a baby fast asleep, white noise humming gently through the monitor.
Remy had been down for forty-three minutes. Not that Nora was counting. But she was. Because it had taken four months to get her sleeping through the night, and she wasn’t about to jinx it now.
She padded out of the nursery and into their bedroom, her feet bare, her heart a little quick.
They hadn’t talked about it in any concrete way. The topic had come up, in small glances and lazy kisses, but life - and hormones, and stitches, and colic - had kept pushing it off.
Until tonight.
She paused by the dresser, glancing at the soft cream lingerie set she’d pulled from the back of the drawer. It was one Harry had bought her when she was pregnant, silky and romantic and untouched since. She’d hesitated before slipping it on, second-guessing herself in the mirror: her body softer, changed in quiet ways. But then she’d caught her own eye and breathed in deep. She wanted this.
So she fluffed her hair. Dabbed on a little lip balm. And now, she stepped lightly down the stairs, heart in her throat, nerves fluttering like moths behind her ribs.
Harry was curled up on the couch, reading, his curls still damp from the shower, dressed in his usual worn-in joggers and a plain white tee.
He looked up when she came in and froze. His book dropped gently to his lap.
“Christ,” he murmured. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Nora laughed, but it came out shy. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said back, slower, his eyes sweeping over her - not greedy or lewd, just in awe. “You look… you look like a painting.”
She crossed the room, settling in next to him. “A slightly nervous one?”
“A very, very beautiful one,” he said, cupping her jaw gently. “We don’t have to do anything tonight, you know that?”
“I know,” she nodded. “But I want to.”
He studied her carefully. “Are you sure?”
She smiled. “I’ve never been more sure of anything I’m this nervous about.”
He laughed softly and leaned forward, kissing her - slow, reverent, with a tenderness that made her eyes burn. They stayed like that for a while, fingers tracing, limbs tangling gently, and when they finally made their way upstairs, it wasn’t rushed or feverish, just warm. Thoughtful. Patient.
And yes - it hurt, a little.
Her breath caught at one point and he immediately stilled, whispering, “Do you want to stop?” against her cheek.
“No,” she whispered back. “Just… give me a second.”
So he waited. Held her face. Let her come back to herself before continuing.
They moved together like they were relearning the rhythm - and maybe they were - but there was so much love in it, so much care. No pressure. No expectation. Just rediscovery, heartbeat to heartbeat.
And when it was over, and they lay tangled in the sheets, skin cooling, Nora rolled into him with a quiet sigh.
For a while, they just breathed. Then, in a small voice:
“Was that okay for you?”
Harry blinked. “What?”
She propped herself up on one elbow. “I just… I know it’s been a while. And I know my body’s different now. So I guess I just wanted to make sure it was… still the same. For you.”
Harry’s face softened, like she’d just asked him if the sky was still blue.
“Hey,” he said, brushing a hand over her arm. “I hope you didn’t do that for me. I never, ever want you to feel like I’m expecting something from you.”
“I didn’t,” she said quickly. “I wanted to. Truly. I just-” her voice cracked, just a little, “-I wanted to make sure it felt as good for you as it did before. That I felt as good to you.”
Harry sat up slightly, cradling her face in both hands. “Are you crazy?” he said, not unkindly. “Nora. You’re my dream girl. You always have been. That’s never going to change.”
She sniffed, her lips curling into a wobbly smile. “Even with the stretch marks and mum boobs?”
He kissed her hard, then pulled back enough to say against her lips, “Especially with the stretch marks and mum boobs.”
She let out a watery laugh and tucked her face into his neck. “I love you.”
“I love you more,” he murmured. “And that was… perfect. Not because of sex. But because it was us. Still us. And I missed that.”
“Me too.”
They lay there in the quiet hum of the dark, her palm pressed to his chest, his fingers running lightly up and down her spine, and somewhere down the hall, the baby monitor stayed blessedly silent.
It was their first time again. And it felt, in the best way, like coming home.
———————————————————————————
First time out.
The restaurant is candlelit and quiet, tucked into a cobbled side street they used to walk past before everything changed. Harry had booked it months ago, thinking ahead, knowing their anniversary would fall around the time Remy would be nine months. Long enough, he’d thought, for things to feel more normal.
Nora’s wearing a navy dress that skims her waist, soft makeup, and her hair is tucked up in a messy twist that she hadn’t had time to redo after Remy’s bath. She still looks so beautiful Harry wants to grab her and run out into the night just to kiss her under the streetlamps.
But she’s quiet. Her smile is tight. Her fork nudges at her food more than it eats it.
He notices. Of course he does.
“You okay?” he asks gently, cutting his salmon, watching her over the table.
She glances up. Caught.
“Yeah,” she says too quickly, then softens it. “Sorry. I know this is… I know you planned this.”
He reaches across the table and places his hand over hers.
“Don’t apologise. I just want you to be here with me. That’s all.”
“I am here,” she says, then lets out a quiet breath and shakes her head. “But I’m also not. I keep thinking I left the instructions for Gemma too vaguely. That I should’ve stayed five more minutes. That I didn’t say bye to Remy properly.”
“You kissed her five times,” he reminds her with a soft smile. “You said you loved her. You sang her the bunny song. You packed her bag like she was off to uni.”
Nora laughs at that, a thin smile cracking across her mouth. But her eyes still look glassy.
“I know,” she says. “I just… she’s never not been with me. I feel like I’ve left a part of myself behind.”
Harry threads his fingers through hers.
“You haven’t. She’s just a ten-minute drive away. And she’s with my sister, who literally lives to swaddle that child.”
Nora nods. She knows all this. Her brain knows it. Her heart - the stretched, tired, aching part of her - doesn’t.
They eat for a bit in silence. The food is lovely. The wine sits untouched on her side of the table. Harry’s had half a glass. It feels like too much.
After a while, he says, “I’ve missed this. Just being with you.”
Her eyes dart to him, apologetic.
“I’m sorry I’m being weird. I’m trying not to ruin it-”
“You’re not ruining anything,” he cuts in, gently. “You’re allowed to feel however you feel. This is a big first.”
She looks down at her hands.
“I think I thought I’d feel relief. I wanted a break, I really did. But now that we’re here, I just feel guilty. Like… like I’m being selfish for wanting to be out. But also like I’m broken because I can’t enjoy it.”
Harry puts his fork down. The table between them feels too wide, the candle too fragile.
“You’re not broken,” he says. “You had a baby nine months ago. You grew her inside you. You feed her. You hold her every day. It’s okay if it’s hard to be away. It doesn’t mean anything bad.”
She blinks quickly, trying not to cry in the restaurant.
“And,” he adds, “you’re not selfish. Wanting a break doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you human.”
Her lip wobbles. “But you’ve been amazing. Like, I see you in the mornings with her and how she lights up when she sees you, and I think maybe she doesn’t even need me.”
Harry’s eyebrows crease. He leans forward.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Nora. That’s not true. That little bug is obsessed with you. She tracks your voice like it’s GPS.”
She smiles weakly.
“And yeah,” he adds, “she smiles when she sees me. But that’s because of you too. You made our home safe. You made me a dad. You’ve given her so much love it just overflows.”
She shakes her head slightly, overwhelmed.
“I didn’t expect to feel so much,” she admits. “Like… we’re out at a restaurant and I feel like I’m grieving. Isn’t that crazy?”
“No,” Harry says gently. “I think it means you’re doing it right.”
They fall into silence again. The server brings dessert menus. They wave them away.
“I love you,” he says softly, after a long moment. “And I love being a dad. But I also miss us. Not because this version of us is bad, it’s not, but because I miss seeing you breathe.”
She nods, swallowing hard.
“I miss me too,” she whispers.
Harry moves around the table then. Doesn’t care if people look. He slides into the seat beside her and pulls her against him, arms wrapping around her shoulders.
She leans into it without resistance, head on his shoulder, tears finally sliding down her cheeks in the quiet hum of the restaurant.
“Happy anniversary,” she whispers against his shirt.
He kisses her hair. “Best one yet. Even if we bail on dessert.”
She laughs against his chest. “We’ve got ice cream at home.”
They leave not long after. The drive is quiet but less heavy. The air has shifted. They don’t talk much - they don’t need to.
When they arrive back at Gemma’s, Nora tries not to rush through the door but does anyway. Remy’s asleep, cheeks flushed, a thumb in her mouth, curled in a little ball in the cot. Safe. Warm.
Gemma meets them in the hallway, whispering, “She was perfect. Didn’t fuss once.”
Nora thanks her, probably too many times, and Harry gives her a grateful squeeze before lifting Remy’s overnight bag. Nora presses a kiss to Remy’s temple as she scoops her gently into her arms.
Back home, the three of them crawl into bed. Remy stays between them for the night, tucked into her sleep sack, cheeks squished against the mattress. Nora wraps herself around her and exhales for the first time in hours.
Harry watches them - his girls, his heart - and thinks maybe next year, they’ll book a place closer. One with room for a travel cot.
———————————————————————————
First cough and fever.
The cough started in the early hours of the morning, soft and raspy at first, more of a whimper than anything. But by sunrise, it had turned into something jagged, dry, and persistent.
Remy clung to Nora’s chest, cheek damp and warm with a low fever, her body curled like a comma against her mother. Her breath came in short little huffs between coughs, and every sound twisted something sharp in Nora’s stomach.
“Her nose is all blocked,” Nora murmured, gently running a cool cloth along Remy’s forehead. “She barely slept. She kept waking up every twenty minutes.”
Harry nodded from where he was crouched beside the bed, hand resting on Remy’s small ankle. “She wouldn’t even let me hold her. Just wanted you.”
Nora didn’t respond. She was too tired to. The whole night had been a blur of pacing the hallway, sitting in the steamy bathroom with the shower running, reading the back of every medicine bottle twice. Her hair was scraped into a messy bun, skin drawn with exhaustion. She hadn't eaten. She couldn’t. Not while Remy was this fragile, this quiet.
“I think she’s got a temperature,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have let her walk home in the rain the other day. That was stupid. She was soaked through.”
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t blame yourself.”
“She was shivering. I thought it was cute. I wrapped her in my scarf. And now-”
“-Now she’s sick. Kids get sick, Nora.”
“She’s never been this sick.”
Harry moved closer and pressed his hand to Remy’s back, eyes soft. “She’s gonna be okay.”
But Nora’s face stayed tight, her jaw clenched against the guilt. Against the panic she wouldn’t name.
They stayed like that most of the morning. Harry made tea, tried to coax Nora into toast, brought her vitamins she didn’t ask for. He sat with her while Remy slept in her arms, the TV murmuring something gentle in the background.
By early afternoon, Remy stirred, coughing again. Her tiny voice croaked, “Mummy.”
Nora kissed her hair. “I’m here, baby.”
“She wants you again,” Harry said softly. “She won’t even look at me.”
“She’s just clingy.”
“I get it. I’d want you too.”
Nora looked up, eyes glassy. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I hate feeling useless.”
“You’re not. She’s in your arms. You’re her entire world.”
She sniffled, adjusting Remy’s blanket. “I just want her to feel better.”
They gave her more baby paracetamol, ran another steam shower, played lullabies and white noise. Nora stayed in bed with Remy most of the day, and Harry did everything else - washing bottles, restocking tissues, changing the cot sheets just in case she’d want to sleep there later (she wouldn’t).
That evening, while Remy finally dozed in the sling strapped to Nora’s chest, Harry leaned over the kitchen counter and said, “You need to sleep too.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“She cries if I put her down.”
“I’ll hold her.”
“She doesn’t want you.”
Harry smiled sadly. “That’s okay.”
“You’re allowed to be upset about that.”
“I’m not. It’s not about me. It’s about her feeling safe.”
Nora stared at him, then finally let him take Remy - slowly, gently -into his arms. She whimpered, fussed, and Nora’s body tensed on instinct.
But Harry whispered softly to her, rocking her in small figure eights, and after a few minutes, she was asleep again, tucked into his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Nora whispered.
“Don’t be.”
“I feel like I failed.”
“You didn’t.”
“She’s never this quiet. She’s never not smiling. Her cheeks are all hot. She’s so little.”
“I know.” He came close, free arm wrapping around Nora’s waist. “But we’ve got her. And we’ve got each other.”
She nodded, finally letting her cheek rest against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut.
Later that night, when Remy woke up crying again, Nora was the first to reach her, instinct before thought. She paced the room with her, whispering nonsense words, heart aching.
And two days later, when the fever broke and Remy woke up babbling and trying to feed yoghurt to the dog, Nora cried in the kitchen out of pure relief.
Harry held her close, kissed the side of her head, and murmured, “Told you she’d be okay.”
Nora wiped her eyes and smiled. “I know. I just needed to see it.”
———————————————————————————
First touch of fame.
The morning had been mild, unexpectedly warm for late February. The sort of rare London sunshine that practically begged you outside. So Nora packed a light bag - snacks, spare socks, a juice box - slipped Remy into her soft pink coat, grabbed the lead for their Cocker Spaniel, Milo, and headed toward Primrose Hill.
They hadn’t planned anything. Nora just needed to move, and Remy had been restless, asking for swings and “the duckies,” which may or may not have been a made-up memory from summer. Either way, it felt like a good day to be outside.
It had started lovely. Milo chasing pigeons, Remy shrieking with delight from the climbing frame, her curls bouncing beneath her little hat. Nora took pictures for Harry, even recorded a video of Remy narrating her own attempt to go down the slide “like a monkey.” It wasn’t until she sat on the bench with a cup of takeaway tea while Remy made mud cakes near the sandbox that she felt it.
That shift. That strange sense of being watched.
It wasn’t overt. Just a prickling behind the ears, a quick flash of something reflective between the trees, a man standing far too still by the railing with a phone in his hand. Nora instinctively shifted Remy’s coat hood up and gently adjusted her position so her back faced the direction of the camera.
She didn’t make a scene. She didn’t run. She just stayed calm and kept her daughter close.
They walked back slowly, with Remy holding Milo’s lead, and asking if ducks lived in trees.
Harry was home later than usual - studio meetings and something about a magazine cover shoot in New York. So Nora didn’t mention it. The photos didn’t feel major. Not threatening. Just a reminder of the world they lived in. And she knew, she knew, how it would sit in Harry’s gut. She didn’t want to worry him. Not when everything was calm again.
But the photos hit his inbox just after eight.
He was still in his coat, phone in hand, frozen by the kitchen island as Nora wiped down the table.
“Nora.”
His voice wasn’t angry. It was... confused. Quiet. Something that made her look up immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
He turned his phone to her.
Four grainy shots.
Nora in the park, kneeling down to button Remy’s coat. Remy clutching Milo’s lead, looking slightly off to the side. Another where Nora was shielding her daughter’s face with her hand, gently turning her away. No zoom lens in the world could mistake her intention.
“Oh,” she said softly, setting the cloth down. “That was today.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I know.”
“Why wouldn’t you-” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. His voice stayed low, but tight. “They shouldn’t have been there.”
“No, they shouldn’t.”
“She’s two. She’s a baby, Nora.”
“I know.”
He paced toward the sink and back, phone in hand. “Jeff sent these. He said they’ll be on a couple of sites by morning. Nothing nasty, just… public interest crap. 'Harry Styles’ Family Enjoying the Sunshine' or some garbage like that.”
“I figured.”
Harry looked at her then, really looked. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Nora folded her arms and leaned against the table. Not defensive. Just steady.
“Because it wasn’t a crisis,” she said. “And because I handled it.”
“But it’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to handle it.”
She exhaled. “Maybe not. But I do. And honestly? I was more focused on making sure Remy didn’t notice than anything else.”
His jaw clenched, frustration flickering behind his eyes. Not at her. Never at her. At this. At the fact that he couldn’t stop people from intruding on something as innocent as a park date.
“I hate that this is part of it,” he muttered. “I hate that you have to think about this crap when all you wanted was fresh air. That she’ll grow up with flashes in her face and people whispering about who her dad is.”
“She didn’t even notice today,” Nora said quietly. “And I didn’t tell her anything different. We came home, she took a long nap, Milo threw up half a pigeon feather in the hallway. It was normal.”
“But it’s not normal. You shouldn’t have to carry this for me.”
Nora crossed the room and touched his hand, lowering the phone gently.
“I’m not carrying it for you,” she said. “I’m carrying it with you.”
He looked like he might say something more, but just then, the monitor crackled to life and then they heard the thump of little feet against her mattress.
“Up!” she called. “Dadda you home??”
Harry blinked. A whole new softness fell across his face.
Nora smiled gently. “That’s your cue.”
She followed him into Remy’s room, watching as their daughter lit up at the sight of him.
“Dadda!” she squealed, standing unsteadily in her cot. “You home! You home!”
“I’m home, baby,” he laughed, sweeping her into his arms and spinning gently.
She wrapped around him like a koala, giggling into his neck, cheeks flushed with sleep. Nora leaned in the doorway, watching as Harry pressed kiss after kiss into her messy curls.
“See?” she said softly, catching his eyes. “Best dadda ever.”
He kissed Remy’s temple and looked over her head at Nora, heart aching.
“I just want her to have the life she deserves.”
“She does have it.”
“I don’t want my job to steal anything from her.”
“It won’t,” she promised. “Because the things that matter - her dad singing her lullabies, making dinosaur pancakes, dancing like an idiot in the kitchen - none of that is affected by a long lens.”
Harry kissed the top of Remy’s head. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You absolutely do.”
“And you’re sure you’re okay?”
Nora stepped in, pressing her hand against the small of his back.
“I’m fine,” she said, voice warm. “I didn’t like it, but I’m fine. I know what this life is. I chose it, too. I chose you. And she’s going to grow up knowing that her family is solid. That she’s safe.”
Remy yawned loudly, hand patting Harry’s cheek.
“Dadda, story?”
He smiled. “Always.”
Nora kissed Remy’s forehead. “One story, then it's bath time, yeah?”
“Okay, Mummy,” she whispered, already relaxing against Harry’s chest.
As he carried her toward the rocker in the corner, Nora stepped back, giving them space. Her eyes lingered on the photo frames on the shelf - Remy as a newborn, Remy’s first muddy puddle, the three of them in bed on a Sunday morning.
They couldn’t control the outside world.
But in here, in this warm little orbit, everything was exactly how it should be.
———————————————————————————
First tantrum.
It had been one of those deceptively calm mornings - the kind that makes you believe everything is going fine until you realise you’re sitting on a landmine.
Remy had woken up at the respectable hour of 7:10, asked for her usual milk and bananas, and had sat on the floor flipping through a cloth book while Nora dozed on the couch beside her. Harry, after his morning run, had swooped in all dewy-faced and caffeinated, scooping Remy up with dramatic flair and a sing-song voice that earned him a giggle and a near miss of milk spit-up.
All signs pointed to smooth sailing.
Until lunch.
Until the sandwich.
“I don’t wan' it!” Remy declared, her voice sharp and royal, like she was sending back an overcooked steak at a five-star restaurant.
Harry, who had just carefully cut the peanut butter and banana sandwich into perfect triangles - diagonally, mind you, per request - blinked in confusion.
“You said you wanted this,” he reminded gently, crouching to her level.
“No,” she said, folding her arms. “I say ‘maybe.’”
“Oh my god,” Nora muttered behind him. “We’ve raised a tiny lawyer.”
Harry smiled and offered a bite. “Just try it. It’s your favorite.”
It happened fast.
One second he was offering a lovingly prepared sandwich. The next, he was being hit in the face with it.
A soft thwack of bread against cheek, a faint smear of banana, a stunned moment of silence.
Nora froze with her cup of tea halfway to her mouth.
Harry blinked. “Did she just...?”
“She did.”
Remy sat there, unapologetic, clutching her water bottle and kicking her legs like it was just another Tuesday.
“Okay,” Nora said, taking a breath. “Alright. That’s... new.”
They’d talked about tantrums. Prepared themselves with books and podcasts and far-too-serious conversations that happened over half-eaten dinners. But somehow, this real-life situation - the sandwich, the sass, the unbothered toddler - made all the preparation feel like a lie.
Harry slowly wiped banana off his shirt. “Should we... do the thing?”
Nora nodded. “Yeah. Time-out.”
Remy didn’t agree.
“Noooo,” she howled when Nora gently reached for her hand. “No time-out!”
“It’s not a punishment, Remy,” Nora said calmly. “It’s a moment to think. Just two minutes.”
“NOOO!”
Harry stepped in, crouching again. “Bug, throwing food is not okay. We just need to take a breath, yeah? Just sit on the bottom stair with mummy. Two minutes, then we’ll come back and talk.”
“I DON’T WANNA STAIR! I WAN' RASBRY!”
“You didn’t even eat your sandwich!”
“YOU ARE SANDWICH!”
That was new.
Between the shrieks and the twisting and the flailing arms, they somehow managed to guide her to the bottom step. Nora sat with her at first, murmuring gently about feelings and kindness and choices. Remy’s response was to start singing.
The alphabet. But she skipped Q and shouted “W!” twice.
Harry leaned against the wall, rubbing his temples. “She’s mocking us, right?”
“She’s thriving,” Nora whispered. “Time-out is her stage.”
“Should we just... leave her there?”
“She’s two, not an existential poet.”
Still, they slipped into the kitchen, out of view, as she continued her serenade to the stairwell. Nora leaned against the counter, arms folded tightly across her chest.
“She threw it right at your face,” she said, lips twitching.
“I felt it in my soul.”
“She’s never done that before.”
“She’s testing the limits.”
“She’s a tyrant in bunny socks.”
Nora couldn’t hold it anymore. She snorted into her sleeve.
Harry followed, laughing quietly but freely now, wiping a hand over his face.
“We’re terrible at this,” she said between laughs. “I mean... are we supposed to go back and teach her something? Because I’m about to start singing ‘W’ too.”
Harry reached for her hand. “I think she’s already teaching us something. Like how to dodge flying snacks.”
“And how to silently cry-laugh behind a fridge door.”
They stood like that for a moment - breathless, laughing, overwhelmed. Then, from the hallway, came a solemn voice:
“All done now.”
Nora stepped back into view. “Are you ready to say sorry, Rem?”
Remy nodded, solemn as a monk. “Sorry, Daddy.”
Harry crouched to her level again. “Thank you, bug. Just use your words next time, alright? Sandwiches have feelings too.”
“I be kind now.”
“I know you will.”
She held her arms out, her signature olive branch, and Harry scooped her into his chest. She tucked her face into his neck, already halfway to humming a new tune.
Lunch resumed, this time with crackers and cheese, carefully plate-shared to avoid another flying incident.
Later that night, after Remy was asleep (finally, after three books and an elaborate hunt for a missing bunny sock), Nora curled up next to Harry on the couch.
“I really thought I’d be better at this,” she admitted quietly.
Harry shifted, pulling her closer under the throw. “You’re brilliant at this.”
“She threw food at you.”
“And you tried to give a TED Talk on emotional regulation. That’s parenting.”
She sighed. “I thought I’d be the calm one. You know, the one who always knows what to do.”
“You were calm.”
“I was faking it.”
“I thought I was going to start laughing when she called me a sandwich.”
“You are a sandwich.”
He grinned, tipping her chin toward him. “She’s two, Nor. This is the part where we wing it. And laugh a lot. And maybe cry sometimes.”
“We should’ve recorded that time-out. For the archives.”
“She’s going to run this house.”
“She already does.”
He leaned in, kissed her hair. “But I wouldn’t want to be ruled by anyone else.”
Nora smiled, eyes on the monitor where a tiny chest rose and fell in sleep. “She’s a menace.”
“She’s perfect.”
“And she’s ours.”
———————————————————————————
First parenting argument.
It had been a beautiful, chaotic kind of morning. They’d invited both sides of the family over for a lazy Sunday brunch. Anne brought pastries, Gemma wrangled her own toddler with a practiced eye, and Nora’s dad was loudly debating the best way to make scrambled eggs in the kitchen. Remy, two and a half and riding a sugar high from half a croissant, was on a mission.
She ran between legs, tugged on tablecloths, and refused to eat the strawberries Nora had cut into careful little hearts. Instead, she dropped them, one by one, onto the dog’s head.
Everyone was laughing. Except Nora.
She was tired. And overstimulated. And trying to keep her cool while maintaining some semblance of boundaries with a toddler who had no interest in boundaries.
“Rem, no more throwing food,” she said gently, crouching beside Remy who was now shoving her sippy cup across the floor. “Come on, bug, let’s clean up.”
But Remy didn’t want to clean up. Remy screamed.
Before Nora could do much else, Harry stepped in. With practiced arms, he scooped Remy up and said, in his calm but firmer-than-Nora tone, “Alright, that’s enough. Let’s have a little quiet time, yeah?”
He carried her upstairs. Nora felt every pair of eyes flicker to her.
“She’s just tired,” someone said helpfully.
Nora smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
The house was quiet again by late afternoon. Everyone had gone. Dishes were piled high. Nora stood at the sink, scrubbing a pan with more force than necessary. Harry walked in, drying his hands on a towel.
“You alright?” he asked, gentle.
Nora didn’t look up. “Fine.”
Harry waited, but she didn’t say more. Just kept scrubbing.
“You sure? You’ve gone quiet since this morning.”
She turned then, arms crossed, still holding the sponge. “You didn’t need to step in like that, Harry.”
He blinked. “She wasn’t listening to you.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to swoop in and take over.”
His brows knit. “I wasn’t trying to take over. I was trying to help.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t feel like help.” Her voice cracked slightly. “It felt like you didn’t trust me to handle our daughter.”
That landed heavy.
Harry leaned against the counter, exhaling. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked. “You get to come in and be the calm one. The fun one. While I look like I can’t even manage a tantrum. Everyone just laughed it off and you... you carried her off like I couldn’t be the one to do it.”
“I didn’t think you couldn’t,” Harry said, his voice low. “I saw you were overwhelmed and I wanted to help.”
She was quiet for a beat. Then:
“I just wanted to feel like you had my back, not like you were correcting me in front of everyone.”
That hit him in the chest.
Harry stepped closer. “I do have your back. Always.”
Nora looked up at him, eyes glassy. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same team.”
He touched her arm. “We are. We are, Nora. I messed up, I see that. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I just panicked. She screamed so loud, and your dad looked worried, and I... I wanted to keep it from becoming a scene.”
Nora let out a breath. “I get that. I do. I just... parenting in front of an audience is hard. And I was trying so hard to keep it together.”
Harry reached for her then, pulling her into his chest. She let herself fold against him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “You were amazing. You always are.”
She let out a small, tired laugh. “You’re forgiven.”
He leaned back to look at her, brushing her fringe from her face.
“We’re terrible at this sometimes,” he said with a little grin.
“Speak for yourself. I’m flawless,” she teased, nudging him.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He started planting dramatic, smacking kisses all over her face. One on her cheek, one on her nose, another on her forehead. She yelped, trying to bat him away, giggling.
“Harry!”
“This is what you get for being right. Infinite kisses,” he said, continuing his attack.
She was laughing now, breathless. “Okay, okay! Truce.”
He finally settled, arms wrapping tightly around her. They stood there for a while, just holding each other.
Nora sighed into his chest. “I love you. Even when you do annoying things in front of our families.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I love you more. Even when you hoard all the strawberry hearts.”
She smiled, eyes closed. “We’re doing alright, aren’t we?”
Harry swayed them gently. “We’re doing great.”
———————————————————————————
First night without Nora.
Harry stands in the doorway of Remy’s room, rocking slightly on his heels as she lies nestled beneath her lilac bunny-print duvet. Her little hand, clutching her strawberry plushie, rises and falls gently with each breath.
He doesn’t move until her breathing steadies. Not quite asleep yet, but close enough. He whispers, “Goodnight, my bug,” and slowly backs out of the room like she’s a live alarm system.
He’s proud he got through the bedtime routine mostly unscathed - only one small meltdown over toothpaste flavour and one bonus chapter of the bedtime book. It’s the first night Nora’s away for work. An overnight trip to Manchester for a big pitch, and even though he insisted she go, practically pushed her suitcase into the hallway, Harry now feels the silence of the house like a physical weight.
He closes Remy’s door and exhales, padding downstairs to clean up from dinner. He hadn’t realized how many peas a toddler could throw when they were in the mood. Milo watches him from the doorway, clearly unimpressed with his slow cleanup rate.
"Alright, alright," Harry mutters, tossing another spoon into the dishwasher. "We survived."
By the time he finally sits on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea, it’s nearly ten. He checks his phone. No new texts. He sighs, sets it aside, then picks it up again two seconds later.
FaceTime incoming: Nora
He fumbles the answer button like he’s been waiting hours.
Her face appears, a little tired but smiling. Hotel lighting never does anyone any favors, but she still looks beautiful to him.
“Hey, love,” she says softly. “How is everything?”
“Still standing,” Harry replies. “Remy threw peas at the dog, insisted on a fourth bedtime story, and called me ‘Mummy’ twice just to wind me up.”
Nora laughs, and he melts a little.
“You sound good,” she says.
“I’m not,” Harry admits, glancing at the baby monitor next to him. “I mean. She’s fine. She’s asleep. But I... God, I missed you today.”
She goes quiet, just listening. He notices the way her face softens.
“Not just in a clingy husband way,” he adds, shifting. “Though, also that. But more like... parenting with you is this thing I’ve got a rhythm to. Like I know the beat. And today I was a bit off-tempo all day. Kept reaching for you and you weren’t there.”
Nora nods slowly. "I know that feeling."
He sighs again. "What if I messed something up and it only shows up years later, like in therapy when she’s twenty-five?"
"Harry."
He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. You just make this look easy. And I never realized how much of her day is muscle memory between the two of us. Like the way you rub her back while brushing her teeth, or how you always sing the same song after the bath. She asked for you so many times. I just kept saying you were working."
There's a long beat of silence. Nora blinks hard.
“I felt guilty all day,” she says finally. “Every second I was proud of myself for nailing that meeting, I also wanted to run straight back to the train.”
Harry shifts the phone to his other hand, voice low. “You can be both. You can be brilliant at work and the best mum in the world. She’s going to grow up thinking women are absolute superheroes. Because she has you.”
Nora closes her eyes, lets that sit.
Just then, Remy stirs on the monitor. A soft whimper. Harry immediately sets the phone down and walks upstairs. Nora doesn’t hang up.
When he returns, Remy’s snuggled against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. Her hair is sticking up a bit, cheeks flushed from sleep. He picks the phone up again, adjusts it so Nora can see.
“Look who needed a cuddle,” he murmurs.
Nora practically melts.
“Hi, my beautiful bug,” she coos through the phone. Remy is too sleepy to respond, but she smiles in her half-sleep, like she knows her mum is near in some invisible way.
“We’re okay,” Harry says, rocking slightly.
“You’re amazing,” Nora whispers.
Harry smiles, kisses the top of Remy’s head. He looks at Nora again. “Next time, I want you to go without worrying about us, alright? We’ll be okay. Missing you is proof of how good we’ve got it.”
She wipes at her eyes.
“And I want you to know,” she adds, voice soft, “I love the dad you are. I never, not for a second, worry when she’s with you.”
The screen begins to blur a little for Harry, too.
“We’ll save you some leftover peas,” he jokes, and she laughs again.
They stay on the call until Nora is practically asleep and Harry is gently laying Remy back into her bed. Even apart, even across cities, they are still in sync.
First night alone? Survived. And loved through every second of it.
———————————————————————————
First mess and first reward.
The sticker chart hangs on the fridge like a warning sign.
“Potty Time = Sticker Time!” it declares in pastel letters Nora printed off Pinterest at 2 a.m. after one too many “gentle parenting hacks” videos on her feed. A smiling cartoon toilet grins back at her every morning like it knows what’s coming.
They’re two weeks in.
Two weeks of squatting next to a tiny plastic toilet in every room of the house. Two weeks of bribery, pleading, soggy trousers, Peppa Pig on loop, and more laundry than their early newborn days.
Harry wipes a hand across his jaw as he crouches beside Nora in the hallway. They're both eyeing Remy - pantsless, bouncing from foot to foot and insisting with increasing volume, “No wee-wee, Mama! No wee-wee, Dadda!”
“You’re dancing,” Nora says gently, fighting the urge to laugh and cry simultaneously.
“'M not,” Remy says.
Harry leans in like a hostage negotiator. “Bug, we’re not saying you have to go, but how about checking? Just sitting?”
“No!” Remy takes off running down the hall, bare bum wiggling like a threat.
They look at each other in silence. Then a splatter. Then the unmistakable “oh no” that echoes from the living room.
Nora exhales through her nose like she’s about to face a battlefield.
“You get her,” she says. “I’ll get the mop.”
Day eleven had been the worst.
Remy peed directly onto Harry’s socked feet while grinning - grinning - and then asked for a chocolate button.
He just stared at her. “You didn’t even try to make it to the potty.”
“I busy drawin',” she shrugged, like a tiny CEO explaining quarterly losses.
They’d considered waving the white flag that night. Called it early. Back to nappies. Back to dignity.
Instead, Nora had pulled out an old bag of tiny underwear covered in ducks and hearts and dinosaurs, and laid them out on the bed like sacred offerings.
“Two more days,” she said. “We go hard for two more days.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “We’re treating this like a hostage situation.”
“It is a hostage situation,” she muttered. “Only she’s the hostage and the captor.”
But it wasn’t all war.
There were moments, fleeting ones, that made them both clutch their chests.
Like when Remy sat on the potty reading her little board book, legs too short to touch the ground, completely unbothered, narrating out loud in her singsong voice: “An' bunny say - Wan' play with me?’”
Or when Harry found her trying to wipe using the entire roll of toilet paper and said, “You’ve used a forest, Rem,” and she giggled like she’d heard the greatest joke in the world.
Or the very first time she did it on the potty - and they both broke into wild applause, like she’d just solved a physics theorem. She clapped for herself, cheeks round with pride, and shouted, “I made a splash!”
They gave her two stickers and half a biscuit.
She asked for another biscuit the next time without even sitting down.
So when it finally happens, really happens, they almost miss it.
It’s a quiet Saturday afternoon. Rain drizzles outside, the dog’s asleep, the telly’s on low.
Nora’s halfway through folding laundry when she hears it: the soft sound of feet padding across the wood floors, the creak of the bathroom door, and the gentle click of plastic against tile.
She freezes.
Then - splash.
Her heart stops. “Harry?” she calls, dropping a onesie mid-fold.
He appears in the hallway, brows raised. They meet at the bathroom doorway and peer in like investigators.
Remy stands proudly in her dinosaur underwear and a too-big sweatshirt, the plastic potty beside her. Her curls are wild from a nap, and she’s holding up a hand.
“I went,” she says.
“Did you-?” Harry starts, crouching to eye level. “By yourself?”
Remy nods. “I felt the wee and I runned and I did it.”
There’s a stunned silence. Then Nora claps a hand over her mouth, eyes brimming, while Harry scoops Remy up and spins her in a wild, joyous circle.
“YOU DID IT!” he shouts. “You’re a potty champion!”
Remy giggles wildly, arms thrown out like airplane wings.
“I get sticker now?”
“You get five! And a chocolate button! And honestly I think you now legally own this house!”
Later that night, Remy’s tucked in bed, one hand around her bunny, a sticker proudly stuck to her pajama top.
Harry slides into the sofa beside Nora, a bowl of popcorn between them. They sit in peaceful silence for a moment, the kind that only happens after toddler bedtime.
“She did it,” Harry murmurs, still in awe.
“I know,” Nora whispers back, a little misty.
“Do you think we made too big a deal of it?”
“No. No, I think it was the correct amount of hysteria.”
A pause.
“…Do you think we’re cool parents?”
Nora turns to him, deadpan. “You clapped for a full minute and cried when she flushed.”
Harry grins. “So… yes?”
She chuckles, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“It’s gross and weird and exhausting,” she says, closing her eyes. “And I wouldn’t want to be doing it with anyone else.”
Harry kisses the top of her head and murmurs, “Same, love. Same.”
———————————————————————————
The first family portrait.
The drawing sits crooked on the fridge, clinging to its magnet like it’s sacred. Crayons in every direction. Scribbles layered over scribbles. What looks like a chicken wearing trousers. But it’s not a chicken, not according to Remy. It’s her baby brother.
“Well,” Harry says, hands on his hips as he inspects it with exaggerated seriousness, “it’s a bold interpretation. The strawberry-like shape for our son? Inspired. Avant-garde, even.”
Nora just stands beside him in quiet awe. Her hand, almost instinctively, rests on the curve of her belly.
It had started that morning like any other.
Nora was still in Harry’s t-shirt and her slippers, stirring porridge with one hand and scratching Milo’s head with the other. Harry was finishing up an email on his phone when Remy trotted into the kitchen, clutching a sheet of paper like it was ancient scripture.
“Mama, Dadda,” she declared, eyes shining. “I made you sumfing.”
She laid it on the floor like it belonged in a gallery.
Harry knelt first. “Oh, bug. This is… this is amazing. Walk me through it?”
Remy tapped each crayon figure with complete confidence. “That’s you,” she said, pointing to a tall, brown-haired stick person with suspiciously large hands. “That’s Mama - see, I drawed her tummy ‘cause baby there. That’s me,” she added, beaming, gesturing to a shorter figure with purple shoes. “And that’s Milo.” She grinned and pointed at a lumpy blob with four uneven legs and a tail sticking straight out.
Nora crouched next to them, hand over her mouth.
“And what’s this one, bug?” Harry asked gently, pointing at a red oval with green squiggles coming out of the top. It floated in the sky between Nora and Remy, with a smiley face drawn sideways.
“That’s baby bruvver,” Remy said. “He looks like a strawberry ‘cause he’s my strawbry baby.”
Nora made a noise. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Somewhere in between. Harry turned toward her just in time to catch her blinking too fast, lips pressed together.
“You okay?” he murmured, touching her knee.
She nodded. “I just-” Her voice cracked. “She drew us. All of us.”
Harry stood and kissed the top of Remy’s head. “You’re the best artist I know.”
Remy giggled, delighted.
Later that afternoon, when Remy was down for her nap and the house had quieted, Harry found Nora standing by the fridge.
She was staring at the picture again, her hand absentmindedly tracing the strawberry-shaped brother.
“Nora?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
He stepped closer. Gently. Softly.
Her shoulders trembled before she spoke. “It just hit me,” she whispered. “She sees us. I mean really sees us. Her little brain made this, this messy, perfect little snapshot of us and-” She shook her head. “I just- why am I crying over a strawberry baby?”
Harry smiled and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Because,” he said quietly, “you’re carrying her brother. And you’re exhausted. And hormonal. And full of porridge you didn’t want. And you love her so much it makes your ribs ache.”
She let out a weak, teary laugh. “It does. That’s exactly what it feels like.”
He turned her in his arms, cupping her cheeks. “You made that little girl, Nor. And now you’re making another. And they see us. They see who we are. Even if you feel messy and tired and scared.”
“I do feel all of those,” she said, voice trembling.
He leaned in, nose brushing hers. “You’re the best mum. Truly. This house runs because of you.”
She tucked her head into his chest, arms around his waist, letting him hold her like a harbor.
“She drew you huge,” she mumbled into his shirt.
He chuckled. “Yeah. Big hands and all. Looks like I bench press cows.”
“She drew my belly,” Nora said softly, brushing her fingers over her bump. “She already knows who’s coming.”
He kissed her hair, long and slow. “She’s ready. And we will be too.”
They stood like that for a while - surrounded by the smell of coffee, the hum of the fridge, and the soft sound of Milo snoring under the kitchen table.
Author’s Note: So… welcome to the prequel. This is where it all begins: the banter, the tension, the soft little moments that turned into something bigger than either of them expected. I hope you enjoy falling in love with them all over again - or maybe for the very first time.
Also… I know Dad Harry got requested a bit more as a trope… but that one is taking a little bit longer to finish as I’m a bit stuck. But here is firefighter Harry for those that care…
> Read ‘Come Back To Me’ here
> Find my masterlist here
———————————————————————————
Amelia Lockwood wasn’t one for surprises. But sometimes, the universe handed you one with broad shoulders and a clipboard.
It was just past 10 a.m., and the classroom buzzed with quiet energy. Seven-year-olds, it turned out, had infinite questions about everything - especially when Amelia asked them to describe the world’s most unusual animal for their creative writing task.
“A flying lion,” Willow announced, pencil tapping her cheek. “But it only flies when it’s happy. Like, if it eats spaghetti.”
Amelia smiled, crouching beside her desk. “That’s very specific. I like it. What kind of spaghetti?”
“Tomato,” Willow said confidently. “But not the chunky kind. That’s gross.”
She moved between desks, offering encouragement, keeping the calm rhythm of the morning intact. This was her favourite kind of day - smooth, focused, a little silly. No glitter spills yet. No lost lunchboxes. A miracle, honestly.
Then the fire alarm screamed through the halls.
Amelia stood instantly. No panic, just motion. “Alright, everyone,” she called over the wail. “Just like we practiced. Grab your jumpers, push in your chairs. We walk in a line - quietly and calmly.”
Some students jumped, others hesitated. One boy clapped his hands over his ears. But they trusted her, and within thirty seconds, they were filing out of the building in neat-ish rows, Amelia at the front with her clipboard and register.
Outside, the air was crisp, edged with the smell of fresh-cut grass. A line of fire trucks was parked by the staff lot - right, the drill. Today was the fire department’s annual safety review.
Amelia directed her students to their spot on the field, kneeling to tie a shoelace and patting one boy gently on the shoulder as he whispered that the alarm had made his tummy feel weird.
“I know,” she said softly. “But you did everything right. And we’re safe. That’s what matters.”
“That’s exactly what I told my little sister,” a voice said beside her.
Amelia looked up. And up.
A firefighter stood nearby, broad-shouldered, holding a clipboard and a stopwatch. His navy blue uniform hugged strong arms, his curls tucked beneath a cap with the station logo stitched on the front. His face was open and kind, with a bit of stubble and - okay, those dimples were unfair.
“Oh,” Amelia said, blinking. “Hi.”
He smiled. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
She stood, brushing grass from her skirt. “No worries. I’m just glad they didn’t scream.”
He chuckled, nodding toward the class. “They did great. Some of the best drill times we’ve seen today.”
“We practice,” she said. “And I may have promised extra recess if they didn’t run in circles.”
He looked impressed. “You’re good.”
“Thanks. I try.”
There was a brief pause - not awkward, just full of something unspoken.
She glanced at his clipboard. “Do you do this often?”
“Fire drills?” he asked. “More than I’d like. But we rotate between the primary schools. I’m usually assigned here. Familiar faces, you know?”
Amelia raised a brow. “I’ve worked here three years and don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
He gave a sheepish shrug. “Must’ve gotten lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you feel about alarms.”
One of her students tugged her sleeve then, asking if it was time to go back in. She gave a soft “Almost, sweetheart,” and turned back, only to find the firefighter already stepping away.
He hesitated, looked like he might say something - then nodded once, as if deciding against it.
“Thanks for being here,” Amelia said instead.
He tipped his head. “Anytime.”
Then he walked off, clipboard in hand, calling out to another firefighter across the field.
She didn’t catch his name. He didn’t ask for hers.
But she watched him for a second longer than she meant to - watched the way he moved like someone used to carrying heavy things without complaint. Watched him scratch behind his ear when he laughed at something another firefighter said. Watched him glance back once, just once, before turning away completely.
Amelia shook her head and turned back to her class.
It was nothing. Just part of the job. A fire drill, a kind face, a strange little flicker in her stomach that would probably go away by lunchtime.
Still, that night, as she sat grading spelling tests on the couch, she caught herself doodling tiny flames in the margins.
———————————————————————————
He didn’t even get her name. Rookie mistake.
By the time they were packing up the trucks and wrapping hoses back into tidy coils, Harry couldn’t get the image of the schoolteacher out of his head.
She’d crouched so easily beside that kid, voice calm and sure, like she’d done it a hundred times - which, maybe she had. And the way she’d looked up at him like that? A bit startled, but with the kind of eyes that stuck with him.
“Earth to Styles,” came Rachel’s voice, teasing and way too loud. “You’ve coiled that hose three times. You planning to sleep with it?”
Harry blinked. “Right. Sorry.”
Mick, one of the senior firefighters, snorted from across the bay. “Don’t tell me it’s the teacher from this morning.”
Harry straightened. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” Rachel grinned, tossing a rag over her shoulder. “You were talking to her for, what, thirty seconds? And we all saw it.”
“She was just being polite,” Harry muttered, though his ears were already pink.
“She smiled at you, Harry,” Rachel said. “Like, real smiled. I thought your knees buckled.”
“They did,” chuckled Dev, the youngest on the squad, as he pulled the door to the rig closed. “He stood there for a full five seconds like he’d forgotten the alphabet.”
“I didn’t forget the alphabet.”
“You did,” Mick agreed. “Didn’t even ask her name. You okay, Romeo?”
Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t have time.”
“You had time,” Rachel shot back. “You just short-circuited. Classic crush symptoms. Next time, maybe don’t let a literal fire drill catch you off guard.”
“Alright, alright,” Harry laughed, waving them off as he stepped into the gear room. “I’ll coil your bloody hoses if you keep talking.”
“Yeah, but will you ask her out?” Dev called after him.
Harry shut the door behind him but not before muttering, under his breath, “I really, really might.”
———————————————————————————
The worst part wasn’t that her car had died. It was that it had the audacity to die in front of a bakery she liked.
The engine made a sound like it was clearing its throat, twice, then sputtered into silence as Amelia pulled to the curb.
She blinked, tried the ignition again. Nothing. Just a click and that quiet sinking feeling in her chest.
Perfect.
She sat back, hands on the steering wheel, lips pressed together. It had already been a long day - glue in her hair, a child’s nosebleed mid-maths, and a parent who thought “gifted” meant superior in every measurable way. She had been planning to grab a sourdough roll and an aggressively sweet coffee and eat it in silence with the windows down.
Instead, she was in a stalled car in a side street that suddenly felt far too small.
Amelia pulled her phone from her bag and dialed roadside assistance. The woman on the line was apologetic and kind, but not particularly helpful.
“Soonest we can have someone out is seventy to ninety minutes,” she said. “Is it in a safe location?”
“Define safe,” Amelia mumbled, glancing in the rearview at the stream of cars squeezing past her.
The woman chuckled. “If it’s driveable, try a parking lot. Otherwise, hazard lights and deep breathing.”
She hung up, threw her head back against the seat, and let out a frustrated groan. She’d just reached for the emergency chocolate in the glovebox when someone knocked gently on her window.
She jumped, a tiny yelp escaping her, then turned and saw a familiar face bending down, squinting slightly through the glass.
Oh.
Oh, no.
It was him. Fire drill guy. The firefighter with the clipboard and the navy shirt that fit a little too well. The one who had haunted her Thursday night brain like an unsent email.
She rolled the window down.
“Hi,” he said, voice warm with recognition. “Looks like you’re having a rough one.”
She let out a dry laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’ve seen car fires look calmer.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
He grinned, dimples and all. “Didn’t mean it like that. Want some help?”
She glanced toward the steering wheel. “Unless you moonlight as a mechanic…”
“Actually,” he said, already stepping back, “I do a little moonlighting.”
He opened the driver’s side door, and they swapped positions without much thought, he slid in and popped the hood like he’d done it a thousand times - because he probably had.
He leaned out, propped it open, then disappeared from view for a moment.
Amelia stood there, stunned by how quickly this had escalated from my car broke down to I’m sharing airspace with clipboard firefighter and he smells like cedar and engine oil.
He returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a rag. “Your battery’s likely shot. Might’ve been coming for a while. Do you have jumper cables?”
“I think so,” she said, rifling through the boot. “Somewhere under the… emergency blanket and three different tote bags.”
He laughed, properly laughed, as he found them himself and popped the hood on his truck, which was parked just ahead.
“I swear I’m more competent in a classroom,” she muttered, cheeks warm.
“I never doubted that,” he said, hooking the cables in place.
She leaned against her car, watching. “Do you rescue stranded teachers often?”
“Only the ones who bribe their students with recess.”
Her mouth curled. “You remembered.”
“I tried not to,” he teased. “But I’ve had a few people at the station grilling me about a mysterious schoolteacher, so it stuck.”
“Oh no,” she groaned. “I’ve caused gossip.”
“Harmless stuff.” He glanced over, eyes crinkling. “They’re just surprised I didn’t get your name.”
Amelia held out a hand, playful. “Amelia Lockwood. Year Two teacher. Slightly stressed but a highly functional adult.”
He took it, firm but warm. “Harry Styles. Firefighter. Reasonably decent at car trouble and remembering faces.”
Their hands lingered a second longer than necessary before the engine clicked back to life behind them.
Harry gave the car a pat. “There she goes.”
Amelia beamed, genuine and bright. “Thank you. Really.”
“No worries. I’m off-duty… you saved me from having to fold laundry.”
She hesitated, nerves dancing across her stomach. “Can I… buy you a coffee? As a thank-you? Assuming you drink sugar with your caffeine.”
Harry smiled again, softer, this time. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. But I want to.”
“Then yeah,” he said, tugging his truck keys from his pocket. “Let’s get that coffee.”
———————————————————————————
The bell above the café door jingled as Amelia stepped inside, the warm smell of roasted coffee beans and bread wrapping around her like a soft jumper.
Harry held the door for her, his other hand still on the keys to his truck, which he’d parked around the corner. “After you.”
“Chivalry and jumper cables,” she muttered. “You’re ticking boxes.”
He glanced sideways as they joined the short queue. “Is that so?”
“Not saying it’s a list,” she shrugged, “but if it were a list…”
He grinned, and it made his dimples show - one on the left deeper than the right. “Well, I’ll try not to blow it before you get your coffee.”
They stepped forward in the queue.
“You come here a lot?” he asked, scanning the blackboard menu like he hadn’t already picked something.
“Sometimes,” Amelia said. “It’s walking distance from school, and they know to put two sugars in my order without judging me.”
“That’s rare,” Harry said. “My team judges me if I put honey in my tea.”
“Do you put honey in your tea?”
“Depends,” he said. “Am I being judged?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Absolutely.”
When they reached the counter, she ordered her usual - a strong oat flat white and a sourdough cinnamon roll - and Harry followed suit, nodding like it was his idea all along. They took their drinks and sat by the front window, sunlight slanting in across the wooden table.
“So,” Amelia said, stirring her coffee, “do you always stop to help strangers with car trouble, or am I special?”
Harry raised a brow, smiling. “Bit bold of you to assume you’re a stranger.”
Her lips twitched. “Oh?”
“You’re Amelia Lockwood. You teach Year Two. You bribe your students with recess. You’ve got impressive clipboard power. And you panic when your car dies.”
“Only slightly.”
“Also, you were eating chocolate at the wheel.”
She gasped, laughing. “You saw that?!”
“Caught a glimpse. Bold move in a crisis.”
“Emergency chocolate,” she said with a mock-serious nod. “Standard teacher protocol.”
Harry sipped his drink, eyes warm. “Well, now I know who to call next time I’m dealing with a paperwork disaster.”
“You fill out a lot of forms as a firefighter?”
“Too many. Health and safety, incident logs, truck checks…”
“And here I thought you just saved cats and looked good in navy.”
He leaned back, playful. “You think I look good in navy?”
She made a face of mock horror. “I said what I said.”
A silence settled - not awkward, just gentle - as they ate. The roll was flaky and warm in her hands. Harry seemed content to let the conversation drift, but not disengaged. His eyes flicked to hers often, with a kind of quiet interest that made her pulse tick up.
“How long have you been a firefighter?” she asked.
“Five years,” he said. “Before that, I was a mechanic for a while. Thought I’d stick with it, but…” He shrugged. “Something about it didn’t feel right.”
“And this does?”
“Most days,” he said, then smiled. “Especially when there’s a school drill and someone makes faces behind me while I’m talking.”
“I wasn’t making faces.”
“You were,” he said. “Little ones.”
She bit into her roll, grinning. “You were so serious with your clipboard. You looked like you were about to write someone up.”
“I was trying to be professional.”
“You had a pen behind your ear and everything.”
Harry chuckled, and she could tell by the softness in his eyes that he was enjoying this - not just the conversation, but her. The kind of enjoyment that went beyond politeness. It made her chest feel… light. Untethered.
When they finished, Harry stood to toss their plates and napkins. He lingered by the bin, then returned with a slight shuffle of nerves.
“So,” he said. “I’ve got a couple days off this week.”
“Oh?”
“I was wondering…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Would you want to do something again? Not car-related, I mean.”
Amelia blinked, lips curling. “Like a date?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, then paused. “Well. I was gonna say a second date.”
She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Second?”
He gestured between them. “Coffee. Bread. Laughing. I don’t know what your standards are, but where I’m from, this feels like a date.”
She took her time answering, purely to make him sweat - though the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
“Alright,” she said finally, standing with her empty cup. “Then I guess you’re asking me on a second date.”
“I am,” he said, trying not to look too pleased.
“Okay, then,” she said, brushing past him with a flirty grin. “I’ll let you know if you make it to a third.”
As they stepped out into the sun, Harry matched her stride, and for the first time in a long week, she felt her shoulders drop and her cheeks ache from smiling.
———————————————————————————
Harry wasn’t nervous. He was… alert. That’s what he was telling himself.
He adjusted the cuff of his button-down shirt for the fourth time, then checked his phone again. Amelia had texted she was “two mins away,” which realistically meant five. He liked that about her already - honest, but also human.
The little Italian restaurant he’d picked had low lighting and linen tablecloths that didn’t take themselves too seriously. The air smelled like garlic, olive oil, and red wine. Soft jazz played somewhere near the back. His palms were slightly warm. Not sweaty. Just warm.
He’d just taken a sip of water when he looked up and stopped mid-swallow.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, standing a little too quickly.
There she was.
Amelia Lockwood, walking toward him in a dress the colour of ripe cherries, heels clicking softly against the tile. Her hair was down, glossy and effortless, and her lips were curved in this smug little smile that said yeah, I know I look good. And she did. More than good.
She looked like the reason the lights dimmed. Like the music slowed just to match her steps.
“You’re staring,” she said as she reached the table, voice low and playful.
Harry huffed a soft laugh. “Sorry. I forgot how to talk for a second.”
He pulled her chair out, brushing a hand along her back as she sat. “You look… incredible.”
Her smile tugged wider. “Thanks. You clean up alright too.”
He raised an eyebrow, sitting across from her. “Alright?”
“Okay, very alright,” she allowed, eyes drifting over his open collar and sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. “Happy?”
“Getting there.”
They ordered wine, something Italian that neither of them could pronounce, and settled into easy conversation. The tension between them wasn’t awkward, just… charged. Like they both knew this was going somewhere, but were having fun pretending not to rush it.
“So,” Amelia said, twirling pasta around her fork, “were your firefighter friends invested in tonight?”
Harry groaned. “You’ve got no idea.”
“They grilled you?”
“Relentlessly. I’m pretty sure Dev tried to slip condoms into my jacket pocket when I wasn’t looking.”
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her wine. “Tell him I’m flattered.”
“Oh, he already assumed you’re out of my league.”
“Smart man.”
They moved from pasta to shared tiramisu, leaning in closer across the table now. Her elbow brushed his once, then again. Each touch was casual, but deliberate.
He watched the way she laughed with her whole face - eyes crinkling, nose scrunching slightly. She was sharp, warm, quick. And she looked at him like he was interesting, not just there.
Halfway through telling a story about one of her more chaotic students, she shifted slightly in her chair and Harry felt the unmistakable press of her foot along his calf.
It was slow. Intentional.
She didn’t break eye contact.
His breath hitched.
“Trying really hard to look unbothered right now,” he said, voice a little lower.
Her lips curved, wicked and sweet. “You’re doing a terrible job.”
He sipped his wine to cover the grin tugging at his mouth. “You always this forward on your ‘second’ dates?”
She leaned in, chin resting on her hand. “Only with firefighters who rescue me and then feed me carbs.”
“Good to know.”
Her foot stroked up his calf again, deliberate.
Harry cleared his throat, sitting back a little like that might save him. It didn’t.
“This restaurant’s nice,” she said innocently.
“Is it?” he said, tone tight. “Haven’t noticed anything besides your leg.”
Amelia bit back a smirk, then finally - mercifully - withdrew her foot and popped the last bite of dessert into her mouth.
He let out a slow breath.
“I like you flustered,” she murmured, dabbing at her lips with a napkin.
“Yeah,” he said, running a hand down his jaw. “I can tell.”
By the time the cheque arrived, Harry was mentally shifting his whole evening around. He hadn’t made any assumptions, she didn’t seem like the kind of woman you assumed anything with, but there was something decided in her posture now. Something open.
“You want to go for a walk?” he asked as they stepped into the warm night air.
Amelia looked up at him, eyes a little darker than before. “Only if you don’t take me home yet.”
Harry blinked.
She smiled. “Told you. I’m forward.”
He swallowed hard, then offered his arm with a half-smile. “I’m starting to like that about you.”
They strolled down the street toward the quieter end of the block, the air between them heavier now. Not uncomfortable - just simmering with all the things they hadn’t said yet. The kind of tension that felt like a question hanging in the space between heartbeats.
And Harry… was already imagining what the answer would be.
———————————————————————————
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Harry’s place, maybe a chaotic bachelor pad or something halfway furnished and smelling faintly of smoke and aftershave. But the minute he unlocked the front door and stepped aside for her, she knew she was wrong.
His home was warm. Lived-in, but tidy. Shoes neatly lined up by the door. A record player in the corner. Soft lighting. A throw blanket draped over the arm of a leather couch that looked far too comfortable to just be decorative.
“This is… not what I expected,” she said, slipping out of her heels.
He turned, raising a brow. “Is that good or bad?”
She smiled. “It’s good. Just… soft. You’re kind of soft.”
Harry snorted. “Please don’t tell my coworkers that.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They stood there a beat too long in the entryway - the air between them humming, charged.
“I want you to know,” he said suddenly, voice a little rougher now, “you being here doesn’t come with expectations. I just wanted to spend more time with you.”
Amelia stepped closer, her fingers brushing lightly along the collar of his shirt. “But what if I want to meet those expectations?”
His eyes darkened - just a flicker, but it sent her pulse skittering. “Then I’d say… we should probably stop talking.”
She kissed him. It wasn’t a sweet first-date kiss. It was hungry. Breath-stealing. Like something pent up over two weeks of glances and brushes and low laughter had finally snapped loose inside both of them.
Hands fumbled with buttons and zippers, urgent and clumsy. His shirt landed somewhere on the hallway floor, and she barely registered him lifting her into his arms until her back hit the bedroom wall. There was tongue, teeth, breathless laughter - and then no more laughter, only sighs and low, desperate sounds as they found the bed.
Clothes peeled away like they were in the way. And then it was just heat and skin and hands everywhere, mouths on necks and thighs and hips. It was messy and all-consuming and absolutely everything she hadn’t realized she wanted until now. Every time she thought they’d slowed down, it was only a pause to catch breath before diving back in.
When it was over - or at least, when the haze of it settled - they were tangled together in the sheets, the room thick with the scent of sex and the quiet buzz of his bedside fan. Her skin glistened. His chest rose and fell, still heavy with effort.
Amelia let out a breathy laugh, arm draped across his stomach. “So… that happened.”
Harry turned his head on the pillow, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’ve ruined sex for me.”
She grinned, half delirious. “Come again?”
“No one else is ever going to feel like this. This-” He gestured between them. “It’s unfair. You’ve raised the bar to an unattainable level.”
Amelia leaned over and kissed him, slow and messy and lingering. “I’ll try not to feel too guilty about that.”
They lay in silence for a few minutes, their breaths syncing without trying. The kind of silence that didn’t need filling.
Then she shifted onto her side, propped up on an elbow. “I didn’t think I’d like someone this quickly.”
Harry glanced at her, one hand resting loosely over his stomach. “Yeah?”
“I was kind of on a break from dating, to be honest. Told myself I didn’t have the energy to learn someone new. The awkward beginnings, the texting games, all of it. And then you…” She trailed off, shrugged lightly. “You made it easy.”
He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. “Same.”
She looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Wasn’t looking either,” he admitted. “Just kind of thought… I’d be doing my job, living my life. Never expected to get handed a clipboard during a fire drill and then meet the woman who’d flip everything upside down.”
She smiled at the memory. “I looked like a disaster that day.”
“You looked like the best kind of disaster,” he said, deadpan. “Totally distracted me from checking the fire exits.”
She laughed, letting her head drop to his shoulder. “I still can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”
He kissed her hair. “I know the feeling.”
There was something soft in the way they curled into each other after that. Not sleepy yet - just wrapped in the kind of closeness that made the room feel smaller, safer.
She ran a fingertip across his chest, idly tracing the faint scar near his collarbone. “So… are you one of those guys who panics after things get too real too fast?”
Harry snorted. “No. I’m the guy who already knows he wants to see you again tomorrow. And the next day.”
She smiled into his skin. “Good answer.”
———————————————————————————
The smell of something sweet drifted into the bedroom before she even opened her eyes - warm, sugary, familiar. There was a soft hum, too, low and tuneful, and the faint sound of a spatula tapping against a pan.
Amelia blinked awake slowly, the sunlight slanting through Harry’s curtains casting soft golden lines across the bed. The sheets beside her were empty, still warm.
She sat up carefully, her limbs deliciously sore in that deeply satisfied, post-wonderful-sex kind of way. The t-shirt she’d been wearing last night was somewhere lost in the hallway, so she reached for the first thing she could find - one of Harry’s button-ups draped over a chair. It smelled like him when she slipped it on: soap, cedar, a little bit of smoke, and something purely him.
Padding barefoot out to the kitchen, she leaned against the doorframe quietly for a moment, just watching.
Harry stood at the stove in grey sweatpants, bare back flexing slightly as he flipped a pancake. The radio played softly and he was humming along under his breath, hair mussed and curls flattened on one side. There were two mugs of coffee already poured on the counter, steam rising lazily from both.
She smiled without meaning to. This didn’t feel like a one-night thing. It didn’t feel like a fling. It felt real.
She took a step in, and the floor creaked. Harry turned his head, and when he saw her - his shirt barely buttoned, sleeves rolled to her elbows, eyes still sleepy - he grinned so wide it made her stomach flutter.
“Well, good morning,” he said, voice warm and teasing.
“Hi,” she murmured, brushing hair from her face.
“You’re shy this morning,” he said, stepping away from the pan and walking over. “Very different vibe from the woman who bit my shoulder last night.”
Amelia laughed, blushing, trying to duck her head - but he caught her around the waist and pulled her in, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He kissed her there softly, arms wrapping fully around her as she melted into his chest.
“I like this look on you,” he said into her skin. “You can keep the shirt, by the way.”
“I was planning on it,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
He leaned back just enough to kiss her temple, then her cheek. “Coffee’s ready. Pancakes are fluffy. You picked the right morning to stay over.”
She smiled. “Is that a routine thing? You cooking breakfast after all your conquests?”
“Bold of you to assume I have conquests,” he replied, handing her a mug.
“Right. You’re very chaste. I can tell.”
He smirked. “You’re the first person to wear that shirt, for what it’s worth.”
Amelia looked up at him, surprised at the sincerity in his voice.
“Really?”
Harry nodded. “Didn’t want to share any of this with someone until it felt… right.”
She took the mug from him and took a slow sip. “I’m glad I stayed.”
“You never actually left,” he said, grinning.
———————————————————————————
They sat at the small round table in his kitchen - Amelia curled up in the oversized shirt with her legs crossed under her, and Harry sitting across from her, flipping more pancakes onto her plate with the pride of a man who had truly mastered his Sunday morning game.
“Okay, but seriously,” she said, mouth half-full, “these are like… next level. What’s the secret?”
“Love and cinnamon,” he said.
“You’re lying.”
“A little. It’s buttermilk.”
She laughed. “I’m genuinely impressed. You may have ruined pancakes for me. It’s these or nothing now.”
“Good. My plan is working.”
He passed the jar of blueberry jam across the table. Amelia scooped a little onto her knife and tilted her head, smirking at him.
“Lean in a sec.”
Harry obliged, suspicious but curious. She reached forward slowly, and very deliberately dabbed a smear of jam just outside the corner of his mouth.
He froze. “Did you just—?”
“Just trying to see if jam makes you more kissable.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Scientific method?”
“Always.”
Before he could say anything else, she leaned in and licked it off - a slow, deliberate movement that immediately turned the air thick. Then she kissed him. Open-mouthed, teasing, too short.
When she pulled away, she was grinning, smug and completely unbothered. He blinked at her, stunned.
“I- Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “So we’re doing that now.”
“I was being very mature about breakfast. You started this.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with a napkin and shooting her a pointed look that didn’t quite hide the twitch of his lips.
“Thanks,” she said sweetly, stealing a piece of pancake from his plate with her fork. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He reached for her hand and held it over the table, thumb brushing slowly over her knuckles. “I like you, Amelia Lockwood.”
She smiled, a little softer now. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The moment held - something warm and slow settling between them, comfortable and promising. She didn’t say anything at first, just traced her fingertip over the back of his hand.
Finally, she looked up. “I like you too, Harry Styles.”
“Even though I make dad-joke level puns and leave my boots by the door?”
“Especially because of that.”
———————————————————————————
Harry was halfway through cleaning one of the ladders when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hands quickly on a nearby towel and pulled it out.
Amelia
you left something at mine
looks important
and very firefighty
Harry
that’s not a word
Amelia
and yet you understood me perfectly
do you need it?
i can drop it off… i’m near the station on my way to lunch
Harry
yes. thank you!
He shook his head, laughing, and told Rachel, that he’d be stepping out front for a second.
She raised a brow. “Is this a ‘certain school teacher’ kind of errand?”
He grinned. “Possibly.”
Rachel just chuckled and waved him off. “Tell her to come say hi sometime. We’re all dying to meet the woman who has had you smiling for the last three months.”
Outside, Amelia was waiting by the sidewalk, hair tied up, sunglasses on, holding the small canvas bag that had his multipurpose tool belt in it - something he absolutely needed back. She looked casually beautiful in jeans and a plain tee, and when she saw him, her whole face lit up.
“This looks important,” she said, holding the bag up.
“You have no idea,” Harry said, taking it from her, and without a second thought, leaned in to press a long, grateful kiss to her lips. “You saved me.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, but before she could step back, she glanced over his shoulder and hesitated. “I’d kiss you goodbye again, but I can feel about twelve people staring at me.”
Harry turned slowly.
A part of the crew was at the garage door. Rachel. Alexa. Mason. Dev. A few of the newer recruits. All very unsubtly pretending to be engaged in absolutely nothing while watching him like it was a damn rom-com.
Harry sighed. “Great.”
Amelia bit her lip. “Well. You’ve been caught.”
“Might as well do this properly, then.” He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You want a tour?”
Her eyes widened. “Wait- are you sure? I didn’t mean to crash your shift.”
“You didn’t. Come on,” he said with a grin. “We’ll get the public shaming over with all at once.”
The moment they stepped through the door, Alexa immediately clapped. “Aww, look who finally brought his girlfriend to work!”
Harry didn’t correct her - just glanced at Amelia. Their eyes met for a beat, a small flicker of something unspoken passing between them. It wasn’t official, not technically. But neither of them flinched from it.
Amelia tilted her head, clearly amused.
“She looks like trouble,” Rachel said teasingly.
“Oh, she is,” Harry said, slipping into his usual smirk. “Total menace.”
Amelia gave him a sweet, sarcastic smile. “Right back at you.”
Mason stepped up next, extending a hand. “I’m Mason. I’ve been waiting to meet you just to verify that he didn’t make you up.”
“Nice to meet you,” Amelia said, giving a firm shake. “And don’t worry - he definitely didn’t. Although the amount he talks about this place, I could probably pass your certification exam.”
“Great,” Rachel said, leaning against the wall. “We’ll just throw you into the next live burn. Trial by fire. Literally.”
“I teach seven-year-olds. Nothing scares me anymore.”
“Respect,” Alexa murmured, eyes wide.
Harry leaned over, whispering, “This is why I’m obsessed with her.”
Amelia rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of his hand. They spent the next ten minutes walking through the main areas - the rec room, the kitchen, the bunk spaces. Harry showed her where they hung out during downtime, where they ran drills in the lot, and even pointed out the infamous fridge that Mason swore was cursed.
“This is very much like a dorm,” Amelia said, inspecting the lineup of mismatched mugs on the counter.
Harry chuckled. “Pretty much. Except we’re legally responsible for saving people.”
“Terrifying.”
“Yeah.”
She looked around once more, clearly trying to take it all in. “Thanks for showing me. It’s… really cool to see it.”
“I’m glad you came.” He lowered his voice a little. “And also, I’m glad you’re not scared off now that you’ve met the crew.”
Amelia laughed, placing a hand on his chest. “They’re not that bad.”
“Give it time.”
She checked her phone and winced. “Okay, I actually do need to go - staff meeting in fifteen and I still haven’t eaten.”
“Want me to walk you out?”
“No, you’ve already risked enough mockery for one day.”
“Not mockery,” Mason called. “Celebration.”
“Leave now while you still have dignity,” Alexa added.
Harry rolled his eyes and walked her toward the garage entrance anyway. Just before she stepped out, she turned around and tugged him in for another kiss - softer this time, but no less sure.
“Thanks for not pretending I was just ‘dropping something off,’” she said quietly.
“Thanks for not pretending I wasn’t worth the stop.”
They smiled at each other, and for a moment, the noise behind them faded.
Then someone (probably Mason) made a very loud kissy noise, and Harry flipped them off over Amelia’s shoulder.
“I’ll text you later?” she said, already backing away.
“Yeah. And hey,” he added, watching her with a soft smile, “thanks again.”
She gave a tiny wave, then slipped around the corner and out of sight.
Back inside, Harry barely got ten feet before Rachel and Alexa ambushed him.
“She’s pretty,” she said, amused.
“Very pretty,” Alexa added. “And fiery.”
“She’s a schoolteacher, not a dragon.”
“Same thing.”
Mason dropped onto the couch dramatically. “We were starting to think you made her up.”
“You all are obsessed with my love life,” Harry muttered, tossing the bag Amelia had brought onto the counter.
“Because we’re invested,” Alexa said.
Rachel nodded. “You smile like an idiot every time you get a text.”
Harry rolled his eyes again but couldn’t hide the grin sneaking onto his face. “Alright, alright. Can we get back to work now, or do you want to ask what our first date was like too?”
They immediately all raised their hands.
He groaned and walked away.
“Her foot on your calf under the table during dinner,” Alexa called. “That’s my guess!”
“I’m never bringing her back here again,” Harry muttered.
But the truth was, he absolutely would.
———————————————————————————
The roof of the firehouse was still warm beneath them, radiating the last of the day’s heat into the soles of their shoes. A soft breeze tugged at the edges of Amelia’s t-shirt as she leaned back on her palms, head tilted to the sky, legs stretched out in front of her. Crickets chirped somewhere below, and the town’s hum had finally quieted, like even it was letting itself exhale for a moment.
Harry handed her a cold bottle, the label already damp from the cooler they’d brought up.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his against hers.
“To what?”
He thought for a second. “To me not falling asleep mid conversation this time.”
She snorted, sipping. “To that.”
It was easy with her. Even after months, it still surprised him sometimes - how natural it felt to sit beside her, without the need to impress or fill silence. She didn’t demand noise. She just let him be. And he liked who he was when he was around her.
“You know,” she said, nudging his sneaker with hers, “for a place that smells like smoke and sweat ninety percent of the time, this rooftop’s kind of romantic.”
He gave a quiet laugh. “Don’t let the guys hear you say that. They’ll start hosting date nights up here.”
“Oh god, no,” she said, grinning. “Could you imagine Rachel with a cheese board?”
He leaned back on his elbows, his shoulder brushing against hers. “You say that like Rachel doesn’t have a Pinterest board called ‘Apocalyptic Charcuterie.’”
Amelia laughed - properly, head thrown back, nose crinkled - and the sound bounced between the walls like it belonged there.
They kept chatting, the kind of soft, rambling talk that only shows up late at night - about songs that reminded them of childhood, ridiculous school stories, weird foods they swore were actually good. Every so often, their knees bumped, or she’d brush a hand against his when reaching for the bottle opener. He didn’t move away. Neither did she.
Eventually, the conversation drifted, the space between words growing as they both stared up at the sky. The stars were clearer here than in town. Dozens of them scattered across the dark, like someone had flung glitter on velvet.
Harry turned to say something - maybe a joke, maybe something about constellations he half-remembered - but stopped short.
She wasn’t speaking. She was just looking.
Head tilted up, eyes soft, lips parted slightly in thought. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the label of her beer. The light breeze lifted the ends of her hair, and her profile was etched against the moonlight in the kind of way that felt like a painting.
And in that moment, everything just… settled.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just clear.
This was it.
He didn’t want anyone else on this rooftop. He didn’t want anyone else drinking his beer, or laughing at his stories, or showing up at his station holding something “firefighty” he’d forgotten. He wanted her. Fully, with no blurred lines or half-definitions.
His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“Hey, mills?”
She glanced over. “Yeah?”
He swallowed. “I know we’re already sort of… doing it. Whatever this is.”
She raised a brow, playful. “Your powers of observation are incredible, firefighter.”
He smiled, a little sheepish. “I just mean… I’d really like to call you my girlfriend now. Like, properly.”
Amelia blinked. It wasn’t surprise exactly - more like that moment when you finally find the thing you’ve been wondering if they’d say first.
She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him for a second. Then she smiled - slow, crooked, teasing.
“God, it’s about time, Styles.”
Relief bubbled up through his chest, laced with warmth. He laughed, hand coming up to cup the side of her face.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Well,” she said, leaning in like she was considering it, “only if I get to call you my boyfriend and make fun of how much you cry at Pixar movies.”
He groaned. “That was one time-”
“Luca,” she reminded him. “You sniffled into your hoodie.”
“That was a sad fish-boy situation.”
She tilted her face toward him until their noses brushed. “So is that a yes to me being your girlfriend?”
He kissed her before answering - soft and smiling against her mouth.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s a yes.”
They sat there for a while after that - not needing to fill the silence with anything more. Just the occasional sip of beer, the brush of a hand across a knee, her head leaning on his shoulder as the stars burned above them.
And when she eventually sighed and said, “Okay, boyfriend, now I’m cold,” he shrugged out of his hoodie and draped it over her shoulders like it was instinct.
Synopsis: In a quiet town, firefighter Harry Styles and schoolteacher Amelia Lockwood share a deep, established love, built on everyday moments and quiet strength. Their world is shaken when a devastating fire breaks out at Amelia’s school, leaving her injured. As Harry races against time, battling smoke and fear, he must confront the possibility of losing the woman he wants to spend forever with. Amidst hospital rooms and whispered promises, their bond is tested and strengthened, reminding them both what it means to come home - to each other.
Trigger Warnings: Fire and smoke inhalation injury, physical injury/burns, hospitalisation, trauma, anxiety and fear of losing a loved one.
———————————————————————————
The alarm was cruel. It always was.
Harry reached out with one arm, silencing it before it could shriek a second time. The other arm stayed firmly around Amelia, who made a low, tired sound of protest and tucked her face into his chest. Her hair smelled like lavender and something sugary, probably her students had made cookies again. She always brought them home, half-wrapped in foil, like treasures too small to leave behind.
“We should get up,” she mumbled against his skin.
“We should,” Harry agreed, making no effort to move.
A minute passed. Maybe two. Eventually, she sighed and wiggled out from under his arm, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder as she sat up. He watched her in the morning light - her profile soft and familiar, hair piled on top of her head in a messy twist. She tugged on the hem of his T-shirt, the one she’d stolen, and stood, stretching as she padded into the bathroom.
He followed a beat later, toothbrush in hand. The mirror was a little foggy from the old radiator that ran too hot, even in June. She was already dabbing concealer under her eyes, squinting with professional focus. Their elbows bumped once, then twice.
“You’re crowding me,” she said, without looking.
Harry bumped her again, on purpose this time. “This is my sink.”
“Your sink,” she repeated, deadpan. “That’s interesting… since I’m the one who keeps the toothpaste stocked.”
“Debatable,” he said through his toothbrush foam.
They danced around each other in the practiced rhythm of people who’d shared mornings a hundred times. He stepped back so she could grab her eyeliner; she shifted so he could spit. No announcements, no requests. Just movement. Trust.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine sputtered to life on its own, because one of them had prepped it last night. They always did. It had become a quiet competition: who could remember first, who could care better. She poured his mug without asking - one sugar, splash of oat milk, and he passed her hers the second it finished - black, hot, no room for error.
“You know me too well,” he said, lifting the mug in salute.
“You’re easy,” Amelia replied, wrapping her fingers around the warmth of hers. “Predictable.”
“Steady,” he countered, leaning against the counter. He bumped her hip again. “You love that about me.”
“I love that you don’t make me say it every morning,” she said, and took a sip.
He watched her over the rim of his cup, half-smiling. She was dressed for the classroom already - soft cream blouse, her favourite navy trousers, hair tucked neatly back. Her ID badge was already clipped to her lanyard, which was covered in stickers her students had given her. She hadn’t noticed the smudge of coffee on the back of her hand.
“You’ve got…” he reached over, wiping it gently with his thumb. “There.”
“Thanks,” she said softly. Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment, the kitchen was still. Just light and warmth and two people who’d made a life around each other without ever really having to say, this is permanent.
Harry thought about the little velvet box in the sock drawer. He hadn’t told anyone about it yet, not even parents, who would’ve gone nuclear with excitement. But it had been there for weeks now, tucked between the things he wore the least. Waiting for the right moment.
Maybe this morning. Or maybe…
“Babe?”
Amelia was at the door now, slinging her tote over her shoulder and trying to juggle her keys. He blinked. Shook the thought off.
“Yeah,” he said, catching her water bottle before it tipped off the counter. “Coming.”
They met by the door like always. It was habit, but it was more than that, too.
She looked up at him and stepped in close. Their foreheads met, just for a second. Breath to breath.
“Come back to me,” she murmured. She always said it like it wasn’t dramatic, like it was just a thing they said. Just something small and soft to hold onto while the world spun on.
Harry closed his eyes and let it settle in his chest.
“Always,” he said.
And then she was out the door, walking briskly toward her car with a hand raised behind her in goodbye. He waited until the taillights disappeared before he grabbed his own jacket and headed out.
The air was bright already, just past seven. The fire station was only five minutes away. He climbed into the driver’s seat and leaned back for a moment, coffee in one hand, her words still echoing in his head.
He hadn’t proposed. Not yet. But he would. Soon. Maybe even tonight. He just had to make it through today.
———————————————————————————
Amelia Lockwood’s classroom always smelled faintly of Crayola markers and hand sanitiser - equal parts chaos and care. The walls were alive with colour: student art pinned in lopsided rows, laminated posters reminding kids to “use kind words” and “be brave when it’s hard,” and one slightly crooked banner above the whiteboard that read: Room 3B: The Brightest Stars in the School.
It was the kind of space you didn’t grow out of easily. Even the older kids peeked in sometimes during lunch, just to see if Beans, the class guinea pig, was out of his enclosure.
“Miss Lockwood! Beans pooped on the spelling sheets!” Lila Singh shrieked, halfway between horror and laughter.
“He what?” Amelia spun from the whiteboard, marker still in hand.
“Look!” Lila held up a sheet of paper spotted with tiny, unmistakable evidence. Diya, beside her, dissolved into a fit of giggles so dramatic her glasses nearly fell off her nose.
Amelia sighed, pressing her lips together to hide the smile. “Lila, Diya - new rule. No rodents on paper, even if they look like they’re proofreading.”
Ellie, quiet and observant in the back corner, raised her hand. “Can we still let him sit on the class plant during silent reading?”
Amelia considered this with mock seriousness. “Only if he promises to stop reading out loud.”
The class erupted into laughter, exactly the way it always did - high-pitched, chaotic, unfiltered joy. She loved it. She loved them. Every scraped knee, every oddly folded paper swan they brought her, every misspelled “you’re the best teecher” on her birthday cards.
It was just after ten, and they were working through their morning literacy block. Today’s focus: sequencing events in stories.
Amelia had written three sentences on the board:
• The dragon roared.
• The knight raised his sword.
• The sky turned black.
“Now,” she said, turning back to them. “Your job is to put those in the right order and then write your own ending. No laser swords, please, Milo.”
“Not even if it’s a space dragon?” Milo shot back instantly, pencil poised in rebellion.
Amelia gave him a look, the one that meant you’re lucky I like you. “You can write about space dragons during free writing this afternoon.”
He groaned, dramatically collapsing into his worksheet like the weight of his imagination was too much to bear.
Jayden, at the front, was frowning at his page. He’d been quiet today, more than usual. Amelia crouched beside him and gently tapped the eraser end of his pencil.
“You stuck?” she asked.
He nodded, lips pressed tight. Jayden was a thinker, not a talker. Ever since his parents separated, he’d become even quieter, especially when stories had fighting or yelling in them.
“Don’t worry about the dragon,” Amelia said softly. “Tell me what the knight is feeling. What’s it like to stand there, sword in hand, knowing something big is about to happen?”
Jayden’s eyes flicked to hers, and something eased in his shoulders. He started to write.
The room settled. Scratching pencils, low murmurs, and the occasional rustle from Beans’s enclosure were the only sounds. Amelia walked between desks, glancing over shoulders, offering quiet praise. Diya had drawn an entire dragon family in the margins of her paper. Lila, predictably, was writing a love story between the knight and the dragon.
“Tragic,” Lila explained. “They’re not supposed to be in love, but they are.”
“You’re eight,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised.
“I have older cousins,” Lila said matter-of-factly.
Amelia smiled again, despite herself.
Her phone buzzed gently on her desk. She crossed to check it—just a text from Harry.
Hope today’s a quiet one. x
Coffee’s still in my veins, so I’m surviving.
She leaned against her desk for a second, thumbs hovering.
Kids have staged a rodent uprising. We’re losing the war.
She was halfway through typing “Come back to me later for mop-up duty,” when the fire alarm chirped.
Just once. Short. High. Then silence.
The class barely reacted - most of them didn’t even glance up. They were used to drills. Amelia, however, froze for half a second, her eyes lifting instinctively to the blinking red sensor near the door. Nothing else followed. No siren. No flashing lights. Just that one chirp, like a warning trying to decide if it meant anything.
Probably nothing. Faulty sensor again. It happened twice last month.
Still, she didn’t finish the message to Harry. Instead, she tucked her phone back into her desk drawer and moved to open the window a crack. The air outside was bright and warm already, but it felt heavier than usual, like something pressing just slightly on the edges.
Behind her, Lila and Diya were giggling again, heads bent over the same paper.
Amelia smiled faintly and turned back to the board.
———————————————————————————
The bay doors were open to let in the June air, and Harry was halfway through checking the hose pressure valve on the back of Engine 2 when Callum barked across the station floor.
“Dev, if you’re not through that door in thirty seconds, I’m sending your paperwork to your mum.”
“I’m literally here!” Dev shouted, jogging in with a protein bar in his mouth. “Traffic was-”
“Lies,” Callum said, not even looking up from the clipboard in his hand. “You live four minutes away.”
Harry chuckled under his breath and closed the valve with a satisfying click. “Callum, you know he needs a dramatic entrance.”
Dev tossed his jacket onto the bench and pointed at Harry. “Exactly. Someone appreciates the flair.”
“Go check the tools,” Callum muttered. “Before I flair you.”
Harry moved to the driver’s side compartment, methodically scanning through the equipment - thermal imaging camera, pry tools, med kit. Everything in its place. Gear checks were daily routine, but he never did them on autopilot. It was muscle memory by now, sure, but he knew what happened when someone forgot even one thing. Missed gloves, jammed latch, bad batteries - any one of them could be the difference between clean rescue and disaster.
Max walked by, coffee in hand, offering him a quiet nod. “Slow morning so far.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Harry replied, wiping his hands on his uniform trousers.
His phone buzzed once in his back pocket, he figured it was Amelia. He hadn’t heard from her since that text earlier. Probably wrangling the class. He was tempted to send another message.
Don’t let beans overthrow the curriculum.
But he didn’t. Then the speaker crackled.
“All units, stand by. Report of smoke seen issuing from roof, possible structure fire - Ridley Avenue. Standby for full dispatch.”
Harry looked up, heart tightening reflexively.
Callum was already moving, clicking his pen once before tossing it to the desk. “Mount up.”
The team snapped into motion. Harry grabbed his jacket, gloves stuffed into one sleeve. Jayne was already climbing into the cab. The station’s tone shifted like a flipped switch, calm became command.
As they rolled out, the dispatcher’s voice came through again, clearer this time over the radio.
The engine’s siren kicked in, wailing through the air, but it barely registered over the sudden thunder in his chest.
“Did they just say-” he started, breath catching.
Jayne and Dev twisted in the seat ahead of him, reading from the dispatch tablet. “Ridley Avenue Primary. Looks like it started in the back building. Kitchen or staffroom maybe. One side’s fully engulfed.”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
“That’s-” He sat forward hard, nearly knocking his helmet off the bench. “That’s Mills’ school.”
Max turned his head slightly, eyes flicking up to the rearview.
“Amelia?” Callum asked from the passenger side, voice clipped.
“Yeah,” Harry said, already pulling out his radio. “That’s her school. That’s her fucking school-”
His hand was shaking as he pressed the call button, and he knew it.
“Control, Engine Two en route. ETA four minutes,” Callum said into the comm, calm and efficient.
Harry sat back, jaw clenched tight, fists white-knuckled in his lap. The sirens screamed, but they were nothing compared to the noise in his head.
He tried to focus on the checklist - gear, harness, breather - but all he could see was Amelia’s car in the lot, Amelia standing by the whiteboard with her soft voice and her classroom of tiny kids, Amelia laughing as she told him about the happenings of Lila and Diya.
And then smoke. Flames. Chaos.
He didn’t know how to breathe.
Max glanced at him in the mirror. “You okay, mate?”
“No.” Harry swallowed hard. “Not even close.”
There was a pause.
Then Dev - serious for once - said, “We’ll get there fast.”
Harry nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
The fire was real now. Not just a callout. Not just someone else’s emergency.
It was her.
———————————————————————————
The smoke was a living thing - writhing through corridors, clawing at every open space with hot, invisible fingers.
Harry hit the ground running, pulling on his mask as soon as he jumped down from the truck. Three engines had already lined the curb, lights strobing across the playground equipment like a nightmare kaleidoscope. Water sprayed in high arcs from the roofline, steam rising in bursts. The fire had eaten through half the back wing already - classrooms gone, windows shattered.
“East side!” Callum shouted over the roar. “Check for remaining personnel. We’ve got kids accounted for but a teacher went back in!”
Harry froze.
“A teacher?” he said sharply, already sprinting toward the double doors.
Jayne caught up beside him. “We don’t know who - could be anyone.”
But Harry knew. It was Amelia.
Because of course it was. Of course she went back.
He charged through the entrance, boots slamming against soaked linoleum. The hallway was nearly opaque with smoke. Flashing strobes overhead pulsed red through the haze like a heartbeat. His flashlight beam cut a narrow path through the gloom.
“Room 3B, Room 3B,” he muttered into his mask, turning left. His oxygen hissed steadily in his ears. It was too hot in here. Too thick. He knew the signs. They were already past the safe burn point. Structure was getting unstable.
“Harry!” Dev’s voice barked through comms. “Watch your time - backup’s clearing the northwest-”
“I know where she is,” Harry snapped, pushing through the corridor.
Room 3B’s door was warped from heat, but not burned through yet. He kicked at it once, twice, shoulder slamming into it on the third hit. It burst open with a crack of splintered wood.
The classroom was almost unrecognizable. Tables overturned. Artwork curling on the walls. The air was so thick he couldn’t see five feet in front of him.
“Amelia?” he shouted into the smoke, voice muffled.
Nothing. He swept the flashlight low.
Then he saw the pale shape - just inside the door, slumped on her side.
“Shit. No, no- Mills-”
He dropped beside her, grabbing her shoulders, rolling her gently onto her back. Her face was covered in soot, lashes blackened with smoke, and her skin - he could see red welts, burns along her arms and collarbone where her shirt had torn. One of her hands was still curled, like she’d been reaching for something.
“Breathe, come on, breathe-”
He ripped off his own mask and pressed it over her mouth instead, sealing it as best he could. She didn’t respond.
“Control, this is FF Styles. I have an unconscious civilian- female, burns, heavy smoke inhalation, I’m bringing her out now-”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He hooked one arm under her legs, the other behind her shoulders, and lifted her into his arms.
She wasn’t heavy. She never was. But right now, she felt like the weight of his entire world.
“Hang on, baby, please,” he whispered against her hair as he turned back toward the corridor.
The smoke fought him with every step. His mask dangled uselessly from his neck. His lungs burned raw. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear anything but the roar.
But then-
A voice on comms. “We see you, Harry - north hall! Straight ahead, twenty feet!”
Light broke through the grey.
He stumbled forward. Max and Dev burst through the fog and grabbed his arms, steadying him as he half-ran, half-collapsed through the last doorway.
They pulled Amelia from his grip as medics swarmed.
“Got her! She’s breathing, shallow pulse!”
Harry hit the pavement outside and coughed so hard he tasted blood. But she was there. She was alive.
Someone was putting an oxygen mask on her. Someone else was cutting open her sleeve to assess the burns. The world narrowed to that tiny circle around her face, her chest rising just barely under the medic’s hands.
“Mills,” he rasped, crawling forward, not caring who tried to stop him. “Mills, baby, can you hear me?”
Her head lolled to the side, eyes closed.
“Come on, Amelia, come on, don’t do this… don’t you dare-”
“Pulse steadying,” one of the paramedics said. “We need to move now!”
Harry moved with them. He didn’t let go of her hand.
———————————————————————————
The siren wailed again, louder inside the cramped ambulance than it ever had in the fire engine. The smell of antiseptic mixed with burnt fabric, thick and suffocating.
Harry sat beside Amelia, her body limp against the stretcher’s straps, her skin pale under the harsh fluorescent light. The medics worked silently but quickly, checking vitals and sliding an oxygen mask over her soot-smudged face.
“Her lungs sound really congested,” one of them murmured, voice clipped but steady. “Smoke inhalation’s bad. We might need to intubate.”
Harry nodded, his throat tight. He gripped her hand as if sheer force could bring her back.
“Stay with me, Mills. Please. Just breathe. You hear me?”
There was no response. No flutter of eyelids, no tightening of fingers.
The medic prepared the tube, and Harry looked away for a moment, swallowing hard to keep down the panic clawing up his throat. When they gently slipped the breathing tube down her throat, he gritted his teeth and stayed silent.
Minutes crawled by in the shaking ambulance. Every bump felt like a hammer blow to his chest.
He whispered her name again, over and over, though he knew she couldn’t hear it.
The paramedic adjusted her oxygen, checking monitors as the city lights blurred past the window.
“Almost there,” the other medic said from the driver’s seat, voice steady but low.
When they pulled up to the hospital’s emergency entrance, the ambulance screeched to a halt.
“Move her inside. Fast,” the lead medic barked.
Harry followed, heart pounding like a drum in his ears.
Inside, the ER was a cold, harsh place. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, nurses and doctors rushing past with clipped orders and wheels squeaking.One doctor approached quickly, a woman with sharp eyes and a calm but urgent voice.
“Sir, we need you to step back. We’re going to take over now.”
Harry’s breath hitched, his hands twitching toward Amelia’s stretcher.
“Wait- she’s my girlfriend- please, I need to be with her,” he said, voice cracking.
The doctor softened fractionally but remained firm. “I understand. But we need space to work. She’s in critical condition. We’re doing everything we can.”
Harry swallowed, feeling like the ground had slipped beneath him. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, fighting the urge to panic.
He stepped back reluctantly, eyes locked on her pale face, the breathing tube, the monitors beeping steadily but without promise.
“Please, Mills,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”
———————————————————————————
The sterile smell of the hospital lobby was nothing like the acrid smoke choking Ridley Avenue. But it clung to Harry now, invisible and suffocating.
He sat in the stiff plastic chair outside the ICU waiting room, hands fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, heart pounding with every passing second.
Anger bubbled beneath the surface, raw and jagged.
Why did she go back in? he thought, eyes closed tight. Why Amelia? Always the one to run toward danger, never away from it.
But beneath that anger was something fiercer - something he couldn’t name but felt in every nerve ending.
Love. Damn near blinding love.
She wasn’t just a teacher. She was a fighter. A protector. And maybe that was why he’d fallen so hard for her - the way she’d put herself on the line without hesitation.
The thought of losing her tore at him like acid.
His phone vibrated. He ignored it. The minutes stretched into an hour, each one a small eternity.
And then the door opened.
A woman in scrubs stepped inside, her expression serious but gentle.
“Mr. Styles?”
Harry stood instantly, heart hammering.
“I’m Dr. Reyes. I’m overseeing Ms. Lockwood’s care.”
He nodded, swallowing thickly.
“She’s stable at the moment,” Dr. Reyes said carefully. “We had to intubate her because of the smoke inhalation - it caused severe swelling in her airways. We’re monitoring her closely.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair, tension unraveling with every word.
“Is she going to be okay?”
The doctor hesitated.
“She’s unconscious, and the burns will need treatment, but the biggest risk right now is the swelling in her lungs. We’re doing everything to reduce it. She’s on a ventilator, so she’s breathing with assistance.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “Can I see her?”
Dr. Reyes nodded. “Yes. But only for a few minutes.”
He followed her down the hall, heart pounding louder than his footsteps.
Outside Amelia’s room, he paused.
Through the glass, she lay still - pale, tubes running from her mouth and arms, machines beeping softly.
He felt every ache in his chest, every tear threatening to fall, and swallowed it back.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You scared the hell out of me.”
His fingers pressed against the glass, barely able to reach her.
“I hate that you went back in. But I love you so much for it.”
He stayed there a moment longer, drawing strength from her quiet presence.
Then, as the nurse came to gently usher him out, he promised silently, I’m here, Mills. I’m not going anywhere.
———————————————————————————
He hadn’t called.
That was the first sign.
It was a habit - after every shift, even the slow ones, Harry would send her a quick voice note or a sleepy “off to bed, love you” text. Nothing came through by dinner. And Amelia tried not to spiral, but the longer the silence dragged, the more her hands fidgeted and her mind filled in the blanks.
Then, just past nine, her phone buzzed.
Harry: Can I come over?
No emoji. No kiss at the end. Just five words, sent almost an hour ago.
She was already pulling on a hoodie and unlocking the door when she heard the knock.
When she opened it, Harry stood in the hallway, half-slung out of his uniform jacket, eyes tired and skin pale beneath the ash on his cheeks.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, reaching for him. “Harry.”
“I’m okay,” he rasped, raising a hand. “Just- can I come in?”
She stepped aside wordlessly, watching as he walked in like he was made of glass.
When the door closed behind him, she turned on the light and only then, saw the bandages wrapped around his forearm, the wince as he moved his ribs.
“You’re hurt.”
“I know,” he said softly.
Amelia’s voice trembled as she crossed the room. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, that didn’t work.”
He cracked a tired smile. “Fair point.”
She took his jacket, then his shirt - carefully, slowly, wincing every time he did. His undershirt was sweat-soaked and torn near the side where a purpling bruise was forming beneath his ribs.
“Jesus, Harry.”
“Some old boiler exploded during a call-out,” he said, settling into her kitchen chair like his bones had turned to dust. “Caught part of the wall. Nothing major.”
“This is not nothing major.”
“I’ve had worse,” he said, with a lopsided grin.
“Don’t say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”
Her hands were gentle as she grabbed the first aid kit, unscrewing a jar of cooling cream and lightly dabbing it over the exposed burns on his arm. He winced, teeth gritting, but didn’t pull away.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” she said quietly.
“I don’t like being like this,” he muttered.
Amelia met his eyes. “You could’ve stayed at the station. Or gone home. Why here?”
He hesitated.
Then he said, “Because this is where I feel safe.”
That undid her.
She didn’t say anything - just set the jar down and gently cupped his cheek, brushing soot from beneath his eye with her thumb.
“I thought I could handle this job, and the danger, and all the unpredictability,” she whispered, voice cracking. “But it’s so much harder when it’s you.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not asking you to quit,” she added quickly. “I love what you do. I’m just… scared.”
“I know,” he repeated, leaning forward, forehead pressing softly to hers.
It was the same way they always grounded each other. Not a kiss. Not words.
Just breath. Skin to skin. A shared silence that said I’m still here.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmured after a beat.
“You did.”
“But I also wanted to be where you were.”
Her hands stayed on him as his shoulders finally relaxed. As if her presence alone made the bruises sting less.
She made him tea that night and sat with him on the couch, her legs curled beneath her, gently tracing the bandage on his arm while he drifted between exhaustion and comfort.
And even though they still lived in separate homes, that was the night she left a spare toothbrush in her bathroom drawer for him.
———————————————————————————
The hospital room had settled into a dull rhythm. Beeping monitors. The low hum of filtered air. The soft hiss of oxygen.
Harry sat slouched in the chair beside her bed, head tipped forward against his forearm, her hand still tucked in his. He hadn’t left in three days - not really. A quick rinse in the staff showers, a bite of hospital coffee and toast - but always back before she could notice he was gone.
Not that she had noticed. Not yet.
The steady rise and fall of the machine breathing for her was both comfort and torment. Keeping her alive - but also keeping her distant. Somewhere he couldn’t reach.
He didn’t cry often. But he had. Quietly. Late at night. When the nurse shut the door softly behind her and he was left with nothing but time and what-ifs.
What if she hadn’t made it?
What if he hadn’t found her in time?
What if the last thing she ever did was run back into a burning building… and never come out?
He blinked hard, rubbed his jaw, and looked up at her again.
Still. Too still.
Then-
A twitch.
A shift beneath her eyelids.
Harry straightened instantly, the chair screeching softly beneath him. “Amelia?”
Another twitch. This time her fingers moved - slight, uncertain - but enough to light something in his chest. He stood fast, eyes wide, panic and hope crashing over him in equal measure.
“Hey- Mills?” He stepped closer, touching her wrist. “Can you hear me?”
Her head shifted slightly, brows drawing in - and then her whole body jerked, a choking, gagging sound escaping her throat.
The breathing tube.
“Shit- hey! I need help in here!” Harry’s voice cracked as he reached for the call button and slammed it with his palm. “She’s waking up- she’s choking- please!”
The door burst open seconds later. A nurse swept in with calm urgency, already pressing the intercom for assistance. “She’s gagging on the ET tube - we’ve got a gag reflex, she’s coming out of sedation.”
Another nurse entered as Harry stepped back, hands clenched uselessly by his sides.
They moved fast - one stabilizing her head, the other adjusting the monitor, then gently, carefully sliding the tube from her throat as she gasped and coughed, her body curling instinctively with the force of breath returning.
The sound of it, her first real breath, nearly brought him to his knees.
“Easy now, Amelia. You’re okay,” the nurse said, soothingly. “That’s it. Breathe slowly for me.”
She was crying - not full sobs, just tears, silent and hot down her cheeks, confusion and pain flickering in her half-lidded eyes.
Harry was beside her before they gave the all-clear.
“I’m here,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m right here.”
Her eyes finally landed on him, dazed and glassy, but hers.
He reached for her hand again. She didn’t speak — couldn’t, not yet - but her fingers squeezed his.
That was enough to wreck him.
A soft sob escaped him as he pressed his forehead to her hand. “You scared the absolute hell out of me, Mills. Jesus.”
She blinked, slowly, trying to form a word. Her lips moved - sorry - but the sound didn’t come.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Don’t try. Just rest. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
The nurses monitored her a bit longer, adjusting her oxygen mask, checking her levels. One of them touched Harry’s arm as they left.
“She’s tough. Give her a minute.”
He nodded but didn’t look away from Amelia’s face.
When they were alone again, he sat down, still holding her hand. She was watching him now, really watching - her brows furrowed slightly as if she could already sense the weight he’d been carrying.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Just… so you know.”
Her mouth trembled. She blinked once. A tear slid sideways across her temple.
Harry smiled - watery and crooked. “Yeah. You don’t have to say it. You already did.”
———————————————————————————
It was the first time in three days that Harry sat in silence without feeling like the world was collapsing around him.
The monitors still beeped. The oxygen mask still hissed. Machines still blinked their coded reassurance. But Amelia… Amelia was sleeping again. Not the kind of unconscious sleep that left his chest hollow and terrified, but real sleep.
Natural. Breathing on her own.
She’d drifted off after the doctor finished his checks. The breathing tube had come out hours earlier, and her vitals had stabilized. They were still watching her closely, but the worst, they said, was over.
Harry didn’t move from his chair.
He just sat there, one arm on the edge of her bed, his hand wrapped gently around hers like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. He hadn’t dared let go since she first woke that morning and choked on the tube - the sound of her body fighting for breath again still haunted the corners of his mind.
She’d cried. He hadn’t expected that.
She hadn’t spoken then, not really, but the look in her eyes had said everything. Confusion, pain, apology. Guilt.
And he’d just kept saying the same thing: You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.
He looked at her now - pale, bruised, her hair a tangled halo against the stark hospital pillow - and his chest ached with something sharp and enormous.
God, he loved her. And he’d almost lost her.
He hadn’t even known where they were going when the call came in. Just a structure fire, mid-morning, downtown - and then in the truck, someone said the name of the school and everything inside him snapped.
He could still hear his own voice - panicked, wild - “Tell me it’s not the school. Not her school.”
And it was.
It had taken everything in him to do the job and not just tear through the smoke yelling her name. He didn’t even know he’d found her until he was cradling her in his arms, her body limp and streaked with soot, smoke curling off her hair, her fingers still curled like she’d been trying to protect something.
The image had burned itself into his brain. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it.
A quiet rustle pulled him out of the thought - the soft sound of sheets shifting, then the faintest cough, dry and strained.
His head snapped up.
“Amelia?”
Her face twitched, then again. Eyes fluttered beneath lashes. He stood quickly, hand tightening gently around hers. “Hey, Mills? You with me?”
She blinked slowly, then again - eyes unfocused, adjusting - and finally locked onto his.
A tired, fragile kind of recognition passed over her face. Her lips parted.
“Harry…” Her voice was barely more than air - hoarse, dry, painful - but it was her.
“Hey,” he said, swallowing hard. “You’re awake.”
She nodded weakly, brows pulling together like she was trying to remember how her body worked.
He pushed a few strands of hair back from her forehead, thumb brushing her temple. “You’re okay, alright? You’re safe.”
Her eyes filled almost instantly.
“Kids,” she whispered, each letter rough like it scraped her throat to form. “Are they-?”
He nodded quickly. “They’re okay. All of them. Your whole class made it out. No major injuries. Everyone at the school is okay.”
She sagged back into the pillow with a shaky exhale, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks.
“I went… back…” Her voice broke on the word. “Ethan-he tripped- he was scared-”
Harry leaned in closer, heart in his throat, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to her wrist.
“Hey. No. You don’t have to explain.”
She shook her head faintly. “I couldn’t leave them. I-I told them I’d always keep them safe.”
“And you did,” Harry said, his voice cracking. “You did, Mills.”
She closed her eyes as more tears escaped. He watched her struggle to breathe steadily, to keep control, and he hated that he couldn’t take the pain from her. The guilt. The memory.
“You’re okay,” he said again, gently but firmly. “That’s what matters. The rest- just let it go for now, yeah?”
Her fingers curled weakly around his.
“I thought… I wasn’t gonna make it out.”
He bowed his head, forehead brushing the back of her hand. “Me too,” he admitted. “But you did. You came back.”
She didn’t speak for a long moment. Just looked at him, really looked, and then whispered, “You found me.”
He smiled, a soft, watery thing. “Always.”
He felt her fingers shift, trying to bring his hand closer. He gave in easily, lacing their fingers together.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
“You can rest,” he said, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She exhaled, soft and uneven, and her eyes drifted closed again - but this time, he wasn’t afraid.
This time, her breathing was steady. This time, he knew she’d wake up again.
———————————————————————————
The room was quiet again, morning light soft through the blinds, filtered and gentle. It smelled faintly of disinfectant and the paper-cup coffee Harry had been nursing for hours. Amelia blinked slowly, her throat dry but not on fire anymore. Her chest ached when she breathed too deeply, but it was manageable now - like her body had stopped screaming and settled into a dull, exhausted whisper.
She turned her head carefully. He was there. Still.
Slumped awkwardly in the chair beside her bed, arms folded, chin resting in one hand. His curls were a mess. His shirt was wrinkled. He hadn’t shaved - not that she minded - but his eyes looked heavier than she’d ever seen them.
“Harry…” Her voice cracked, low and raspy.
His head snapped up instantly. “Hey.” He was already leaning forward, eyes wide, like he thought she might vanish if he looked away. “You’re awake again.”
She gave a small nod, grimacing a little. “Still here?”
“‘Course I’m still here.” He smiled, but it was tight, cautious. “Where else would I be?”
Amelia tried to shift a little in the bed. Her muscles protested, but not as loudly as before. “You look… awful.”
He let out a quiet laugh and reached for the water cup on her tray. “Thanks, baby. That’s the reassurance I needed this morning.”
She smiled too, just barely, and took a slow sip as he held the straw for her. The water felt like heaven on her throat, even if every swallow still came with effort.
“You haven’t left,” she rasped, voice thin but steadier than yesterday. “Have you?”
Harry tilted his head. “Nope.”
“Not even to shower?”
“Nope.”
She sighed and let her eyes close briefly. “You smell like smoke and stress.”
“Perfect. That’s exactly the scent I was going for.”
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her - not smiling this time. Just looking, like he needed to memorize every freckle, every blink, to believe she was really in front of him.
“You scared the shit out of me,” he said quietly.
Her heart twisted. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not mad.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just… I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know where you were at first. And then when I did—when I saw you—”
He stopped. She saw his throat work around the rest of the sentence like it was too heavy to speak.
“I thought you were gone,” he finished, barely above a whisper.
Amelia reached out slowly, touching his fingers. “I didn’t mean for you to see me like that.”
“You ran back in for a student,” he said. “They told me. You could’ve died.”
She didn’t deny it. There was no point.
“I didn’t think. I just…” Her voice caught. “I saw Ethan fall. I told them I’d get them out. I had to.”
Harry shook his head, but not in frustration - just in something close to heartbreak. “Of course you did. That’s who you are.”
A silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just full of everything that didn’t need to be said.
“You should go home,” she murmured eventually. “Shower. Sleep in a bed that doesn’t beep.”
He raised a brow. “You trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He leaned forward again, closer this time. “I’ll go when you’re home. Not before.”
Amelia exhaled, weak but affectionate. “Stubborn firefighter.”
Harry grinned. “Stubborn teacher.”
She smiled back, though it faded when she studied him. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red from lack of sleep, and something deeper. Something she couldn’t quite reach.
“Talk to me,” she said softly.
He looked down, thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “It made everything real. You know?”
“What did?”
“All of it.” He swallowed. “How fast things can change. How close I came to losing you. I kept thinking - what if that had been it? What if I’d never gotten to say the things I wanted to say?”
Amelia’s fingers squeezed his.
“You’ve always said them,” she whispered. “Every morning when you make my coffee. Every time you fold my laundry even though I ask you not to. Every time you kiss me on the forehead when you think I’m asleep.”
His jaw tightened.
“I love you,” she said, voice raw. “I don’t need anything else.”
“I do.” His voice cracked. “I need a future with you. Not just mornings and maybes. I need to know you’re mine - properly.”
She blinked slowly. “Harry…”
He didn’t reach for his pocket - not yet. There was no box. No grand gesture. Just him, exhausted and open, sitting in a shitty hospital chair, holding her hand like it was sacred.
“Not asking you right now,” he said gently. “You’re still on morphine. I want your full faculties when I ask you to marry me.”
A laugh broke from her throat, hoarse and surprised. It turned into a cough, and he was instantly on his feet, adjusting the oxygen.
When she settled again, still smiling despite the pain, she whispered, “You’re not subtle, you know that?”
He leaned down, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “Didn’t plan to be.”
———————————————————————————
The hospital doors slid shut behind them, and the sharp antiseptic smell gave way to the gentle warmth of the afternoon sun. Amelia leaned against Harry’s hand, holding on like it was a lifeline after days that felt unreal.
“My legs are fine,” she murmured, voice scratchy but steady. “You don’t have to carry me everywhere.”
Harry grinned, fingers tightening around hers. “Humour me, will you? You look like you might collapse any second.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “Maybe I want to collapse. On my terms.”
He laughed softly. “You’re impossible.”
The car hummed along slowly, Harry’s hand warm and steady in hers. The ache of exhaustion settled deep in her bones, but the thought of home pressed a soft ache in her chest.
When the front door swung open, the familiar scent of coffee and vanilla wrapped around her. Safe. Warm. Real.
She made for the couch, muscles weak but determined.
“Let me help,” Harry said gently.
“No,” she said, voice firm though her legs wobbled. “I’m fine.”
He settled beside her, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “You sure? You don’t have to be a hero all the time.”
“I’m not trying to be,” she whispered.
They sat quietly for a moment, the weight of everything settled between them. Then Harry’s shoulders shook with a soft, sudden sob.
Amelia’s arms wrapped around him instinctively. “Hey,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
He buried his face in her shoulder. “I was so scared,” he admitted. “I didn’t know if you’d make it.”
“You’re here now,” she said softly. “That’s what matters.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes red but fierce. “I love you so much. I don’t think I ever realized how much until now.”
She reached up, cupping his cheek. “Me too.”
Harry swallowed hard, then laughed shakily. “You’re the most stubborn person I know.”
She smiled, tired but warm. “Takes one to know one.”
They stayed like that, tangled up in each other, the quiet comfort of home healing what the fire had nearly taken.
———————————————————————————
The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt fragile and precious after the storm they’d weathered. Sunlight sifted softly through the curtains, falling in warm patches on the worn couch where Amelia sat, wrapped in one of his old shirts. She looked small and fierce all at once - her skin still tender and raw in places, the burns stubborn reminders of how close everything had come to falling apart.
He set the tray of supplies down gently on the coffee table and knelt beside her, careful not to jostle her. Changing the dressings was a delicate dance - steady hands, soothing words, and more patience than he ever thought he had. But every time he peeled back the bandages and saw the pink, healing skin beneath, it felt like a new kind of closeness, a way of saying, without words, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice soft, steady.
Amelia nodded, biting her lip as he slowly and carefully cleaned the wounds with sterile cloths. He hated how vulnerable she looked, but there was something fierce in the way she met his gaze, a stubborn courage that made his chest ache. She was everything he ever wanted to protect.
He reached for the burn cream, the familiar coolness a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from her skin. As he spread it gently over her neck, a sudden urgency gripped him - a raw, aching need to stop just caring for her and start making it official. To stop spending any more time in that limbo of what ifs and maybes.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, almost afraid to break the fragile peace. “About us. About the future.”
Amelia let out a breath, eyes half-closed as the ointment settled on her skin. “Don’t say that while you’re putting goo on my neck,” she teased, voice hoarse but light.
Harry chuckled, the sound soft but full of meaning. “Fair enough. But I mean it. I want to marry you. I want all of it… the good, the messy, the forever.”
She looked up, her tired eyes shining with something raw and real. “I want that too,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “Just… not while you’re smearing goo all over me and I feel gross.”
He smiled, brushing a stray curl back from her face. “Promise me you’ll say yes?”
Amelia traced her fingers over the tender skin, still raw from the burns but healing. “Only if you promise to keep doing this - keep being here.”
His throat tightened. “I promise. Always.”
As he finished with the dressing, Harry felt a fierce protectiveness rise up. Not just for her body, but for their life together. Every minute he’d spent waiting, every second he hadn’t called her fiancée, felt like time stolen from what was meant to be.
He couldn’t stand the thought of another day passing without making it official. Without giving her the certainty she deserved.
He swallowed hard, words catching in his throat, but the look she gave him - soft, unwavering - gave him strength.
“This-” he gestured between them, “this is everything to me. And I don’t want to spend one more minute not being your fiancé.”
Her lips quirked into a tired smile, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Well, you’d better hurry up then.”
Harry laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in days. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath his lips.
They sat like that for a long moment - two people stitched together by love, healing, and the messy, beautiful reality of being human.
The burn cream had been applied. The dressings fresh. But it was the quiet promises between them that truly sealed the healing.
———————————————————————————
The door creaked open, and the familiar creak of the old wooden floor greeted her like a whisper from home. Amelia stood in the hallway, shoulders slumped, the weight of the day pressing down hard enough to make her knees ache.
“Harry?” Her voice was hoarse from talking all day, but she tried to sound lighter than she felt. “Do we have ice cream? Because I’m gonna need it. I had the worst fucking day.”
She rounded the corner, expecting the usual quiet living room or the clutter of Harry’s guitar case tossed carelessly near the couch.
Instead, her breath caught.
Candles flickered softly, casting a golden glow over the space. A handful of wildflowers - her favorites - were arranged carefully on the coffee table. And there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Harry. His hair was a little messier than usual, but his smile was wide, hopeful, and completely, utterly hers.
In his hand was a small box - not big, but heavy with meaning.
“Amelia,” he said softly, voice steady even though his eyes were shining. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
Her heart hammered so loud it was almost deafening. The exhaustion, the weight of the day, it all melted away, leaving only this moment, perfect and terrifying and beautiful.
Harry opened the box to reveal a simple, elegant ring - a thin band with a tiny cluster of diamonds catching the candlelight like stars.
“You’re my person,” he continued, voice thick with emotion. “The woman who makes every day better, who’s fearless in the face of anything, who I want to grow old with.”
Amelia’s throat tightened. She dropped her bag with a soft thud and took a cautious step closer.
“I want to be your fiancé, and then your husband,” he said, as if the words were both a promise and a question.
Her lips curved into a smile that was a mix of relief and overwhelming love. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, a thousand times yes.”
Harry’s grin widened as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She marveled at the way it sparkled, but even more, the way his eyes lit up just looking at her.
The moment hung between them for a beat longer, before Amelia’s practical side, that teacher’s voice in her head, nudged forward.
“You know,” she began, voice playful, “there’s something else you need to do to be considered a fiancé.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across his face. “Oh? And what’s that?”
She grinned, stepping closer, her hand still in his. “Get a dog.”
Harry blinked, surprised and amused. “You teach kids with that logic?”
She shrugged, mock serious. “Hey, it’s a well-known fiancé requirement. If you want to seal the deal, you’ve got to prove you can handle puppy chaos.”
He laughed, deep and full, the sound wrapping around her like a warm blanket. Then he leaned in and kissed her silly, like it was the only thing that mattered.
“I guess we’d better start looking at puppies, then.”
Amelia’s eyes sparkled with tears and laughter. For the first time in weeks, all the fear, all the uncertainty, felt miles away. All that mattered was here. Now. Them.
This story includes sensitive themes related to pregnancy, loss, and family dynamics. Please take care of yourself while reading!
First Father’s Day.
The sunlight is soft, spilling across polished floorboards and linen curtains. It’s Sunday. It’s Father’s Day. Nora is sitting on the toilet lid in their en suite bathroom, her knees drawn up, Harry’s old T-shirt hanging loose over her body, and her whole world has just shifted direction.
The test sits on the edge of the sink. Two pink lines.
Positive.
It’s the third test she’s taken… one after the other, all with the same result. She doesn’t cry. Not yet. She just sits - phone in her lap, thumb hovering over a message to her friends: Haadiyah, Alex, and Caitlyn.
Guys. I think I’m-
No. Delete.
She tries her dad next. Cliff. Her rock. She could tell him anything. But this? This is different. Not because he’d be disappointed - he wouldn’t. He’d be soft and warm and probably go silent with shock and joy, then ask if she’s okay. But still. Not yet.
Carrie, her stepmum, too. She types and retypes:
Are you around later?
I need to talk to someone.
No. She knows who this belongs to first. Harry.
Of course it’s him. It has to be him.
She hears the front door downstairs - keys jingling, footsteps, the soft rustle of a paper bag. He’s home.
He’s been out for a run and stopped to grab her favourite pastry from the café on the corner - the one with the cinnamon sugar that always sticks to the paper bag. He’s humming something - maybe a Fleetwood Mac song, off-key and sweet.
“Babe?” he calls up, his voice echoing gently through the house. “You still asleep?”
She exhales once, deeply, and forces herself to stand. Her legs feel like they’re made of air. She scoops the test into her palm, holding it face-down - like it might shout its secret too soon - and steps quietly into the hallway.
He’s halfway up the stairs, flushed from his run, curls damp around his temples, a smile pulling at his mouth.
Then he sees her face. The smile falters, but not with panic, with concern.
“Hey. You alright?” he says softly.
She swallows once. Then again.
“So…” she tries, voice tight but dry, “turns out Father’s Day is going to be a bit more literal this year.”
There’s a beat of silence. He just stares at her. His eyes flick down to her hand. She slowly turns over the test in her palm and holds it out.
“Wait… what?” he asks, stepping forward, taking it gently. He stares. Blinks. “That’s… that’s what I think it is, right?”
“Yeah,” she nods softly.
Another pause. He’s still, like he doesn’t want to breathe too loudly and break whatever spell they’ve just stepped into.
Then he looks up at her again, eyes wide and impossibly soft.
“We’re having a baby?” he breathes.
“Looks like it.”
“Jesus.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just stands there, holding the test like it might shatter. Then, finally, he breathes out - a deep, shaky breath - and steps forward. His free hand cups the back of her neck, gentle, grounding.
“How long have you known?” he asks.
“About twenty minutes. I took three. You know… for scientific accuracy,” she says, half-smiling.
He lets out a small laugh, then pulls her in, wrapping both arms around her now. She sinks into him, her cheek against his shoulder, the test still between them, caught in the hug like a weird paper crane.
They stand like that for a long time. No one talks. Just breath and heartbeat and shock.
Then, quietly, muffled into his shirt, she asks, “How do you feel about this?”
He pulls back slightly to look at her, his hands still on her arms.
“Honestly?” he says. She nods.
“Scared. In that… this-is-enormous kind of way. But… not bad scared. Just… holy shit, you know? It’s us. A baby. That’s wild.”
She watches him carefully, trying to read the space behind his eyes. He sees it, of course he does.
“How do you feel about it?” he asks softer now.
She opens her mouth. Then closes it. Then lets out a slow breath.
“I’m overwhelmed. And terrified. And kind of… guilty? Because there’s this tiny part of me that feels like I should be happier right away, but my brain’s just spinning.”
“Hey. That’s okay. That’s normal.”
“It’s not that I don’t want it. I think I do. But it’s a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And I keep thinking about my mum. And how she never even got to-” Her voice breaks a little, but she swallows it down.
He wraps her tighter.
“You don’t have to be okay right away. We’ll get there. Together.”
Another beat of quiet.
Then-
“Can I ask… how?”
She snorts slightly. “I mean, I hope you know the basics.”
He smiles.
“I meant… I thought you were still on the pill.”
“I am… I was. I switched brands a few weeks ago. Didn’t think twice about it. Took everything when I was supposed to. But I guess… I don’t know. Maybe I didn’t check if I needed to use backup or something. God, I edit romance books for a living. You’d think I’d be a bit better at reading fine print.”
“Hey. Don’t do that. This isn’t your fault.”
“I know. It just… it wasn’t the plan.”
“No. But sometimes the best things aren’t.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to see her face again. One of his hands goes instinctively to her waist, the other still warm on her shoulder.
“We’ll figure this out. However you want to go forward. I’m with you. Fully.”
After a long pause, she says, “I think… I want to keep it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think I want our weird little baby with your curls and my anxiety.”
“That sounds like a hell of a kid.”
They stand there again, forehead to forehead.
“Happy Father’s Day, to me.”
“Don’t push it.”
They end up in the middle of the bed, cross-legged, knees bumping. The test lies somewhere on the nightstand, forgotten for now. The pastry Harry bought her is still in its bag, the warmth long gone — neither of them has touched it.
For a while, they just sit. She lets her head fall gently against his shoulder, and he rests his chin on top of her head like he always does when he doesn’t know what to say, but wants her to feel him anyway. The weight of him is a comfort. Familiar. The one thing that doesn’t feel like it’s changing.
She speaks first.
“I keep thinking I should feel more… I don’t know, elated. But it’s more like my brain’s short-circuiting.” Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I want this, but I’m scared that if I let myself want it too much, something will go wrong.”
Harry shifts, just enough to see her face. “Yeah,” he says gently. “I get that.”
She pulls at a loose thread in the duvet. “I’ve spent so long building this life that feels safe and balanced. Then you came in and everything expanded in this messy, brilliant way. And now this… this is a whole new thing. I just - I don’t want to screw it up.”
He nudges her knee with his. “You won’t. You won’t screw it up, Nora.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says simply. “Because it’s you.”
He doesn’t rush her. Doesn’t try to give her some neat little pep talk or solution. He just says it like it’s obvious - because to him, it is. That’s what steadies her more than anything.
“I think I want to tell my dad,” she says after a beat.
Harry smiles. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And Carrie, too. And eventually my friends. But I want to keep it quiet for now. Just for us. For a bit.”
He nods. “I’d like that.”
“And we’re not calling it ‘the bean’ or ‘peanut’ or anything weird, by the way.”
“Oh come on,” he grins. “Not even just for a little while?”
“Absolutely not.”
He kisses the side of her head. “Alright. But I’m telling you now — if it’s a girl and she wants to wear a dinosaur costume to school, I’m letting her.”
“And if it’s a boy and he wants to wear glitter and fairy wings?”
“Then I’ll buy him glitter and fairy wings in every colour.”
She leans her forehead against his. “We’re going to be tired all the time.”
“I’m already tired all the time,” he murmurs, lips brushing hers. “But yeah. We’re going to be exhausted.”
“But kind of amazing too, right?”
His eyes meet hers. “Yeah,” he says. “Kind of amazing.”
They spend the rest of the morning in bed, legs tangled under the duvet, talking. Not everything — some things they’re still too raw for — but the edges of it. Whether they’ll want to find out the gender. Whether they’ll stay in London full-time or split time somewhere quieter once the baby comes. How they’ll make space in their lives for this.
Eventually, he pads down to the kitchen and comes back with the now-cold cinnamon bun and two mugs of tea. She smiles and tears a piece off, even though it tastes a little stale already. He eats the rest, because of course he does, crumbs catching on the stubble along his jaw. They sit by the window, watching the slow movement of clouds through the trees outside their bedroom.
They sit by the window, mugs of lukewarm tea cupped in their hands, the breeze nudging the curtain like it’s trying to come in and hear the news too. Outside, the trees sway softly in the garden, casting shadows across the grass. Neither of them speaks for a minute. There’s too much in the air already - words trying to find their way to the surface.
Nora’s phone buzzes against the side table, a message from Caitlyn in the group chat:
Caitlyn
Happy Father’s Day to all the father figures out there 💙 love you Nor, give Cliff a squeeze from me today x
Nora picks it up, staring at the screen for a beat. Then looks at Harry.
“I feel like I should call him.”
Harry glances over. “Your dad?”
She nods, thumb hovering over the contact in her favourites. “We always speak on Father’s Day, even if it’s just for five minutes.”
“You don’t have to tell him now,” he says gently.
She hesitates. “Yeah. I know. But… it’s always been me and him. Every year since I was a kid. He’s the one who made everything okay after Mum died. He always tried to make sure this day wasn’t heavy for me. And now…”
She trails off, the emotion catching in her throat. Harry watches her with that soft, steady look - the one he gives her when he’s holding space for everything she can’t quite say aloud.
He reaches out, covering her hand with his. “Then tell him.”
“But we haven’t even been to the doctor yet. What if we’re rushing this? Don’t people wait? Until the scan at twelve weeks or something?”
Harry shrugs gently. “Yeah. A lot of people do. But this isn’t a press release, Nor. It’s your dad. It’s not about getting the timing ‘right’. It’s about what feels real for you.”
She doesn’t reply straight away, just leans her head against the window frame, looking out at the leaves fluttering against the sky.
He nudges her knee with his. “We can still go tomorrow. First thing. Make sure everything’s okay. We’ll do all the steps. But this part, this moment, it’s just for us. You get to choose how you hold it.”
She looks at him, eyes flickering between his. “What if I tell him and he cries?”
“Then you’ll cry. And it’ll be beautiful.”
She lets out a shaky laugh. “You always say the exact thing I need to hear and I don’t know whether it’s lovely or just irritating.”
He grins. “Bit of both, probably.”
She stares down at her phone again. “If I tell him… we’d have to tell Anne too. Feels weird not to.”
“We can FaceTime her after. Say it together, if you want.”
There’s a quiet moment between them, warm and suspended. Then-
Nora sighs and stands up. “Alright. I’m calling him.”
She paces into the other room, barefoot and wrapped in Harry’s hoodie. He stays in the window seat, giving her space, but he can hear the soft swell of her voice as the call connects. Her laugh, then the pause. Her voice dipping into that hushed, almost childlike register she only uses with her dad.
And then: “Yeah. It’s good. Actually… I’ve got some news.”
Silence.
Then a quiet, watery, stunned: “You’re going to be a grandad.”
She’s gone a while. When she comes back, her eyes are a little pink but glowing.
“He cried,” she says simply. “Well, kind of laughed-cried. You know his thing.”
Harry smiles, pushing back a curl from her face as she folds herself back beside him.
“He said,” she continues, voice softer now, “that Mum would’ve loved the timing. And that he can’t believe I’m going to be someone’s mum. That it makes sense though. That I’ve always had the heart for it.”
She lets her head fall to his shoulder again.
“You did the right thing,” he murmurs.
She nods. “We’re going to have to call Anne now.”
“I’ll make the tea.”
Before he can get up, she lifts her head and gives him a look - part affection, part amusement.
“Do you think,” she asks, lips twitching, “we can figure out the exact time it happened?”
He laughs. “What, like… scientifically?”
“I mean, we’ve had sex more than once lately, Styles, but I distinctly remember one afternoon where you said, and I quote, ‘it’s irresponsible how good this feels.’”
He chokes on a laugh, eyes scrunching shut. “Okay, yeah. That was… yeah. That one might’ve been it.”
She grins. “Reckless, honestly.”
“We’re a cautionary tale.”
“I’m going to tell the kid that story when they’re sixteen and trying to sneak off to someone’s house.”
Harry leans in and kisses her cheek. “You’re evil.”
“I’m pregnant. It’s different.”
He pulls her in again, tighter this time, their laughter dissolving into something quieter - something still buzzing with joy, but softer now, a hum that lives under the skin.
“You’re going to be such a good mum, Nor.”
She wraps her arms around him, her mouth tucked near his collarbone. “And you’re going to be the kind of dad that wears a tutu to a school recital because they asked nicely.”
“Damn right I will.”
They sit like that until the light begins to fade, wrapped in the strangeness and the sweetness of it all. Just them. Their quiet life, suddenly more full than it was yesterday.
And still - somehow - perfectly theirs.
They’re still tangled up in each other when Harry glances at the clock and shifts slightly beneath her.
“You up for FaceTiming my Mum?”
Nora blinks up at him, face pressed against his chest. “We don’t have to do it today.”
“She’ll want to hear from us. I always call her on Sunday… and if we wait, she’ll know something’s up.” His hand curls gently around her side. “You okay if we tell her?”
Nora nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
He pulls his phone from the side table and taps into FaceTime. Anne answers quickly, her warm face appearing in that too-close way that parents always manage on video.
“Hi, love,” she says brightly, seeing Harry. Then she spots Nora beside him and her expression softens into something deeply fond. “Oh, hello you two. What have you been up to this morning?”
Harry grins. “I got Nora a cinnamon bun and we have life-altering news.”
Anne squints. “Life-altering?”
Nora doesn’t say anything. Instead, with the smallest of smiles, she reaches out and lifts the pregnancy test into the frame, holding it just below her chin.
For a second, Anne blinks in confusion — then suddenly gasps, clapping her hand over her mouth. “Oh! Oh my God. Oh my God! Are you—?”
Nora nods.
Anne’s voice breaks instantly into a loud, choked squeal, laughter and tears tangled up in the same breath. “You’re pregnant? Is this real? Is this real?!”
Harry is laughing now too, and Nora’s laughing through her tears, and Anne is crying so hard she has to angle the phone away while she grabs a tissue.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Anne says once she can speak again. “This is the best news. The best news. You two - oh my God, you two are going to be incredible parents.”
“We haven’t even gone to the doctor yet,” Nora manages. “But… yeah. It’s real.”
Anne dabs her eyes again. “I’m already knitting. I don’t even know what I’m knitting yet, but I am.”
They talk a little more - about nothing and everything. About due dates they haven’t calculated, names they haven’t thought of, how to keep it private for a little while. Anne promises she won’t breathe a word, and you can hear her joy down to the bones.
When they hang up, the room is quiet again.
Harry sets his phone down slowly and rubs a hand over his face. He stays quiet longer than usual. Nora watches him closely, waiting for the usual afterglow grin or one of his dorky, overjoyed one-liners. But it doesn’t come.
He just sits there. Breathing unevenly. His eyes glassy.
Nora shifts, pulling her legs beneath her as she turns to him. “Hey,” she says gently. “What’s going on?”
He looks at her, really looks at her, and then lets out a shaky laugh, one that folds into a quiet sob at the edges.
“I’m just-” He shakes his head, wiping at his eyes again, clearly frustrated with himself for crying but unable to stop. “I didn’t think I’d ever have this. Not really.”
Her face softens instantly. She reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together.
Harry breathes through it, his voice low and a little broken. “Touring all the time… hotel rooms and airplanes, not knowing what country I was in some weeks. And then when we went through that rough patch early on - I thought I lost you. I thought I blew it. After the other relationships, I kind of assumed maybe this kind of thing just… wasn’t in the cards for me.”
He swallows thickly.
“And now I’ve got this house. You. A baby on the way. I just… I don’t know how I got here, but I don’t want to mess any of it up.”
Nora’s throat is tight. She squeezes his hand, tugging him closer so his forehead leans into hers.
“You won’t,” she whispers. “You’re not messing it up. You’re here. You’re present. And we’ve got each other.”
He closes his eyes and nods, a tear slipping down his cheek that she gently brushes away.
“You’ve built this life with me,” she continues. “And it’s ours, Harry. Not some accident, not a detour. Ours. You belong here. You are here.”
He breathes out, steadier now, and leans forward to press a kiss to her temple. His arms wrap around her completely, like he needs to feel every inch of her to believe this is real.
They stay that way for a long time - no urgency, no more decisions tonight. Just warmth. Stillness. Everything quiet except the rhythm of their breathing, the occasional deep sigh as the weight of the day settles around them.
Eventually, she murmurs, “If this kid gets your dimples and my sarcasm, the world’s in trouble.”
He chuckles, kissing her cheek. “And if they get your brain and my… modesty, we’re really doomed.”
She smiles, nestled against his chest. “You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“I actually think we’re going to be really good at this.”
He brushes a thumb along her shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, quiet and certain. “I think we are.”
———————————————————————————
Second Father’s Day.
The pram is packed but unused. Instead, Remy is fast asleep, warm and snug against Harry’s chest in a soft charcoal-grey baby carrier that makes him look like the world’s most stylish kangaroo, and the most stylish DILF.
She’s all cheeks and peach fuzz, her tiny fist curled around one of his necklaces like it belongs to her now. Nora thinks it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever seen -this man, this moment, this ridiculous contrast of soft baby snores and tattoos and tousled hair.
They’re walking through Hampstead Heath - Nora nursing a takeaway coffee, Harry balancing a water bottle between his arm and Remy’s padded leg. It’s sunny but not hot, dappled light playing between the trees.
“Do you remember,” Nora begins, smiling without looking up, “when you tried to swaddle her for the first time and she immediately Houdini’d one arm out?”
Harry laughs, the sound deep and tired and full of adoration. “It was like she knew I was being cocky about it. I genuinely thought I’d nailed it.”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Look at this masterpiece.’”
“And then” he flicks his free hand out in a magician’s reveal, “a little rogue fist pops up like she’s starting a revolution.”
Nora chuckles, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “She’s a born rebel. I blame you.”
“You should,” he grins, adjusting the carrier gently as Remy snuffles in her sleep. “She’s got that ‘no shoes ever’ look in her eyes already.”
They walk in silence for a moment, not awkward — just soaking it in. The quiet buzz of insects. A dog barking somewhere. The faint squeak of the baby carrier strap when Harry shifts his weight.
“Happy Father’s Day,” Nora says softly.
He hums, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the weight of those words. “Isn’t it mad that this time last year…”
“You were crying next to me on the bed,” she finishes. “I’ll never forget your face. You looked… like you’d just realized you’d found your entire future and didn’t know how to hold it all at once.”
Harry’s quiet for a second. He presses a kiss to Remy’s head without even thinking. “I still feel like that, some mornings.”
“Which is wild because you’re actually really good at this.”
“Are we?” he asks, half-joking but not really.
She stops, reaching for his hand. “Yeah. We are.”
The room is too bright. The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly, the white of the walls almost clinical in their indifference. Machines beep steadily, and nurses move with quiet urgency. Nora grips the edge of the bed hard, her knuckles blanched, breath coming in ragged bursts.
Harry is at her side - disheveled, calm-eyed, sleeves pushed up, voice soft. His hand cups the back of her head as another contraction grips her from the inside out.
“I need- I need a second,” she pants, voice edged with panic. “I… Harry, I d-don’t-I don’t want to do this.”
He crouches next to the bed in one fluid motion, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Nora,” he says, steady and low. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay. You’re doing amazing.”
She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut.
“No, you don’t get it,” her voice cracks. “My mum… she died doing this. What if I don’t get to meet her? What if she’s born and I don’t-”
Harry stops her with a kiss - not urgent, not panicked - just anchoring. He presses his forehead to hers afterward, his hands cradling either side of her face.
“That’s not going to happen,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t say that, please. You’re not her. This is not then. And you’re not leaving us. Do you hear me?”
She blinks, eyes glassy but focused. Breath trembling. Still clutching his hand like a lifeline.
“I’m scared,” she murmurs.
“I know, baby. But I’m right here.” His thumb brushes her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
They kiss again - a longer one, full of fear and love and the surreal stillness in the eye of a storm. She hugs him tight, belly stretched between them, and he doesn’t let go.
The room is finally still.
There’s no screaming now. No counting, no alarms. The machines beep in soft, steady rhythm. The lights above have been dimmed. A nurse moves quietly in the corner, typing into a chart.
And Nora’s holding her. This warm, soft, blinking little person - cheeks flushed from the sheer effort of existing, lips puckering in sleep, curled against Nora’s chest like she’s always belonged there. Their baby.
She’s wearing a hat far too big for her head. Harry has one hand spread protectively over her back, and the other is curled around Nora’s wrist, grounding himself.
“I don’t even know what to say,” he says quietly. “You just brought a whole person into the world. You’re unbelievable.”
Nora exhales a laugh, exhausted and raw and somehow still sarcastic. “You should’ve seen the view from my angle.”
Harry lets out a laugh, his eyes shining. He leans in and kisses her temple. “You’re magic.”
“Yeah, well,” she murmurs, “remind me of that next time I’m crying because we’re out of oat milk.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, like he’s afraid to wake the baby. His hand strokes softly down her arm. “I mean it, though. I’ve never… I’ve never seen anything like that. What you did. What she did.”
They both look down. Their daughter sighs in her sleep, fingers twitching.
“She’s perfect,” Harry says, voice breaking slightly.
Nora just nods, tears already slipping down her cheeks again, but these are different. These are the kind that fall when there are no words.
“Alright,” she says, after a pause. “We’ve put it off long enough. What are we calling this tiny dictator?”
Harry shifts slightly, rubbing his thumb over the baby’s back.
“So, our short list,” he says. “Marnie, Thea, or Remy.”
Nora nods slowly. “She doesn’t look like a Thea.”
“I know,” Harry says. “And Marnie’s lovely but-”
“But Remy feels like her,” Nora finishes.
They sit in silence for a few more heartbeats. Then Harry clears his throat, his voice gentler now. “There was one other name I thought of. I didn’t want to spring it on you, but…”
He meets her eyes. “Maeve.”
Nora freezes for a beat. The name lands like a slow ache in her chest.
“That was your mum’s name, right?”
She nods, eyes filling.
Harry watches her carefully. “I just thought… if you wanted a way to honour her.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. The baby shifts slightly, nose scrunching, but doesn’t wake.
“You’re… I love you even more for saying that,” Nora finally says, her voice catching. “But I can’t. I’ve lived longer without her than I ever lived with her. And I don’t want that to be the start of our daughter’s story… grief.”
Harry nods. No argument, no question. Just complete understanding.
“I want her to be her own person,” Nora continues. “Not tethered to someone she’ll never know. I’ve carried the weight of that loss my whole life. I don’t want her to have to carry it, too.”
Harry kisses her softly. “Okay.”
They look back down at the baby. Nora touches her tiny hand with one finger.
“Remy,” she whispers. “She’s Remy.”
Harry smiles. “Remy Styles. She already sounds like trouble.”
“Remy Anne Styles,” Nora adds, glancing at him with a soft grin.
Harry blinks. “Anne?”
Nora nods. “After your mum. If anyone’s name deserves to be carried forward… it’s hers.”
His eyes go glassy in an instant.
“I love you,” he says thickly, kissing her forehead again, then brushing his fingers over Remy’s tiny shoulder. “She’s going to be so proud.”
There’s a knock, and then the door opens slowly. Cliff, Carrie, and Anne step in - eyes puffy, hands full of bags and gifts and caffeine.
They stop when they see them - Harry sitting beside Nora, who’s propped up on pillows, their baby curled against her chest.
“Oh, my god,” Carrie whispers, already crying.
Cliff doesn’t speak. He just walks over and wraps his daughter in a careful, reverent hug. Then he leans down and kisses Remy’s head like it’s holy.
Anne holds Nora’s hand tightly, her voice shaking. “She’s beautiful.”
Harry glances at Nora. She nods.
“We wanted to tell you her name,” he says.
Everyone goes quiet.
“Remy Anne Styles.”
Anne chokes out a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Cliff wipes his eyes. Carrie clasps her hands together over her chest. It’s a blur of hugs and soft exclamations, kisses and hand squeezes and murmured congratulations.
The baby stirs. The nurse, a kind-eyed woman named Marsha, helps Nora adjust her top as Remy tries to latch.
“It’s okay,” Marsha says gently, guiding her. “Just relax. She knows what to do.”
Harry stands beside the bed, watching in stunned silence as his daughter begins to feed. He looks like he’s witnessing a miracle.
“She’s… she’s actually doing it,” he says softly, brushing a finger over Remy’s tiny foot.
Nora smiles, tired and amazed and aching in every part of her body.
A minute later, Harry slips out of the room. When he comes back, he’s holding his phone.
“I have some people who want to say hello,” he says, and turns the screen around.
On FaceTime: Haadiyah, Alex, and Caitlyn, all crammed onto a couch, faces beaming, hands over mouths.
“OH MY GOD,” Haadiyah shrieks.
“NORA, YOU’RE A MOTHER,” Alex cries.
“She’s breastfeeding and still looks hotter than I do on a normal day,” Caitlyn says. “What the hell.”
Nora laughs, blinking back new tears. “Say hello to Remy, guys.”
And in that moment, surrounded by the people who love them, tired beyond belief, Remy nestled against her chest, Nora thinks - This. This is what safe feels like.
Remy is fast asleep in her bassinet by the window, one hand curled near her cheek like she’s mid-thought in a dream. Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the trees, golden and soft.
Nora and Harry are curled up on the sofa, legs tangled, each with one arm looped around the other, a film playing quietly on the TV. Neither is really watching.
Harry’s thumb is brushing lightly over the inside of her wrist. Nora’s head is tucked against his shoulder. There’s a blanket over both of their legs, and a half-finished cup of tea on the table in front of them.
They’re quiet for a long moment, both half-lost in the stillness.
“I got you something,” Harry says.
Nora blinks, straightening just slightly. “You got me a present? Why?”
Harry gives her a look, amused. “It’s Father’s Day.”
“Exactly,” she says, sitting up more now. “You’re the father.”
“And I wouldn’t be,” he says simply, “if it weren’t for you.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She doesn’t have a counter for that.
“Well,” she mutters, “now I feel like an arse.”
Harry grins. “Good. My plan is working.”
Nora narrows her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me,” he says, leaning in, brushing his nose against hers.
“Unfortunately,” she says, deadpan, but her lips are already twitching. There’s a pause, then she exhales.
“Alright,” she says. “Fine. But I’m going first.”
Harry leans back. “Okay. Hit me.”
She stands and walks toward the bookshelf, pulling out a slim package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue ribbon.
“I have… a theme,” she says, handing it to him. “And no, it’s not socks.”
Harry grins and unties the ribbon. The paper falls away, revealing a hardback book. Hand-bound, cream-coloured linen cover, a title embossed in gold foil:
“Little Light: A Story About You.”
He stares at it, frowning in confusion, until he opens it and sees her name.
Written by Nora Elwood.
He blinks hard. “Wait.”
“I wrote it,” she says, sitting beside him again, voice quiet. “Started when I was pregnant. About a little girl and her dad who makes the world feel safe.”
He’s already turning pages. Gentle watercolor illustrations fill each one - a father and daughter in little moments: tying shoes, dancing in the kitchen, looking at stars.
He turns to the dedication page.
For H, who taught me that home can have a heartbeat. And for Remy, who made us into a family.
Harry covers his mouth with one hand. His eyes are glassy. He doesn’t speak for a long time.
Then, just, “Nora…”
“I wanted you to know that she’ll always know who you are,” she says, brushing her fingers down his arm. “Even though she’s too little to understand it right now.”
Harry looks at her like he’s never loved anything more.
“Okay,” she says, clearing her throat, trying not to cry too. “Second present.”
She reaches for a tiny box and hands it over. He opens it to find a delicate silver charm — a small, brushed disc engraved with a single R.
“I thought maybe… for your chain,” she says, gesturing at the necklace always around his neck. “So she’s always with you, even when you’re off doing something wild like headlining Glastonbury or whatever.”
He leans forward, kisses her slow and grateful. “I’m obsessed with you,” he says into her mouth.
“I know,” she says smugly.
“And the third one?”
She smirks. “Already given.”
“What?”
She points toward the stairs. Harry follows her gaze. Mounted on the wall, halfway up the staircase, is a framed photo - one of those unposed, caught-in-a-moment ones. He’s holding Remy against his chest, shirtless, early morning light coming in behind him. His head is bowed to kiss her temple, her hand gripping his necklace. Nora’s not even sure who took it -maybe Carrie, maybe one of their friends - but it’s her favorite. Nora also knows it’s Harry’s favourite.
Harry stares at it.
“That’s my favorite photo,” he says softly.
“I know,” she murmurs.
He kisses her cheek, then her shoulder. “Alright,” she says, smiling. “What on earth did you get me, Mr. Styles?”
He grins and reaches behind the couch cushion. “Okay. Don’t laugh.”
Nora lifts a brow. “Immediately nervous.”
He hands her a small, unevenly wrapped parcel. She tears it open and finds a tiny, rectangular silver keyring. Engraved with a quote.
You are my wild calm.
Her breath catches.
“I know you hate stuff that’s too shiny or overdone,” Harry says quietly. “But… it made me think of you. You’ve always been the calm. Even when everything’s loud.”
She doesn’t speak - just reaches out and pulls him in, hand at the back of his neck, and kisses him long and soft. They breathe into each other, mouths warm, bodies curled close. One of those slow, grounding kisses that say thank you and I love you and I still can’t believe it’s us.
They pull apart just a little, foreheads resting.
“Maybe this is cheesy,” she murmurs, “but today’s been one of the good ones.”
“It’s us,” Harry says. “Even the worst ones feel okay.”
They’re kissing again when-
Remy lets out a startled little cry from her bassinet, a hiccuping wail that makes them both freeze.
Harry groans and drops his head to Nora’s shoulder.
“I’ll get her,” she says.
“No, no, let me-”
They both move at once, untangling from the couch, bumping into each other in the scramble.
Nora’s laughing as she reaches the bassinet. “Happy Father’s Day, H.”
“Best one yet,” he says, scooping Remy into his arms.
She blinks up at him sleepily, one hand curling around the edge of his shirt. He kisses her head, then looks over at Nora - his girl, his love, his anchor - and smiles.
“Although, next year… maybe a lie-in?”
———————————————————————————
Third Father’s Day.
The cabin is tucked into the trees like it’s been waiting for them all year - sloped roof, ivy climbing one side, wind brushing softly through tall grass just beyond the fence. It’s late morning, the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas and socks and no one knows where their phone is. A long wooden veranda stretches across the back of the cabin, looking out on a patchy yard where a very determined toddler is toddling, a pink stuffed strawberry clutched in one hand, and Harry, soft-voiced and shoeless, crouched in the grass, arms open, matching her wobble with exaggerated cheer.
From the wicker loveseat near the railing, Nora watches the two of them like she always does when she thinks no one’s looking. A mug of tea rests warm in her hands, bare feet tucked under her. Cliff, her dad, sits beside her, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, relaxed in a way only he seems to be when surrounded by his girls.
“Thanks for inviting us,” Nora murmurs. “It’s so nice just… being.”
Cliff glances sideways at her. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re always welcome, you know that.”
“I do,” she says, then after a beat, “Happy Father’s Day.”
He smiles, quiet, and tilts his chin out toward the yard. “Think I might be sharing the title with someone new.”
They both watch as Remy collapses into Harry’s lap in a fit of toddler giggles. He topples backward dramatically, falling onto the grass with a gasp and an “Oh nooo!” that makes Remy clutch her strawberry tighter and squeal with delight. She clambers over him and smushes her face into his chest with a happy hum.
“I always knew he’d be good,” Nora says, voice low, “but I didn’t know he’d be this good.”
Cliff hums. “That’s the kind of dad you become when you’ve done the work on yourself. He’s soft where it matters. But he shows up.”
She nods. “He makes it feel… easy. Like we’re a team. Even on the hard days.”
Cliff’s voice turns even gentler. “And you - you’re a hell of a mum, Nora.”
Her throat tightens at that, even though it’s not the first time he’s said it. But something about it, today, with Remy giggling and Harry throwing himself around in the grass like a Muppet, it hits a little differently.
“I didn’t know if I would be,” she says, and Cliff says nothing, just rests a hand briefly over hers on the mug.
From below, Remy suddenly lets out a wobbly, high-pitched “Noooo!” and stamps her foot once before she topples - a soft tumble forward, strawberry still in hand, catching herself with a little thump on her knees.
There’s a pause. That toddler silence. That one beat between are they fine and are they about to scream.
And then:
“Mamaaaa!”
It’s not even a cry at first - just a wail of where are you?, rising in pitch as her face crumples and fat tears brim in her eyes.
Nora’s already halfway across the porch before Harry can even sit up. His hands are out, ready to comfort, but Remy bypasses him completely, little hands reaching toward her mum like nothing else will do.
“Oh, bug, come here-” Nora scoops her up and sinks to her knees in the grass, holding Remy close as she sniffles and sobs into her shoulder.
Harry runs a hand through his hair, looking a little apologetic. “She tripped on the strawberry again. Bit of a hazard.”
Cliff chuckles from the porch. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard that sentence before.”
“She okay?” Carrie calls from inside, where she’s chopping something loudly and happily to music.
“She’s fine!” Nora calls back, brushing her fingers through Remy’s hair. “Just got startled.”
Remy hiccups into her collarbone and murmurs something muffled and soft. Nora kisses the top of her head.
“She’s such a Daddy’s girl,” Nora says with a smile as she shifts Remy onto her hip. “Until something hurts.”
Harry stands beside her now, hand brushing lightly across her back.
“That’s when she needs the CEO of Comfort,” he says. “You’re irreplaceable.”
“Obviously,” she replies dryly. “You’re just the comic relief.”
He leans in and kisses her temple, then Remy’s. “She gets her drama from you.”
“She gets her tantrums from you.”
“She gets her face from me,” he says proudly.
They both laugh, and Remy, comforted and calmed, leans back just enough to study them, cheeks still blotchy but smile starting to creep back.
“Dada,” she says with a sleepy grin.
Nora grins. “Traitor.”
“Say Mama,” Harry prompts gently.
Remy holds up the stuffed strawberry like it’s a prize and yells, “BAH!”
Nora sighs. “Close enough.”
Back on the porch, Cliff lifts his tea to toast. “To the weirdest, cutest little family.”
The sunlight filtered softly through the curtains as Nora quietly set the scene in their cozy bedroom. A small, delicate “Happy Birthday” banner, pastel colors with tiny gold stars, was strung gently across the headboard. Nothing over the top, but just enough to make the morning feel special.
Harry was still half asleep when Nora nudged him gently. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, smiling as she handed him a neatly wrapped little box.
He peeled off the paper with sleepy excitement, revealing a slim leather-bound journal - something she knew he’d wanted for a while. “You remembered,” he said, grinning, pulling her in for a soft kiss.
Then, with a quiet laugh, Nora reached over and lifted Remy, still in her pajamas, into his arms. “And here’s one for you too,” she said, holding out a tiny velvet pouch.
Inside was a delicate silver bracelet with a small charm engraved with an “H” and an “N” - their initials intertwined. “It’s just a little something for Remy’s first birthday,” Nora said softly.
Harry’s eyes softened as he clasped it gently around her tiny wrist. “She’s going to love this,” he murmured, kissing the baby’s head.
They settled back into the bed, Remy squirming and cooing, clutching her favorite stuffed strawberry. Harry smiled, brushing a stray hair from Nora’s face. “Best birthday morning ever.”
The room was buzzing with laughter and chatter, fairy lights casting a warm glow over the gathering of friends - Harry’s close crew from London, Nora’s friends sprinkled in, and the clinking of glasses filled the air. It was a celebration in full swing, with music drifting softly beneath the conversations and the occasional cheer for Harry.
Harry, holding a glass of wine, leaned close to Nora as the noise swirled around them. “You really pulled off something incredible here,” he said, genuine gratitude in his eyes. “I didn’t even know you were planning all this. I mean, I’ve got a one-year-old at home, and you’re out here being a superwoman.”
Nora smirked, nudging him playfully. “Well, I do try,” she said, her voice warm. “But honestly, watching you as a dad - it’s been amazing. You’ve been so involved, changing nappies, staying up late, making her laugh. I’ve heard so many horror stories where dads do the bare minimum, but you? You’re the best partner and dad I could’ve hoped for.”
Harry’s smile softened, touched by her words. “I just want to celebrate you tonight too,” she continued, “because you deserve it. I’d celebrate you every day if I could. I love you so much.”
He chuckled softly, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “When we get home, you’re going to have to show me just how much you love me,” he teased.
Nora laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, I will.”
As the moment settled between them, Nora glanced toward the corner where Anne and Gemma were chatting with friends. “Do you think Remy’s okay with my dad and Carrie?” she asked quietly.
Harry nodded confidently. “She loves them. She’s such a good baby. I think she knows how lucky she is.”
Nora smiled, heart full, as the night continued around them - a perfect blend of friendship, family, and love.
The air is golden and still upstairs, curtains swaying gently in the open window, the soft hum of summer birdsong just audible beyond the breeze. The rest of the house is quieter now - Carrie has shushed Cliff after he nearly dropped a stack of plates, and downstairs is all muffled laughter and the click of a kettle boiling.
Up here, it’s nap time.
Harry sits cross-legged on the floor beside the crib, Remy tucked against his chest in her little sleep suit, one chubby fist curled around his shirt, the other gently holding the plastic cap of her milk bottle. Her head rests on his shoulder, curls tickling his jaw. Her breathing is quick but slowing. She’s resisting sleep with determination, blinking dramatically between sips like the very idea of closing her eyes is an injustice.
Nora stands just outside the cracked door, unnoticed, holding her breath in that reverent way you do when the moment feels sacred. She’s still, leaning lightly against the frame, arms folded across her chest, one foot crossed over the other, eyes soft and quiet.
Harry gently rocks back and forth, humming something low and familiar - not quite a song, more like a melody you hum without realizing. It sounds like something he might’ve sung to her when she was brand new. He kisses her temple.
“Okay, little bug,” he whispers, “story time. But only one. It’s nap rules.”
Remy makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sleepy groan.
Harry smiles against her hair. “Wanna hear about the first time I met your mum?”
Nora’s lips quirk.
“She wore this jumper that kept falling off one shoulder. It was this cream thing. Looked like something you’d wear now if you could pick your own clothes.”
Another slow rock.
“She was drinking peppermint tea, which I judged - silently, of course - because I was drinking an oat flat white and I felt very superior. Until she said she hated coffee. And then I panicked and ordered peppermint tea the next time we went out. Which was the next day, by the way.”
Remy lets out a soft, rhythmic breath, finally starting to settle.
“She had these boots on - big, chunky ones. And I remember thinking, she’s either going to be the most intimidating person I’ve ever met or the love of my life. And lucky me…”
He trails off as Remy’s breathing evens, her bottle slowly slipping from her grasp. He takes it gently, placing it on the rug, then leans down to kiss her cheek.
“Night, Rem,” he whispers. “Best decision we ever made.”
He slowly, slowly, eases her down into the crib. She stirs once - he freezes - then she sighs, curls onto her side, strawberry tucked under one arm, and stays asleep.
Harry tiptoes out of the room, easing the door nearly closed, and turns, jumping slightly when he sees Nora leaning against the wall in the hallway.
“Christ, Nor,” he mutters with a grin, hand over his heart. “Were you just standing there?”
She lifts a shoulder, not hiding the smile playing on her lips. “Maybe. That was… really nice.”
He flushes a little, looking suddenly shy. “She wouldn’t go down. Thought I’d bore her into unconsciousness.”
Nora steps forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his chest. “You’re the most amazing dad. Honestly. I can’t even express it. Watching you love her like that… Happy Father’s Day, H.”
He bends his head and presses a kiss into her hair. “I wouldn’t be a dad without you. Or at least, not one with that specific sassy baby in there.”
She pulls back slightly, eyes bright. “Well. I do pride myself on creating premium-grade humans.”
Harry laughs. “You really do.”
She smirks, voice lowering slightly as she tugs at the collar of his shirt. “And maybe later… if you’re lucky, the premium-grade human maker is feeling generous.”
Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, a smirk curling slow at the corner of his mouth. “Nora. Your parents are literally downstairs.”
She leans in, lips brushing his ear. “You love it.”
He looks at her, long and slow, like he still can’t believe she’s his, even after years and a child and a million quiet Tuesday mornings.
“I really, really do.”
Downstairs, Carrie calls, “Lunch is ready!” like it’s a celebration, and a second later Cliff yells, “Harry, come carve something!”
They pull apart, just slightly, and Harry sighs.
“Duty calls.”
Nora kisses him, a soft little thing. “We’ll pick up this conversation later.
He looks hopeful. “Soon?”
“Very,” she grins.
And they head downstairs - laughing, brushing fingers, stepping into a kitchen full of toast crumbs and family, and the smell of something roasting in the oven.
The late afternoon sun spilled through the canopy, casting soft golden patches on the veranda where Harry and Nora lounged together, limbs intertwined like they belonged to each other. The gentle hum of birds and the faint rustle of leaves filled the air, blending with the soft patter of Remy’s tiny footsteps as she played nearby, absorbed in her pile of pinecones and twigs.
Harry watched Nora’s profile, the way the sunlight caught the curve of her cheek, the subtle smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she glanced down at Remy. The sound of their daughter’s delighted babbles made his chest swell with something fierce and tender all at once.
“I still can’t believe this is our life,” Nora murmured, her voice soft but steady, “You, me, Remy, this little wild thing with her strawberry. It’s… everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.”
Harry’s fingers tightened around hers. “Remember that first Father’s Day? You telling me you were pregnant? I was scared, terrified, honestly. But I also knew then that everything was about to change, for the better.”
Nora chuckled, shaking her head. “You were so worried I’d get mad at you.”
“I was,” he admitted with a grin. “But mostly because I was worried about you.”
They fell into a comfortable silence, watching Remy wobble unsteadily toward them, her little face scrunched in concentration as she tried to balance on two feet.
“I never imagined I’d be good at this,” Harry said quietly, “Being a dad. But with you… watching you with Remy, how strong you’ve been. I feel like we make a pretty good team.”
Nora’s eyes shimmered, her hand finding the curve of his jaw. “You make me braver. Better.”
Harry’s gaze softened, and he shifted closer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
He reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate ring that caught the light and sparkled like a secret promise.
Nora’s breath hitched, her heart pounding loud in her ears.
“Will you marry me?” he asked, voice steady but full of hope.
For a moment, time slowed - the birdsong, the whispering leaves, even Remy’s distant giggle all faded into the background.
Tears pricked at Nora’s eyes as she laughed through them, the pure joy and disbelief swirling together like sunlight and rain.
“Yes,” she whispered, sliding the ring onto her finger. “Yes, a thousand times yes.”
Just then, little Remy toddled over, eyes wide and curious.
“Mama?” she called out, reaching up.
Nora scooped her up, holding her close, the three of them wrapped in a quiet bubble of love and new beginnings.
Minutes later, Cliff and Carrie returned from their walk, laughter and warmth spilling into the space.
Cliff’s eyes twinkled as he looked at the trio on the love seat. “Looks like I walked into something special.
Harry just smiled, pulling Nora and Remy closer.
That evening, over dinner filled with congratulations and gentle teasing, they talked about the future - dreams, hopes, and the beautiful chaos of family life.
Later, in the quiet of their room, with Remy asleep nearby, Harry brushed a loose strand of hair from Nora’s face.
“Are you happy with how I asked?”
Nora smiled, her hand resting on the ring. “More than happy. You, Remy - you’re my everything. It’s always been us two, and now it’s us three.”
Harry leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Here’s to forever.”
———————————————————————————
Fourth Father’s Day.
The dressing room buzzed with the low hum of last-minute preparations. Harry’s friends and Nora’s close pals Haadiyah and Caitlyn filled the space with laughter and chatter. Anne and Gemma sat quietly, soaking in the lively atmosphere, while Cliff and Carrie were nestled in a corner, chatting softly.
Remy was everywhere at once - a tiny whirlwind in a tutu, her curly hair bouncing as she darted between legs, clutching her beloved stuffed strawberry. Her bright eyes sparkled with mischief and curiosity, but the lack of a nap was making her a bit restless.
“Remy, please don’t climb on the equipment,” Harry said gently but firmly as she reached for the cables. Before she could even register, she’d tugged a cable loose, sending a brief jolt through the room.
“Remy!” Harry’s voice was calm but serious. “That’s not safe.”
Remy’s face crumpled. She scampered over to Nora, tears spilling down her cheeks as she buried her head against Nora’s side.
“Mama!”
Nora knelt down, brushing strawberry-blond curls off her daughter’s damp forehead. “Hey, I know you’re upset, baby. You got in trouble because climbing on things can be dangerous. We have to keep you safe, okay? It’s okay to cry.”
Remy sniffled, her tears falling freely, but Nora didn’t pull her into a full hug - just kept a steady hand on her back. She wanted Remy to understand that it was safe to feel upset, but that the rules were still important.
Harry watched the scene quietly from the side, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Nora caught his eye and mouthed, “She’s just tired.”
He nodded, then crouched down beside Remy, voice softer now. “Hey, Remy, can you say sorry for climbing on the stuff?”
Remy nodded, hiccupping between words, “Sowwy, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl,” Harry said, giving a gentle high-five.
Nora stood, smoothing her dress, and glanced around at the room, where everyone was quietly watching the little family moment. Anne smiled warmly; Gemma whispered something to Carrie with a knowing grin.
Harry took Nora’s hand briefly, squeezing it. “Ready to go sing some songs, yeah?”
Harry laughed softly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The soft hum of the arena buzzed faintly through the backstage corridors. Harry and Nora moved slowly down the narrow hallway, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders. Nora’s free hand gently held Remy’s, who toddled beside them, clutching her stuffed strawberry tightly. The tiny pink dummy bobbed in her mouth, and her oversized toddler headphones muffled the distant sounds of the crowd.
Remy’s wide eyes scanned everything - backstage lights, crew members bustling past, cables snaking along the floor. Her energy was waning; she was quieter than usual, the lack of a nap catching up. Yet the wonder of the moment still gleamed in her gaze.
Harry bent slightly, brushing a loose curl from Nora’s temple. “Ready for this?”
Nora smiled, leaning into his warmth. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Happy Father’s Day, Harry.”
He smiled back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He dipped his head, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “Thank you, love. And happy Father’s Day to you too. Couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
They walked a few steps more, and Remy suddenly tugged at Nora’s hand, her face scrunching as little tears welled up. A small, uncertain whimper escaped her lips.
Harry crouched down to meet her eyes. “Hey, hey, don’t cry, bug. Daddy’s just gonna sing a few songs, yeah? You like when Daddy sings, don’t you?”
Remy blinked, her voice muffled by the dummy, but she managed a hopeful, “Daddy sing?”
“You got it,” Harry chuckled softly. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”
With a gentle hand, Harry passed Remy to Nora, who wrapped the little girl in a soft hug. Remy rested her head on Nora’s shoulder, the tears ebbing as she felt the comfort of her mother’s arms.
Harry stood, straightened his jacket, and gave Nora one last, lingering smile before turning towards the stage entrance. Nora watched him go, then shifted her gaze to Remy, who was now curiously peeking around the corner.
Together, Nora and Remy headed towards the family area set up in the stadium, where Cliff, Carrie, Anne, Gemma, and the others were waiting, ready to welcome them for the show.
The soft Italian morning light filtered through the shutters of the villa’s bedroom, casting a gentle glow over Harry and Nora. The villa was quiet, still holding onto the calm before the joyful storm of the day ahead.
Harry stirred first, carefully shifting so as not to disturb Remy. He smiled down at Nora, tracing a lazy circle on her arm. “Morning,” he whispered.
Nora blinked awake, a sleepy smile spreading across her face. “Morning,” she murmured back, her fingers brushing his.
Their two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Remy, was still asleep between them, nestled under a light cotton blanket. The room smelled faintly of the sea and fresh linen, a perfect Italian spring morning.
Minutes later, Remy’s soft coos turned into sleepy babbles, and her small voice broke the quiet: “Mama? Daddy? Go swim?”
Nora chuckled softly, pulling Remy closer. “Not today, Remy. It’s a very special day. Today Daddy and Mama are getting married.”
Remy’s eyes widened with innocent curiosity. “Weddin’?”
Harry kissed the top of Remy’s head, feeling the weight of the moment settle warmly around them. “That’s right, bug. You’re so smart. Lots of people we love will be here, and we’re going to have a big celebration.”
Downstairs, the villa buzzed with gentle activity. Friends and family gathered in the large kitchen and sunlit dining room, filling the air with laughter and the scent of fresh bread, pastries, and strong coffee. Nora’s closest friends helped with last-minute preparations, while Harry’s family quietly reminisced in corners, sharing smiles and stories.
Breakfast was simple but heartfelt - fresh fruit, cheeses, warm croissants, and homemade jams. Plates clinked, voices mingled, and glasses clinked softly as everyone toasted the beautiful day ahead.
Harry glanced across the table at Nora, noticing she was picking at her food more than eating. Her fingers toyed nervously with a piece of toast.
“Hey,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “You okay? You haven’t eaten much.“
Nora shook her head but smiled faintly. “I’m just a bit nervous. I guess… it’s the big day.”
Harry squeezed her hand gently. “You’re going to be amazing. And it’s not about perfection or tradition - it’s about us. Our family. Our love.”
Nora looked into his eyes, feeling grounded by his calm. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Us.”
They shared a quiet moment, surrounded by the warmth of family and friends, the soft murmur of the sea just beyond the villa walls.
Nora’s wedding dress was a vision of modern elegance. The gown was a strapless, corseted silk dress that hugged her figure gracefully. Its sleek silhouette was complemented by a dramatic circular train that added a touch of grandeur without overwhelming the simplicity of the design. The dress featured delicate French Chantilly lace detailing, adding a vintage charm to the otherwise contemporary piece. To complete the look, Nora wore sheer opera gloves, adding a layer of sophistication and timelessness to her ensemble.
Her hair was styled in a sleek, middle-parted updo, with soft tendrils framing her face, and a long veil trailing behind her, creating a romantic and ethereal appearance.
Remy’s dress mirrored Nora’s in design, tailored for a toddler’s frame and coloured in dusty pink. The miniature gown featured the same lace detailing, with a shorter skirt that allowed for movement and playfulness. A tiny pair of opera gloves completed her ensemble, making her the perfect sidekick.
In the villa’s sunlit room, Nora stood before the mirror, adjusting her dress. The soft rustle of fabric filled the space as she admired the gown’s delicate details. Remy, in her miniature version, twirled around, her laughter echoing through the room.
Anne, Carrie, and Nora’s best friends - Alex, Haadiyah, and Caitlyn - bustled around, offering assistance and sharing in the excitement. Anne helped fix Remy’s hair, while Carrie ensured the flower arrangements were perfect. Alex and Haadiyah chatted animatedly, Caitlyn capturing candid moments on her camera.
Remy tugged at Nora’s sleeve, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Mama, pretty,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.
Nora knelt down, pulling Remy into a hug. “Thank you, my beautiful girl,” she replied, her heart swelling with love.
Anne appeared quietly at the door, holding up a phone. “Nora, love, this is for you,” she said softly.
Nora took the phone with a small smile as Anne handed it over. The screen lit up with Harry’s name.
“Hey,” Harry’s voice came through, warm and calm.
“Hey yourself,” Nora replied, her voice catching just a little.
“I just wanted to hear your voice before everything kicks off,” Harry said gently. “You’re going to be the most beautiful bride.”
Nora smiled, feeling a flutter in her chest. “Thanks, baby. I’m a bit nervous, not gonna lie.”
“You’ll be amazing,” Harry reassured. “And Remy’s going to steal everyone’s hearts.”
The sound of Remy laughing in the background made them both smile.
They chatted quietly for a moment longer before Nora handed the phone back to Anne, feeling a little more grounded.
The late afternoon sun filtered gently through the olive trees that framed the ceremony space at the villa. Pale florals lined the aisle, their soft fragrance carried in the warm breeze. Guests were seated in two neat rows of chairs on the lawn, a quiet hum of excitement in the air.
At the top of the aisle, Harry stood waiting. His hands were clasped in front of him, his jaw tight with nerves, but his eyes - soft and wide - were fixed on the villa door, waiting.
Then the soft instrumental began. The crowd rose to their feet.
From the villa’s garden gate, Nora stepped into view, but all eyes weren’t just on her. Because walking beside her, tiny hand tucked into hers, was Remy - in her own miniature version of Nora’s dress. She held her stuffed strawberry in the other hand, beaming with glee, clearly aware that something special was happening, even if she didn’t fully understand what.
The guests melted into quiet awe.
Halfway down, Remy lost her rhythm and started skipping a little - making Nora laugh gently before steadying her again. By the time they reached the end of the aisle, Cliff stepped forward.
He leaned down to press a soft kiss to Remy’s curls, then turned to Nora. His voice caught as he whispered, “You look just like your mum.”
Nora’s eyes shimmered. She smiled as she took Cliff’s hand briefly, then placed hers into Harry’s, standing beside the man she loved, their daughter already between them.
As the officiant welcomed everyone and began the ceremony, Remy - ever her own person - looked up at the quiet crowd and asked, clear as anything:
“Weddin’?”
Everyone burst into laughter.
Harry and Nora couldn’t help it either - they both leaned down and kissed Remy on the cheek.
Harry whispered, “That’s right, bug. Mama and Daddy are getting married.”
Remy nodded, very serious. “Okay. That okay.”
Cliff scooped Remy gently into his arms, whispering something into her ear as she snuggled against his shoulder, satisfied.
The ceremony continued, full of heartfelt vows and quiet tears. Nora promised honesty and home. Harry promised laughter and light. When the officiant declared them husband and wife, the guests erupted into applause, and their kiss - sweet and full of years of love - sealed it all.
They turned, hand in hand, and walked down the aisle, the sun sinking behind them in a wash of golden pink.
Just before they reached the end, a little voice called out — “Mama! Dada! Wait me!”
Everyone turned in time to see Remy break free from Cliff’s arms and run, arms flapping, strawberry stuffie trailing behind her.
Harry turned just in time to scoop her up and spin her once in his arms. She giggled in delight.
Nora leaned in and wrapped them both in her arms.
A tangle of silk and curls and laughter. A family. Married now, but already whole.
The roar of the crowd was electric as the lights dimmed, and the spotlight snapped on, illuminating Harry as he strode confidently onto the stage.
From the family area, Nora held Remy close in her arms, gently bouncing her to the rhythm of the opening beat. Remy’s tiny fingers curled tightly around the edge of Nora’s top, her wide eyes flickering between the bright lights and the familiar figure on stage.
Nora caught Harry’s eye and smiled, noticing the gleam of his wedding ring catching the stage lights. She nudged Remy gently, murmuring, “There’s daddy. Do you see him?”
Remy’s brow furrowed for a moment, curious and a bit confused by the booming music and the vast crowd, but then she nodded slowly, her toddler mind processing the love and magic filling the stadium.
Remy’s brow furrowed for a moment -curious and a bit confused by the booming music and the vast crowd - but then she nodded slowly, her toddler mind processing the love and magic filling the arena.
As the show moved halfway through, Anne gently took Remy’s hand, whispering, “Let’s get you back to the dressing room, sweetheart,” and they slipped away together, leaving Nora to enjoy the moment.
Nora, now surrounded by her friends - Haadiyah, Caitlyn, Carrie, and Gemma - was dancing and singing along, her laughter mixing with the music. The energy was contagious, and the group was clearly having a blast.
Suddenly, Harry appeared by Nora’s section. The crowd’s roar shifted as screams erupted from fans spotting him up close. Yet, between Nora and Harry, the world seemed to pause - his eyes locked on hers as he reached her side.
With a mischievous grin, Harry grabbed the mic and shouted, “And hey - shout out to all the dads tonight! Especially mine… and my amazing wife!” The crowd exploded in cheers, the fans sensing the special moment.
Nora’s friends and Harry’s crew gave playful cheers and chants. “That’s her! That’s wifey!” one shouted, another clapped and laughed, soaking in the celebration.
As the final song neared, Nora glanced at her watch and murmured, “I better get backstage before the end…”
When Harry finally walked off stage, Nora didn’t hesitate - she rushed into his arms, hugging him tight. “I’m so proud of you. That was incredible. Watching you up there… wow.”
Harry smiled, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Thank you, love. You and Remy were my lucky charm tonight.”
He pulled back slightly, a curious look crossing his face. “Where’s our little star?”
Nora smiled softly. “Your mum took her to the dressing room to put her to bed. We’ll probably head back to the house soon, maybe after the crowd clears.”
Harry chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Sounds perfect. Let’s go, Mrs. Styles.”
Nora blinked, still catching her breath. “It’s been two weeks, but I still can’t believe I’m your wife.”
Harry squeezed her hand. “Happy Father’s Day, Nora. We’re really doing this.”
They shared a quiet smile, standing together in the glow of the fading stage lights - just a family, wrapped in love and celebration.
———————————————————————————
Fifth Father’s Day.
The house was quiet now, the gentle hum of the oven long since faded. Nora sat on the soft couch, fingers nervously twisting a cushion, her mind swirling with the secret she hadn’t yet shared. The late afternoon light cast long shadows through the windows, filling the room with a warm, golden glow.
Footsteps came down the stairs - slow, careful. Harry appeared, brushing his hands together as he crossed the living room. Nora looked up and smiled shyly.
“Thanks for making the roast,” Harry said, settling beside her. “It was delicious. Remy’s already asleep upstairs.” He reached out, fingers brushing hers before leaning in for a quick kiss.
Nora sighed softly. “Always. Happy Father’s Day, Harry. We love you so much.”
He looked at her, concern flickering in his eyes. “You okay? You seem a little… off lately.”
She bit her lip. “Just tired, I guess.”
Harry’s brow furrowed playfully. “What is it? Did you crash my car? Are you pregnant? Did you break my favourite photo frame?” He grinned, but the sparkle in his eye softened when he said ‘pregnant.’
Nora twitched. His grin faltered. “Wait — are you pregnant?”
She groaned, hiding her face behind the pillow. “Why did you have to ruin it? This was your Father’s Day present.”
Before he could say anything more, Nora pulled the pillow aside and reached behind it, pulling out a small, carefully wrapped box.
Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he opened it. Inside lay a little pregnancy test, the faint second line barely visible.
“No way,” he breathed, eyes wide. “Another Remy?”
Nora laughed softly. “I don’t know if I can handle another Remy. That girl is crazy — but in the best way.”
Harry shook his head, a smile spreading across his face as he pulled her close. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me.”
She smiled into his chest.
He teased, pulling back just enough to look at her. “So, is this going to be a pattern now? You tell me you’re pregnant every Father’s Day?”
Nora chuckled. “Maybe.”
They shared a laugh, the house full of quiet joy, kisses, and hugs - a perfect moment sealed in the calm before their family grew again.
The warm afternoon sun spilled through the windows as Nora and Harry put the final touches on the nursery. Soft pastel curtains fluttered slightly in the breeze, a mobile with tiny stars and moons hung gently above the crib, and shelves were lined with a few carefully chosen books and stuffed animals.
Nora adjusted a framed photo of the two of them, smiling nervously. “It’s almost real, isn’t it?”
Harry nodded, stepping back to admire their work. “Feels like we’re ready for her. Feels like home.”
Nora smiled, rubbing her belly. “I just want her to be safe and happy.”
Later that evening, they curled up on the couch, the soft glow of the TV illuminating the room. Nora rested her head against Harry’s shoulder, her hand gently resting on her belly. Remy’s little nursery was just down the hall, waiting.
Harry smiled down at her. “Hey, little one,” he whispered, voice low and tender. “We’re almost ready for you. Can’t wait to meet you.”
Nora smiled, her eyes soft with anticipation. Harry’s fingers traced small circles on her bump as the movie played quietly.
“Your mama’s doing amazing,” Harry said softly. “We’ve got so much love ready for you. You’re already so lucky.”
Nora sighed happily, feeling the tiny kicks and movements inside her. “She’s going to be so loved.”
They sat there for a long while, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, dreaming of the family soon to come.
The front door creaked open softly as Harry and Nora stepped inside, carefully carrying their tiny bundle wrapped in a pastel blanket. The house felt different - quiet but warm, filled with the promise of new beginnings.
Remy fussed softly, little whimpers breaking the silence. Harry adjusted his hold, gently rocking her. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, little one,” he whispered, voice full of wonder.
Nora moved quietly to the living room, settling into the armchair. She cradled Remy close, soothing her with gentle strokes as she began to breastfeed. The soft sounds of her lullabies mingled with Remy’s quiet suckling.
Harry watched them for a moment, a smile spreading across his face. He picked up his vintage camera from the side table and captured the scene: Nora’s gentle profile, Remy nestled against her, and the love glowing between them.
After the shutter clicked, Harry lowered the camera and whispered, “Perfect.”
Nora smiled, eyes meeting his. “Our whole world right here.”
The three of them settled into a tender silence, the house now truly a home.
Back in the present, Harry sank into the couch beside Nora, their hands naturally finding each other’s. The soft afternoon light spilled across the room as they sat close, the quiet hum of the house around them.
Harry brushed a stray lock of hair from Nora’s face, his eyes warm. “I still can’t believe we’re doing this again,” he said, voice low but full of awe. “Another little one on the way.”
Nora smiled, a mix of excitement and nerves flickering behind her eyes. “Me too. It’s… a lot. But I can’t picture doing it with anyone else but you.”
He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. “We’re in this together — every messy, wonderful moment.”
She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. “I’m scared, but mostly I’m just so happy. For us. For Remy. For this little one.”
Harry smiled, holding her tight. “We’ve got this.”
And in that quiet embrace, they shared a promise, to face everything as a family.
Harry pulled back just enough to grin at her. “So… do you think this kid’s going to have your stubbornness or my charm?”
Nora laughed, nudging him gently. “Definitely mine. But you better bring your A-game because they’ll need someone to balance me out.”
He raised an eyebrow, mock serious. “Challenge accepted. But I’m warning you, if this one turns out half as wild as Remy, we’re going to need a bigger house.”
She smirked, shaking her head. “Oh, I’m counting on wild. Life would be boring without it.”
Harry’s grin softened. “Wild, loving, stubborn… sounds like the perfect family.”
Nora leaned in, whispering, “And just think - in a few years, you’ll be chasing two of them around, trying to keep up.”
He groaned dramatically. “Already tired just thinking about it.”
They both laughed, tangled together on the couch - nerves eased, love stronger than ever.
Harry shifted slightly, looking thoughtful. “You know, we never really talked about how many kids we want. I mean, we’ve always said we want kids… but, like, the plan?”
Nora smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I was thinking about that too. I guess I never felt the need to put a number on it. I just knew I wanted a family with you.”
Harry nodded, his voice steady but gentle. “I get that. And, obviously, now you’re pregnant again - congrats, by the way - but what’s the plan? Or is there even a plan?”
She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes. Harry reached out, taking her hand. “Whatever you want, I’m with you. I want you to be healthy and happy - that’s what matters most.”
Nora squeezed his hand. “I’ve been thinking… maybe three. I don’t want them to ever feel lonely. I want Remy to have siblings, someone to grow up with, to share everything with.”
Harry smiled, a warmth spreading across his face. “Three sounds perfect. And I’m sure we’ll make it work, together.”
She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Me too.”
Just as Harry and Nora were sinking into the quiet of the moment, they heard the familiar patter of little feet upstairs - followed by the soft call of:
“Mummy?”
Nora smiled, pushing up to her feet. “Guess naptime’s over.”
A moment later, Remy was nestled in Nora’s arms as she walked down the stairs, sleepy-eyed and warm with post-nap cuddles, her plush strawberry clutched tightly in one hand.
“Hey, bug,” Harry said gently, brushing back her curls. “We’ve got something special to tell you.”
Remy blinked at him, then looked up at Nora.
“There’s a baby in Mummy’s tummy,” Nora said softly, watching her daughter’s expression carefully.
Remy stared at her mum’s belly for a beat, then furrowed her brow and looked back up at them. “A baby?”
“That’s right,” Harry said, smiling. “You’re gonna be a big sister.”
Remy gasped, then grinned. “Oh a baby!!”
Nora laughed, pulling her in close for a kiss. “You’re happy?”
Remy nodded excitedly, then squinted again at Nora’s stomach, tapping it lightly with one little finger. “It’s a strawberry?”
Both Harry and Nora burst into laughter.
“No, love,” Nora said, grinning, “it’s a baby, not a strawberry.”
Remy clutched her plushie tighter and giggled, clearly unconvinced. “It’s a strawberry.”
Harry kissed the top of her head. “You’re not wrong. You were our little blueberry once - now this one’s a strawberry, huh?”
Remy nodded with complete confidence, content with her interpretation.
Nora looked at Harry over Remy’s head, their eyes meeting with a soft joy - the kind only found in a messy, beautiful, growing little family.
The following week…
The room was dim, quiet except for the soft hum of the machine and the gentle voice of the technician as she moved the wand slowly across Nora’s belly. Nora was lying back on the exam table, one hand resting over her bump, the other gripping Harry’s, their fingers laced. Remy sat on Harry’s lap, her feet swinging, her eyes wide with quiet curiosity.
She clutched her plush strawberry tight against her chest, unusually still for a three-and-a-half-year-old, watching the screen as blurry black-and-white images flickered to life.
“There’s baby,” the sonographer smiled gently, turning the monitor slightly so they could all see. “There’s the head… the little arms and legs…”
Remy gasped softly, her voice no louder than a whisper.
“Baby…”
Nora turned to look at her daughter, her heart full. “That’s right, Rem. That’s your little brother or sister.”
Harry’s thumb rubbed gently over Nora’s hand. “It’s mad, isn’t it? Seeing them like this.”
The technician paused, adjusted something on the machine, then offered a small, knowing smile. “Actually… it looks like you’re a little further along than you thought. About eighteen weeks.”
Nora’s eyes widened, turning to Harry. “Seriously? I counted and everything.”
He blinked. “How did we miss four weeks?”
“You’ve both got a toddler,” the sonographer laughed gently. “You’d be surprised how often it happens.”
“And…” she continued, her smile growing just a touch more playful, “if you’d like to know — we can already tell the sex.”
Nora looked over at Harry, who nodded once, eyes soft. “Yeah… we’d love to know.”
There was a short moment as the wand moved again.
“It’s a boy.”
Nora exhaled softly, a watery smile pulling at her lips. Harry let out a quiet, breathy laugh, like it hit him all at once.
“A boy…” he echoed, as if saying it aloud would help him believe it. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to Nora’s temple.
Then, a tiny voice from the stool:
“My strawberry baby boy.”
Harry and Nora both looked at Remy, who had one hand resting gently on Nora’s thigh, her eyes locked on the screen.
Harry smiled, crouching next to her. “That’s right, bug. Your baby brother. Your strawberry baby.”
Remy’s brows drew together thoughtfully, then she nodded, as if she’d made a decision. “I will share my strawberry.” She held her plushie up solemnly.
Nora let out a laugh through her tears. “That’s very kind of you.”
The technician printed out a few images for them and left them in the room to gather themselves. Harry pulled Nora gently into a side hug as she sat up, resting his hand over the warm curve of her belly.
“A boy,” he murmured again. “We’ve got a Remy and now…”
Nora glanced at him, teasing. “Don’t start throwing names out yet. We’ll argue for weeks.”
He grinned. “As long as we’re not naming him Strawberry Styles, I think we’ll be fine.”
From the stool, Remy perked up. “Strawberry Styles!!”
They all laughed - a perfect moment, frozen in that soft, echoing room.
Author’s Note: Listen… when i saw that video of Harry offering help with reverse parking and then immediately being the most confused man in italy… i felt something. embarrassment? love? the desperate need to fictionalise it?? all of the above. 😂
Please know this comes from a place of deep affection. I adore Harry but i also believe with my whole heart that he would 100% be the passenger princess in rome and not even pretend to be ashamed about it. 💅🏼
This little thing is for everyone who’s ever parallel parked like a badass while someone else watched in stunned silence.
RIP to harry’s parking reputation. Long may it live in fanfiction.
(FIND MY MASTERLIST HERE)
———————————————————————————
The sun was already high over Rome, lazy and golden, filtering through the olive trees that lined the courtyard of Harry’s house. The city hummed quietly in the distance, like it was still deciding whether to be chaos or charm today.
Harry emerged from the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, and holding a set of car keys, twirling them on one finger like a man with a plan.
“C’mon,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “Let’s go get coffee. That café in Trastevere… the one with the grumpy waiter who pretends not to like me.”
“He doesn’t pretend,” she said, slipping her sandals on.
“Rude,” Harry replied, unfazed. “Anyway. I’m driving.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll drive.”
He blinked. “Oh?”
She plucked the keys from his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You get to DJ.”
“Wait - what just happened?” he said, trailing her toward the car. “I was offering.”
“I accepted. I just accepted in a more… capable way.”
Harry placed a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Are you saying I’m not capable?”
“I’m saying the Fiat is small, the roads are smaller, and we both know you think parallel parking is a team sport.”
“That’s a low blow.”
“You tried to reverse into a Vespa last week.”
“It came out of nowhere!”
“It was parked.”
He followed her down the gravel path, still scandalized. She slid into the driver’s seat with too much ease. He noticed, of course.
The drive into town was scenic in that picturesque, slightly terrifying way Rome had perfected: cobblestone alleys, scooters darting past like caffeinated bees, tight corners that required divine intervention and power steering.
About ten minutes in, Harry glanced over from the passenger seat, one leg tucked beneath him.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?”
He paused. “Do you think I’m a bad driver?”
She hesitated just long enough to make his eyes narrow.
“Oh my God,” he said, sitting up straighter. “You do.”
“I don’t!”
“You do,” he said, pointing at her. “That was a hesitation. A full-body hesitation.”
“I was just thinking.”
“You were thinking about how to lie to me gently.”
She laughed, adjusting the mirror with one hand. “No! I was thinking about how to say… diplomatically… that I think I’m better.”
Harry’s jaw dropped. “That’s even worse!”
“It’s not! It’s self-confidence. I’m not saying you’re bad.”
“You’re saying you’re better than me. At driving. In Rome.”
She smirked. “Would you like to keep talking or would you like to get to the café without mounting a curb?”
He muttered something under his breath and turned up the music, but he was grinning.
They reached the heart of the city twenty minutes later, a few turns away from the café they both liked - small terrace, strong coffee, grumpy but charming waiter who always gave her free biscotti.
The streets narrowed as she turned into the final block, a gap between two parked cars just ahead.
Harry’s lips parted. “You’re not gonna try to-”
She already was.
With one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting casually on the back of Harry’s seat, she twisted to look behind her. In one fluid, precise movement, she reversed the car into the space - one go, tight fit, perfect alignment. It was absurdly smooth.
She clicked the handbrake, turned back to face him, and smirked. “I rest my case.”
Harry was staring at her like she’d just performed a magic trick.
“I- what… how did you-” He turned to look out the window. “That was a one-handed, first-try parallel park. On a hill.”
She grinned. “I know.”
“And you didn’t even do that weird shuffle people do where they keep adjusting and looking anxious. You just did it.”
“I’m efficient.”
Harry turned slowly to face her. “Marry me.”
She giggled as she leaned across the console, tugged him by the collar, and kissed him full on the mouth - warm, a little smug, definitely victorious. It was the kind of kiss that said I told you so, but lovingly.
When she pulled back, he looked dazed. “That… was hot.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt. “Glad you think so.”
“You parked a car and I fell in love with you all over again.”
She opened the door. “Then you’re going to love watching me reverse out of here later.”
Harry stayed in the passenger seat for a second longer, watching her walk around to the café door like she hadn’t just destroyed his ego and kissed him senseless in the span of forty seconds.
@maincharactermuse I love this. I have bookmarked you and I cannot wait to read through your masterlist! I love your OC. Perfectly sassy. Great banter.
Summary: "It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back."
Word Count: 11.6k
A/N: Plus-sized!reader x Trainerry based on this request <- To the Anon that requested this. I hope it's everything you wanted and more. I really had to pull at some feels for this one. Thanks you so much for this!!
Warning: Angsty self-hate with a happy ending, and a mild sweet smut scene at the end that you can skip if that's not your cup of tea. (Heavy themes centered around hatred of body-image/body shaming. All self-induced)
It wasn’t that you wanted to change yourself entirely. You just wanted to be able to look into the mirror and, for once, like what you saw. It wasn’t a size or a number you were after, you wanted the peace of mind, the relief, the weight of the stigma lifted for more than just the occasional, oh yeah, I look good kind of moments.
Because let’s face it, we all know those moments were fleeting, but what if you could feel it for longer? What if your eyes could roam over your body, and maybe, just maybe, you could spend less time picking yourself apart. What if you could try on those jeans and this time they fit just perfectly—none of the excruciating cut of the waist digging into your belly while you sat, or the fear of not even being able to button them in the first place.
You wanted freedom, you wanted joy, you wanted less days of the mental prison that your brain held you in every time you looked into the mirror, or binged on that food you knew you should avoid. That was what this would be, the journey you were ready to embark on—a journey to confidence, a journey to loving yourself, a journey back to you. These were the words you were filling your head with, the prep talk you had given yourself that morning as you got ready, and now that shit was laughable, you thought as you walked through the gym doors, eyes already darting around as a gust of cool air spread over your bare arms.
This was the part you hated, the part you were dreading. It hadn’t even been two seconds and you were already tugging at the hem of your oversized tee, your gaze scanning over bodies in motion, most fit as fuck, some laughing and moving about, some focused forward in the zone, their eye on a prize that felt out of your reach, bending and flexing with an effortless ease you couldn’t even wrap your mind around, let alone even conceive the amount of energy you knew went into making each rep look like a walk in the park.
And now you felt crazy, because you were signing yourself up willingly, putting yourself out there for what? To fail? To be judged?
Was this really what you wanted? Did you really hate yourself this much? Was this even considered hate, or was this self-love? Because suddenly, the line was becoming blurred, and here you stood, waiting by the front desk on full display, following the instructions given via email, because you were too weirded out to set up everything in person. Hell, you didn’t even know where the bathroom was. It wasn’t like you could disappear until you were ready.
So maybe you couldn’t run and hide, but you could hide behind your phone, and wait for your trainer, god, what was his name again? Henry? Harris? Fuck, how could you be blanking, and as you took to searching for your welcome email, a deep voice sounded through your frantic thoughts:
“Hey there! ” a cheerful voice called out.
That’s when you turned to see a tall figure approaching you, his bright smile lighting up the room as he ran a hand through his tousled dark hair, green eyes reflecting the light, and holy shit, that physique, that body screamed fitness. And as you peered over your shoulder to see if he was signaling for someone else, your heart skipped a beat, cheeks flushing, because there was no way in hell this dude was going to be your trainer.
“Oh… were you talking to me?” you stammered, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably, hands already fidgeting with the him of your shirt.
“Yes, you have a training session at 9, correct?” he asked, extending his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you felt a jolt of electricity the second your hands collided. “I’m Harry, it’s really nice to meet you. I can’t wait to help you on this journey.”
“Thanks,” you replied, trying not to drool over his British accent as your voice came out small. Your palms were sweaty, and you quickly wiped them on your pants, hoping he didn’t notice.
“So, what are your fitness goals?” Harry asked, his tone encouraging and friendly, and just by the way he was making eye contact, you could tell that he was genuinely curious, like it wasn’t just his job to know.
For a second, you hesitated, your mind racing. You had so many thoughts swirling around this very question. What was it that you wanted again? To lose weight? Feel healthier? Gain some kind of confidence? But the words felt stuck in your throat, your mind going blank as you said, “Um, I just want to… you know, get in shape and feel better about myself,” you finally managed to say, your voice trembling slightly.
Harry nodded, his expression holding a warmth you weren’t expecting, maybe an understanding, like he knew exactly what you meant to say, a sort of grace given that sent a flutter to the pit of your stomach.“That’s a great start! Remember, it’s all about progress, not perfection. I’d love to work together to set some goals that suit you and your lifestyle. I’m all about sustainability for the long-term, not the instantaneous results that rarely last long.”
And even though his words sent a flicker of hope through you. You could feel the self-doubt trying to creep back in. “I’m not really sure about all this,” you admitted, eyes moving around the room. “I’ve never been good at working out, and honestly, this place isn’t really my vibe. Like a place I feel like I belong... I guess.”
Yet as you said the words, Harry’s smile never wavered. “I get it. Change is always a little uncomfy at first, but you know everyone starts somewhere. The important thing is that you’re here, ready to take that first step, and as cheesy as it sounds, I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
For a moment, you looked at him, holding his gaze, and that’s when the nervousness seemed to fade. There was something about his confidence and the kindness he exuded that was infectious, and you felt a small spark of determination ignite within you. “Okay…” You breathed.
“I’ll try my best, but I can’t promise you anything,” you told him with a small smile, feeling a bit more resolute, like yeah, maybe you could actually do this, like there was hope for the self-loathing bitch within you, because fuck her, she couldn’t have it all, you deserved a little light, some time away from the shadows of your self that kept stealing tiny moments of joy you could never get back.
At some point, you had to live, right?
“That’s the spirit!” Harry answered, his enthusiasm making your smile grow despite the lingering insecurities. “Shall we get started?”
And as he led you deeper into the gym, you couldn’t shake that feeling of awe, that mix of anxiety threatening the surface. You were about to do it, finally take that leap, about to be trained by this gorgeous guy, and while the thought made your heart race for maybe all the wrong reasons, you also felt a sense of possibility, like maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something great, something to make you feel alive again.
But it’s crazy how quickly excitement can fade.
The first week was pure torture, and the second week was no better. You wanted to quit, but you didn’t know what you wanted.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? You had walked through those gym doors with all these grand ideas about transformation, about becoming someone new, but now, three weeks in, you were just as sweaty, still a breathless mess who couldn’t even do a proper squat without Harry having to adjust your form for the millionth time.
And god, those hands, always professional without a doubt, but there was something about the way they would ghost over your shoulders, the way they corrected your posture, or lightly pressed against your lower back to guide you, that had your skin burning from everything but the workout.
“Let’s try something different,” Harry said, and you could hear that patient tone, the one that never made you feel like the failure you knew you were.
He grabbed a bench, positioning it behind you. “…Seated squats. They’re gentler on the knees, and the bonus is they’ll help you build the strength for the full movement.”
Your first instinct was to prove yourself, to convince him you were able to do a full fucking squat like every other person in this gym, but somehow the words died in your throat when you caught sight of yourself in the mirror—red-faced, sweat pooling in places you didn’t want to think about, your oversized shirt clinging to rolls you had been spending years trying to hide, and lets not even get started on your arms, fucking hell, your arms felt like they were made of jello, wobbling with each movement. Not to mention your thighs had already been chafing with every step, that familiar burn a reminder of exactly why you had been avoiding this place for years.
It was torture, pure fucking torture, but you sat anyway.
“Hey,” Harry called out, pulling you from your thoughts, and suddenly he was in front of you, those green eyes level with yours as he crouched down. “Where’d you go just then?”
“Nowhere… I’m fine,” you lied, because what were you supposed to say? That you were having a mental breakdown over a squat? That you could feel every pair of eyes in the gym judging the “chubby girl” who couldn’t even do basic exercises?
But Harry just nodded, like he knew exactly what you weren’t saying. “Right then, seated squats it is. And after that, we’ll work on some upper body stuff. Sound good?”—The thing about Harry was that he never seemed to push when you shut down. His superpower was to redirect, adapt, and move on to something else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Never an ounce of judgment.
You had noticed other things too, in these first three weeks—like how sometimes he shifted his weight to his left side during demonstrations, or how he would choose specific exercises over others without explanation. Once, when he was showing you how to do lunges, he distinctly favored his right leg, the change so evident that you almost asked about it, but something in his expression had stopped you.
One day, near the end of week three, the gym’s usual crowd of fitness models decided to make their appearance. You had recognized them by now, you know the type, the group of women who looked like they just stepped out of a Lululemon catalog, all tight abs and perfect ponytails, not a jiggle in sight. They were hard to miss, and even more apparent the way they gravitated toward Harry like moths to a flame, and why wouldn’t they? He was gorgeous, British, and had the kind of body that made you wonder what he looked like without a single scrap of clothing.
And these were the kind of thoughts that you had to shake from your head, because you didn’t want to go there.
Not when he was that close.
“Harry!” one of them shouted, her outfit like a latex glove, leaving little to the imagination as she bounded over. “Could you check my form on these hip thrusts?”
And fuck, you would have laughed if you weren’t trying to make yourself invisible, focusing on your water bottle like it held the secrets of the universe, but you couldn’t help watch them from the corner of your eye. Harry glanced at his watch and then back at the woman.
“Sorry, Melissa, I’m with a client right now,” he said, and was it your imagination or did he step slightly closer to you? “Maybe check with Tom at the front desk about booking a session.”
That was when the woman’s eyes flicked to you, and you could practically feel the onset of her assessment, knew the exact look she was giving, that up-and-down glance that was cataloguing every flaw, every roll, every reason you didn’t belong here. But Harry had already turned back to you, already demonstrating the next exercise like the interaction hadn’t even happened.
“Right, so for this one, you’ll want to keep your core engaged to protect your low back,” he was saying, but all you could think about was how he had just dismissed her, how he had chosen to stay focused on you when he could have just as easily given her five minutes of attention, and you chalked it up to professionalism without a second thought. He was getting paid to train you, after all.
This was his job.
But then why did your stupid heart skip when he smiled at you after you completed your set?
Week four started like any other, except it felt harder as you dragged yourself through the gym doors, already anticipating the torture ahead. You felt like shit... not good at all, more like death had warmed over you. Even though your body was starting to recognize the routine, your brain was still screaming at you to run every time you saw the weight rack.
“Morning!” Harry called out, and damn him for always being so cheerful at 9 in the morning. “How’re you feeling? Any soreness from last session?”
“Just my entire body,” you groaned, but there was less bite to it than before. “Who knew your ass muscles could be this sore.”
He laughed, that genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Well, that means you’re doing it right, and that’s a win, ay? Today we’re going to work on some balance exercises, really activate those stabilizer muscles.”
You were halfway through a set of single-leg stands, wobbling like a baby giraffe and cursing Harry’s name in your mind when it happened. It was quick, you losing your balance—again—and you stumbled backward, your elbow connecting with Harry’s leg as he moved to steady you, and out of nowhere, he made a sharp, pained, involuntary sound that made your blood run cold.
“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry!” and when you whirled around, he was gripping his knee, face tight with a pain that looked too familiar to be from your clumsy elbow. “Harry, I—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, but his voice was strained, and he was still holding his knee like it might shatter if he let go. “Just an old injury acting up. Nothing to do with you. I promise…”
But you had seen that kind of pain before, in your own mirror when your body would decide to remind you of all the ways it had been pushed too far. “Sit down,” you tell him, taking charge of the situation, surprising even yourself in the process. “Seriously, sit.”
For a second, he looked like he might protest, but something in your expression must have convinced him because he lowered himself onto the nearest bench, still favoring that right knee. The gym suddenly felt too quiet, too exposed, and without thinking, you positioned yourself between him and the rest of the room, like you could shield him from all the curious glances.
“It’s an old football injury,” he said finally, the words coming out reluctant, like he was still trying to hold them back. “Soccer… I mean—sorry, I know you Americans call it soccer. Tore my ACL completely about six years ago. Had surgery, did all the physio, but...” He shrugged, a gesture that looked too casual for the weight of what he was sharing. “Sometimes bodies don’t heal the way they’re supposed to.”
Startled by his words, you stared at him, this perfect-looking trainer with his perfect-looking body, and it was like something shifted inside your chest. “But you’re... you’re a trainer. I always pictured you all so—”
“Perfect?” He finished, looking up at you with a wry smile. “Yeah… that’s what everyone thinks. But the truth is, I can’t even run anymore. Can barely kick a ball without my knee giving out. Gosh, some days I wake up and have to spend like twenty minutes just trying to convince my knee to work properly.”
The words seemed to linger, weighted with an openness you hadn’t expected. Here was Harry, this beautiful, confident man, admitting to being broken, and somehow it finally made him real in a way that his encouraging words, or the professional distance he kept, never had, and that seemed to scare you.
“Is that why you became a trainer?” you asked, settling onto the bench beside him, your workout forgotten. “Because of the injury?”
He nodded, absently rubbing his knee. “Yeah… I guess in a way…I couldn’t play anymore, but I couldn’t stay away from fitness entirely… it was kind of my life, so I started learning about adaptive training, about working with bodies that don’t fit the typical mold. Turns out I’m better at helping people find their own path than I ever was at following mine.”
In that moment you wanted to say something, wanted to match the encouragement of his words, but all that came out was, “Well, that feels really fucking unfair.”
He laughed, surprised, but sincere. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”
And just like that, something changed. That professional distance he had been maintaining cracked just a little, and you saw him, not Harry the trainer, but Harry the person, a man who had his dreams ripped from under his feet, but still learned how to build new ones from the scraps.
“I should probably tell you,” he said, his voice lighter now, “this is why I modify so many exercises. It’s not just for you—half of them I can’t do the ‘proper’ way anymore. Those seated squats? I do them on my bad days, oh, and those knee-friendly lunges? Learned those during my physio.”
And fuck, there it was beating at your insides, that crush, that you had been desperately trying to ignore, suddenly felt less like a schoolgirl fantasy and more like... god dare you say it… Something else. Something deeper. Because now, when you looked at him, you didn’t just see the attractive trainer who was nice to the “fat girl”. You saw someone who maybe understood you more than you knew, who probably knew your body better, knew all the ways it betrayed you, the frustration of every limitation, and the slow, painful process of finding acceptance.
“Thank you,” you breathed, really wanting him to know you meant it. “For telling me.”
He stood to his feet then, eyes sweeping over your face, before offering you a hand up. “Come on, let’s finish your session. But maybe we’ll skip the jumping jacks today, yeah? My knee’s not the only one that needs babying.”
After that day, everything shifted, not just in your mind. Harry, of course, still maintained his professionalism, but there was a warmth now, an understanding that hadn’t existed before. Your workouts became less about pushing through pain and more about finding what worked for your body—and his.
“See, the thing about traditional training,” he explained during week five, while demonstrating a modified plank that didn’t make your wrists scream, “is that it assumes everyone’s working with the same equipment. But we’re not, are we? You’ve got your challenges, I’ve got mine… but the trick is finding what works for us.”
Us…
And, damn it was such a small word, but boy did it seem to carry weight.
That’s when you started noticing more things, like how he would ice his knee between clients, or how he would shift positions during longer demonstrations, or how his jaw would tighten on particularly bad days. But you also noticed how he never let it stop him, how he moved through it, and adapted his entire life around this limitation without a trace of self-pity.
So why couldn’t you?
“After my surgery,” he told you one day while you struggled through a stupid resistance band exercise, “I spent months being angry. Angry at my body, at the universe… I guess at everyone… everyone who could still do what I couldn’t. It took me a long time to realize that anger was just fear wearing a different face.”
“Fear of what?” you asked, breathless from exertion but curious nonetheless.
“Fear that I’d never be enough again. That, without soccer, without that, I guess that identity, I was just... nothing.” He told you, adjusting your form gently, his hands warm through your shirt. “Sound familiar?”
He had you there; it was all too familiar. Because wasn’t that exactly what you felt every time you looked in the mirror? That without the body you thought you should have, you were somehow less than? And the parallel hit you like a ton of bricks, because was this not him basically telling you that he understood, that he had been where you were, just in a different way—that maybe not all trauma was the same, but it still hurt, even when the two weren’t comparable.
“So what changed?” you asked during a water break, after you finally digested the realization, watching him absently massage his knee.
“Perspective,” he said simply. “Started focusing on what my body could do instead of what it couldn’t. Yeah, I can’t play soccer anymore, but I can help people like you find their strength. That’s not nothing, is it?”
People like you… And maybe the phrase should have stung, but the way he said it, with such an honest warmth, made it feel more like a compliment.
“You know what I love about training you?” he asked suddenly, and your heart did a stupid flutter in your chest. “You’re honest. You don’t pretend like it’s easy or fun. You show up even when you hate it. Do you know how rare that is?”
This makes you laugh, wiping sweat from your face with a towel. “Yeah, I’m a real inspiration... The girl who nearly cried doing wall sits yesterday.”
“Maybe… but you still finished them, though,” he pointed out. “That’s what matters. Not how pretty it looks or how easy it is. Just that you don’t give up.”
With perfect timing, the gym hotties made another appearance, a new group this time, but technically the same, all giggling and hair-tossing as they tried to catch Harry’s attention. One of them even “accidentally” dropped her water bottle right by where he was spotting your chest press, and for a second you held your breath, waiting for him to look, to give them the attention they were so desperate for, but he just kicked the bottle gently out of the way and kept his focus on you.
“That’s it, three more,” he encouraged, and maybe it was your imagination, but his voice seemed a little louder than necessary, like he was making a point. “You’ve got this.”
Later, as you were packing up your things, you overheard one of them complaining to her friend:
“He’s always with that girl. Like, what’s the deal? Is she paying him extra or something?”
It was one of those times you wished you could roll it off, but the words pricked at your skin, and before you could spiral into self-loathing, Harry appeared at your elbow. “Ready for the cool-down stretches?” he asked, and his hand touched your lower back, guiding you away from the women who were still whispering their gossip.
“I’ve got a new routine I want to try—it’s specifically designed for people with knee issues, but I think it’ll help with your hip flexibility too.”
People with knee issues.
Like him, like you, like your fucking body that creaked and fought you at every turn, but now what was once a negative connotation had shifted, had become a positive acknowledgment, a thing you both shared. All the modified movements, the limitations, yes, they were real, but gone was the judgment, and the monster you could make of them.
By week six, you had developed a routine. You still hated mornings, still wanted to die during cardio, but there was something else now, a sense of anticipation. Not for the workout itself, god no, but for the hour you got to spend with Harry.
A growing anticipation for the way he would light up when you managed something you couldn’t do the week before. All the terrible jokes he would tell to distract you during the dreadful planks. The way he would casually touch your arm or back—always appropriate, always professional, but still, there was something that made your skin tingle, a curious wonder that had your mind reeling.
“You’re getting stronger,” he told you one morning, watching as you completed a set of squats—real ones this time, not the shitty seated ones. “Can you feel it?”
And honestly, you could. Not just in your muscles, but in the way you carried yourself. You still had times when you tugged at your shirt, still felt your thighs rub together, but it was different now. Maybe less shameful, more just... fact. Your body was what it was, but it was capable of more than you thought.
“My knee’s been acting up this week,” Harry had admitted during a demonstration of a new exercise. Mentally, you had already noticed that it was less fluid than usual, but you didn’t say anything.
He cleared his throat, trying to hide the wince of pain, “Probably the weather change. But look—” Then, he showed you how to modify the movement, turning what should have been a jumping exercise into a step-touch pattern. “Same muscle activation, less impact. All of this to say we work with what we’ve got, yeah?”
We…
And there was something in the way he said it, like he was trying to bind you both together through all the tiny imperfections. That’s when you found yourself, starting to stay a few minutes after your sessions, helping him reset equipment or just chatting while he iced his knee. It was during one of these moments that he opened up a little more about his injury.
“The thing is… the pain wasn’t even the worst part…” he said, pressing a bag of ice into his finicky knee. “It was watching my mates continue on without me. I mean, of course, they would visit the hospital, tell me about matches, and I was grateful… really I was… and I would smile and nod, hit all my marks… but the truth was I was dying inside… Took me years to be able to watch soccer again without feeling bitter.”
“Do you still feel bitter?” you asked, organizing dumbbells to avoid looking at him directly.
“Sometimes,” he confessed. “On bad days, when my knee won’t cooperate and I see people running without thinking twice about it... Yeah, it stings. But then I remember that without this—” he gestured to his knee, “—I’d never have become a trainer. Never have met the people I’ve helped. Never have...” He paused, and when you looked up, he was staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “…Never have met you...”
You couldn’t help the heat creeping up your neck, your face burning with it, and like an idiot, you fumbled the dumbbell you were holding, completely giving yourself away. “I’m sure you say that to all your clients,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice from wobbling, but he shook his head.
“No,” he said simply. “I don’t.”
And as his words settled, the world around you seemed to pivot, the air now filling your lungs, charged with something that felt dangerously close to desire, but then someone dropped a weight plate across the gym with a thunderous clang, and the spell was broken, but you held onto that moment for as long as you could, because you felt it, felt the need beginning to ache in your bones.
But the one question that would always remain was:
Could he ever want a girl like me?
Week seven was when you nearly quit. It had been a bad week all around—work stress, family drama, and your fucking period decided to show up with a vengeance. You had barely slept, your body hurt in ways that had nothing to do with exercise, and the last thing you wanted was to squeeze into workout clothes and pretend like everything was fine, when it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry… But I don’t think I can do this today,” you told Harry the moment you walked in, not even bothering with a greeting. “I just... I can’t.” And there was shame in the way the words came out, like maybe this was your true self after all, and the rest was just an act.
He took one look at you, like, really looked at you. Not the quick bullshit assessment most people did, and nodded. “Okay. Tell me what you need?”
And his words nearly blindsided you. It wasn’t the “you have to push through” or “you’ll feel better after.” It was just a simple acceptance of where you were at, and you stood there trying to gather your words, feeling the burn at the back of your throat.
“I don’t know,” you forced, feeling tears prick at your eyes. “I’m honestly so exhausted and everything hurts, and I looked in the mirror this morning… I don’t know… it’s just been a shitty week, and I’m just not sure what the point is anymore, and—”
“Hey,” he gently interrupts, steering you toward a quieter corner of the gym. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe.”
And you did, gulping in air like you were drowning, and maybe it was his hand on your low back, but gradually the panic receded just enough for embarrassment to creep in. “Sorry. I’m being dramatic.”
“You’re just being human,” he corrected. “We all have these days. Hell, I had one last week—woke up and my knee was so stiff I could barely make it down the stairs. Wanted to throw things, and cry, and give up. You know what I did instead?”
“What?”
“Called in sick and spent the day on the couch watching terrible reality TV and eating biscuits.” Your brows shot up, and he grinned. “What? You thought I was going to say I powered through with positive thinking? Fuck that. Sometimes you need to just feel what you’re feeling.”
You felt overwhelmed. His answer was so unexpected, so honest, that you found yourself laughing despite the tears. “So what should I do?” You asked, wiping at your eyes.
“Today? If you want to stay, we can modify everything. Gentle movement only, nothing that makes you want to die. We can do some stretching, maybe some light resistance work if you’re up for it. And if at any point you need to stop, we stop. No judgment, no pushing. Just listening to what your body needs.”
And thank the heavens up above, because it was by far the easiest session you had ever had, physically speaking. But emotionally? God, emotionally, it was everything. Harry had adapted every single movement to match your energy level, never once making you feel weak or pathetic for needing the modifications. Everything was intuitive, even when the gym hotties walked by and gave you pitying looks, he shifted positions to block their view, talking louder about muscle groups to draw your attention away.
“You showed up,” he said at the end, as you were doing your final stretches. “On a day when everything in you said to stay home, you showed up. That’s a huge win.”
“It feels like nothing,” you muttered, but he shook his head.
“Six weeks ago, would you have come in feeling like this?”
And as you gazed into his green eyes, you thought about it. Six weeks ago, you would have used any excuse to avoid the gym. “No… I would have stayed home.”
“Then that’s progress. Not all progress looks like smaller jeans or bigger muscles. Sometimes it looks like showing up when you don’t want to.” His hand rested on your shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m proud of you.”
His words seemed to hit you harder than any physical exercise could ever touch the surface. When was the last time someone had said that to you? When was the last time you had given someone a reason to?
By week eight, something fundamental inside you had changed. Not just in your body, though you had to admit, you were feeling stronger, more capable, but in how you existed in your skin. You still had all the same insecurities, all the same soft places and jiggly bits, but they felt less like failures now and more like... just parts of you.
Which is why, when you got dressed that morning, you reached for the new workout outfit you had bought on impulse—fitted leggings and a tank top—there would be no hiding behind excess fabric, not today. Of course, your reflection still showed everything you usually hated—the belly that refused to lie flat, the arms that continued their gentle wobble, the thighs that would always touch. But for once, you didn’t want to reach for the oversized shirt.
“Fuck it,” you told your reflection. “Let’s see what happens.”
And what happened was Harry nearly dropped his water bottle when you walked in.
“You look—” He caught himself, his professionalism snapping back into place like a rubber band. “That’s a great color on you… It really brightens up your complexion.”
And try all he wanted, but you had seen that first reaction, the way his eyes had widened, tracked over your curves before he could even remember himself. It sent a thrill through you, gave you a sense of power that had you on cloud nine.
“Thanks,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your heart hammered. “Figured I would switch things up a bit…”
“Yeah… It’s a nice change for sure,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made you look at him. I mean, really take in his expression, because it said it all. “Just... for what it’s worth, you should wear whatever makes you comfortable. But this—” He gestured vaguely, carefully not looking directly at your body. “This confidence suits you.”
He had you soaring, and the workout that followed ignited a new kind of tension growing between you. Harry had always been hands-on with corrections, but now each touch felt loaded with a new possibility. When he adjusted your hip position during bridges, his fingers seemed to linger a beat too long, and fuck, when he spotted your chest press, he stood closer than strictly necessary. And when he demonstrated proper form for a new exercise, you caught him glancing at you in the mirror, checking if you were watching.
You were. You always were.
“You know,” he said during a water break, his own face flushed from a particularly intense movement, “I’ve been training people for five years, and I’ve never seen someone transform the way you have.”
“I haven’t really transformed, though,” you told him, gesturing at yourself. “I mean, I’m maybe a size smaller? If that?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Then he sat on the bench beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “When you first walked in, you looked like you wanted to disappear. Moved like you were apologizing for taking up space. Now look at you—wearing what you want, taking up all the space you need, moving like you have a right to be here. Because you do.”
The sincerity in his voice made your throat tight. “It’s because of you,” you said quietly. “The way you teach, the way you... see me. Not as a project to fix, but as a person. Like I don’t have to fit into the mold I thought I did.”
“Fuck the mold. It’s boring,” he said, and his hand covered yours on the bench, just for a second. “Lifes too short to try and keep up with all the bullshit.”
That was when the gym hotties chose that moment to make their appearance, a trio of them this time, chest high, all sports bras a size too small, stretched across their fucking boobs with an obvious intention. You watched as the tallest one made a beeline for Harry, her trajectory as clear as a heat-seeking missile.
“Harry! I was hoping you could show me that lunge from the other day during our session… it seems to have totally slipped my mind.”
“I’m with a client, Bridgette,” Harry said, not even looking at her. His hand had left yours, but he shifted closer, his knee touching yours. “Like I tell the others, you can book a session at the front desk if you need personal instruction.”
Bridgette’s eyes flicked between you and Harry, taking in the minimal space between you, the way Harry’s body was angled toward yours like a plant seeking sun. “Right. Sure. I’ll do that.”
And just as she was about to turn to leave, she says, “Oh… and it’s Courtney, by the way…” then she stalks off, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped.
“You know, I think they’re all convinced I’m either paying you extra or sleeping with you.”
Harry’s amused expression fell. “Have they been saying things to you?”
“No… no more than I expected,” you confessed. “You know how it is.. heaven forbid the chubby girl get any personal attention from the hot trainer? It’s probably not realistic in their world… and I guess in mine either… but of course, they’re going to talk.”
“You’re not—” He stopped, jaw clenched, and when he continued, his voice held a careful control. “First of all, I don’t think your chubby… if that’s what you want to call it… so fuck them. Second, you’re not just nothing. You’re a client who works harder than anyone else in this gym, who shows up even when it’s hard, who—” He cut himself off again, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And I’m not just giving you attention because... Christ, I’m making this worse.”
“Because what?” you urged, heart racing.
He looked at you then, and for a moment, you saw past the professional mask he was trying to hold, to something real and wanting underneath. “Because it’s my job,” he said finally, but the words sounded hollow. “Come on, let’s finish your session.”
The rest of the workout passed in tense silence, both of you overly aware of every accidental touch, every shared glance in the mirror. When he helped you stretch at the end, his hands on your calf as you lay on the mat, the tension was almost unbearable, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep yourself grounded.
“Same time Thursday?” he asked when you were gathering your things, and there was something helpless in his expression, like maybe he was afraid you might say no.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Same time Thursday.”
As you left, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror by the exit, flushed and sweaty, curves on full display in your fitted outfit, looking like someone who belonged here. Not because your body had dramatically changed, but because maybe you were actually starting to believe you had a right to exist in places like this, exist in your own skin, like maybe it could be okay.
And just as your eyes were about to move forward, you caught sight of Harry watching you go, and the look on his face...
Yeah. You were definitely in trouble.
But for once, you didn’t want to run from it. You wanted to see where this path could take you, just as you were.
When week nine rolled around, you were back on track, your mind totally on board, and everything was going great. Even you were amazed by yourself, the way you were hitting every mark. Harry still kept a professional distance, but it wasn’t taking from the attraction you felt, now a low hum over your skin, signalling an obvious draw to him, that sent a pulse between your thighs every time his hands touched your body.
It was becoming a problem, actually. The way your body responded to him now—not just the flutter in the pit of your stomach, but it had turned into a full-body awareness every time he was near. When he corrected your form, his fingers grazing your hip or pressing against your back, you had to bite back sounds that had nothing to do with exertion. And you were pretty sure he knew it, too, from the way his jaw would tighten, the way he would step back a little quicker than necessary, like he needed the distance just as much as you.
One day, you were in the middle of box step-ups, feeling strong, feeling capable, feeling like maybe you were actually becoming the person you had wanted to be when you first walked through those doors. The fitted workout clothes were your new normal, and while your body hadn’t dramatically changed, the way you moved in it had. Confident. Taking up space. Belonging.
Because like Harry said “Fuck them all.”
“That’s it, drive through your heel,” Harry encouraged, and god, his voice when he got all instructor-mode did things to you. “Really activate those glutes.”
You were focused, you were in the zone, you were—
And then your fucking ankle rolled.
One second you were stepping down, controlled and strong, and the next you were falling, your right ankle giving way beneath you with a sickening pop that you felt more than heard. The sound that tore from your throat was raw, primal, and suddenly, you were on the ground, hands clutching at your ankle as pain shot through it like lightning.
“Fuck!” The word came out high and sharp as a sob ripped from your throat, and then Harry was there, dropping to his knees beside you, his professional calm never wavering even as his hands hovered over you, not quite touching.
“Don’t move,” he demanded, his accent thicker with urgency. “Let me see—can you wiggle your toes?”
You tried, gasping at the pain that radiated up your leg. Around you, the gym had gone quiet, and you could feel every pair of eyes turning your way. The fat girl has fallen, was all you could think, because, of course, she had. Everyone was probably thinking you couldn’t handle the exercise, probably pushed too hard, probably—
“Hey, look at me,” Harry whispered, cutting through your thoughts. His hand cupped your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Just me, yeah? No one else matters right now.”
But they did matter. You could hear the whispers, feel the stares, and like another betrayal, the tears of frustration burned at your eyes, already threatening to spill over. Not just from the pain—though fuck, it hurt—but from the humiliation of it all. Nine weeks of progress, nine weeks of building yourself up, and here you were, crumpled on the gym floor like every stereotype you had been fighting against.
The stares felt like the harsh truth of ‘I told you so,’ feeding that inner monologue you had been trying to suppress.
“I need to check if it’s broken,” Harry said, his hands gentle as they ghosted over your ankle. You hissed at even the lightest touch, and he pulled back immediately. “Right, we’re going to the hospital. Can you stand at all?”
“I don’t—I can’t—” The tears came then, hot and angry. “Everyone’s watching.”
“Fuck them,” Harry said fiercely, and the sharpness startled you enough to look at him. His green eyes were blazing with something protective, something furious, something lighting a fire within him. “Marcus!” he called to another trainer. “I need you to clear this area. Now.”
Then, to you, his voice softer now: “I’m going to help you up, okay? We’ll go out the back exit. Can you put your arm around my neck?”
The next few minutes were a blur of pain and movement. At that point, Harry was essentially carrying you, your weight supported against his solid frame, and for a moment, you forgot about everyone else because all you could focus on was how strong he was, how easily he held you up despite his own bad knee. When he got you to his car, he helped you into the passenger seat with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.
“I need to cancel my appointments,” he muttered, pulling out his phone as he started the car. “Sarah? Yeah, it’s Harry. Let’s go ahead and cancel the rest of my appointments for the day...”
And you listened, dazed, as he gave her instructions. “You know you don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a look.
“Yes, I do. You’re hurt, and you need to get to the hospital. End of story.”
The hospital was a whirlwind of X-rays and ice packs, and doctors with cold hands. Your ankle wasn’t broken, thank goodness, but a bad sprain that would have you off your feet for at least a week, and even though the news was disheartening. There was joy in the way Harry stayed the whole time. He even held your hand during the x-ray, kept you distracted with silly stories while you waited for results, and graciously helped you fill out paperwork when your hands were shaking too much from residual adrenaline.
“You know,” you said at one point, watching him charm the nurse into bringing you an extra ice pack, “most trainers would have just called an ambulance and been done with it.”
He looked offended at the proposal. “What kind of person would I be if I did that? Besides,” his expression softened, “I needed to make sure you were okay.”
The drive to your apartment was quiet, your ankle propped up in the backseat, wrapped in an ace bandage, throbbing with every heartbeat, or sudden bump in the road. Harry had insisted on driving you home, waving off your suggestion for an Uber, and now here you were, trying not to think about how normal this all felt, him driving you home, eyes flicking to yours in the rearview mirror, every time you stared too long.
“Third floor,” you said when he pulled up to your building, and then realized what that meant. “Shit. I’m on the third floor. With no elevator.”
“We’ll manage,” Harry said, already getting out to help you.
‘Managing’ turned out to be a slow, painstaking process. Harry’s arm was around your waist, taking most of your weight, and you had never been more aware of your body—not in the usual self-conscious way, but in how it pressed against his, how his fingers splayed across your hip to hold you steady. He smelled good, inviting even. You liked this proximity, enjoyed the feel of the muscles in his shoulders working as he nearly carried you up each step.
Halfway up the second flight, his knee buckled slightly, and you both had to stop, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.
“Your knee,” you gasped, guilt flooding through you. “Harry, I’m too heavy—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply, his arm tightening around you. “Don’t do that. You’re not too anything. My knee’s just being a bastard today. We’re both a bit broken, remember? We’ll make it work.”
And you did, step by careful step, stopping when his knee was cranky, adjusting when your ankle screamed, a quiet give and take, you both seemed to be savoring, and by the time you reached your door, you were both sweating and trembling, but something about doing it together, about both of you pushing through your limitations, made it feel like a victory rather than the anguish of a struggle.
Harry helped you inside, getting you settled on the couch with your ankle elevated, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, both breathless from more than just exertion. The silence felt weighted, thick in the air, heavy with the words unspoken, and you found yourself saying, “Do you want to stay? Like hang out, I mean? I could order food or—”
“I should get back,” he said too quickly, but he looked reluctant. “I probably need to get back. Sort out the schedule for tomorrow, since I canceled on everyone today. Figure out how to rearrange things…”
That’s when reality crashed back in. Right. Of course. This was his job; you were just a client, and he had definitely already gone above and beyond. The disappointment must have shown on your face because then he quickly added, “But we’ll need to talk soon, yeah? Go over modifying your workouts for your current situation. Once you’re healed enough to come back, I mean.”
Situation…
The word like a fucking knife to your gut… “Your situation,” he said, like you were some kind of problem to be solved, a complication to work around. Just like always, too much, too difficult, too... everything, and all at once, you felt the warmth of the last few hours evaporate, leaving you exposed, foolish in the way you thought there could be more, but silly you.
“Right,” you said, your voice coming out flat. “My situation.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it. “I just mean with your ankle—”
“No, I get it.” And you forced a smile that felt like plastic. “Thanks for everything today. Really. It was... above and beyond.”
He stood there for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something else. Then he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Here, let me... I don’t normally do this, but...” He seemed to be fighting with himself. “Can I give you my number? Just in case you need anything or have questions about the ankle?”
Your heart sank. He was giving you his number out of pity. Poor chubby girl who hurt herself, better make sure she doesn’t feel completely abandoned, god, it was so obvious—it was charity, wrapped up in the typical nice guy package.
“Sure,” you said, typing it into your phone with numb fingers. “Got it.”
“Text me so I have yours,” he said, and you did, sending a simple “Hi, it’s me” that felt like swallowing coals.
The awkwardness stretched between you like taffy, both of you unsure how to move the moment forward. Harry shifted his weight, favoring his good knee, clearly wanting to leave but not knowing how. “So... rest, ice, elevation. Doctor said a week minimum before trying any weight-bearing exercises. We can work with that when you’re ready.”
“Yeah, definitely.” You told him, trying to keep that plastic smile in place. “I’ll let you know.”
After he left, you sat in the growing darkness of your apartment, ankle throbbing, and did what you always did when things got too real—you retreated. But you did send him a text that night:
Y/N: I appreciate you shifting your day around. It was really kind. I’ll reach back out when I’m ready to come back. Thanks for everything.
Professional. Distant. Safe.
And his response came quickly:
H: Of course. Rest up and let me know if you need anything. We’ll get you back on track in no time.
But you didn’t reach back out. Days turned into a week, then two. Your ankle had healed, but your mind had spiraled back to old patterns. Every time you thought about the gym, you remembered falling, remembered everyone staring, remembered Harry having to literally carry you because you were too much for your own body to handle.
To your surprise, his texts came sporadically:
H: Hey, how’s the ankle?
H: Just checking in. Doctor cleared you yet?
H: We got some new equipment that I really think you’ll like. Excited to try it when you’re back.
H: Hope you’re okay. Miss having you in sessions.
That last one even made you cry, but you still didn’t respond. It was easier to ghost him than to face the humiliation of going back. Easier to order takeout and binge Netflix than to deal with the messy feelings he seemed to stir up. You had been down that road with guys like him; it never works. Always the friend but never the lover. You were stupid to think there was something there, stupid to believe you were anything more than a client he felt sorry for.
Two and a half weeks after the ankle incident, you were deep in the trenches of doubt, sucked in by yet another self-loathing pity party, when the doorbell rang, but you ignored it at first. Then it rang again, followed by a knock.
“If that’s Mrs. Gladys about the rent, it’s in the mail!” you called, not moving from your cocoon of isolation.
“It’s not Mrs. Gladys.” You froze. That accent, that voice, fuck, it was Harry at your door.
“I know you’re in there,” he continued. “I can see the TV light under the door. And... I brought Chinese.” He spoke up again.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
You hauled yourself up, catching sight of yourself in the hall mirror, and immediately regretted it. But it was too late, he already heard you moving, and it would be worse to leave him standing there, so you opened the door just a crack, trying to hide your body behind it.
“Harry, what are you doing here?”
He looked good. Of course, he looked good, in jeans and a worn tee that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal, especially on a Tuesday night. He was holding a massive bag of takeout in one hand, and wait… were those flowers?
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the genuine worry in his eyes made your chest tight. “I know this is weird, but I wasn’t sure what I should do. You hadn’t answered any of my texts, and I was worried about you…”
“I thought it was just protocol,” you answered, your voice tight.
He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I mean I was asking from a trainer’s point of view, yes, but I was hoping that it would come across as... I don’t know... more?”
“More? What do you mean?” You asked, cracking the door open a bit more.
“I thought when I gave you my number, you were catching the vibe that I was trying to put out...” He laughed, looking down at his feet, and the bashfulness was so startling on him that you almost forgot to breathe as a strand of hair fell loose. “What I’m saying is I thought there was a vibe between us?”
“Mmm,” was all you could manage, stunned. “A vibe?”
“Honestly, I thought you gave everyone your number?”
This made him laugh, looking back up at you with those heartwrenching green eyes, and fucking hell, those dimples. “No, trust me, I’ve learned my lesson with that one... Have you seen some of those ladies at the gym? A little persistent, yeah? Trust me, they’re not my type. I’m not interested.”
“I see...” You were mesmerized. This guy, this gorgeous, sweet, amazing guy, was standing at your door with flowers and food, talking about vibes.
“I can go, though... if this is too weird... but I’d hate to eat all this Chinese takeaway by myself,” he said, holding up the bag, and it did indeed look like enough to feed a small country, and it took everything in you not to make a fat joke, but something in his expression stopped you.
He was nervous. Harry was nervous.
“No. Please... come in... I never pass up... what did you call it? Chinese takeaway...”
When he came in, you shut the door and immediately examined the bag. The smell was incredible, and your stomach reminded you that depression meals of cereal and toast weren’t actually sustaining.
“I do think you bought enough to feed a small army, though...”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything...”
This got a laugh out of you, the first real laugh in weeks. “Well, lucky you, I like everything... You don’t get curves like these being a picky eater...”
“I see...” He said with a sexy smirk, that had you giddy as his eyes roamed your body with the same heated look you had seen that day in the gym mirror. He wasn’t hiding it now, wasn’t trying to be professional. He was just a man, looking at you like you were something to devour, pajamas and all.
“Yeah... there was definitely a vibe...” You teased, narrowing your eyes at him while taking the flowers from his hands and bringing them to your nose. They were simple, but the gesture made your heart flip.
“I’ll put these in water...” And as you moved toward the kitchen, you felt his eyes following you, suddenly aware of how small your apartment felt with him in it.
The energy you guys had been dulling in the past was present, making itself known as it filled the space. Now you had a new hunger growing in your belly that had nothing to do with Chinese food and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing.
Fuck it you thought, and you set the flowers down in the sink for later, “I’m not usually this forward… but I’ve been dying to kiss you?” you asked pressing your back against the sink, and you said the words with an air of confidence that seemed to flee the second your eyes found his. Sending you right back to that place of self-doubt.
Harry didn’t answer, and you watched as he silently pushed himself away from the counter and closed the small space between you.
It felt like every movement slowed, every breath hollow, as if the sight of him before you was a figment of your imagination, and you couldn’t quite bring your eyes to meet his, not yet. You just stared at his broad chest, his strong stature like stone before your gaze, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath, like maybe he was waiting for you to make the move.
But it was something about the way he stood there, that same gentle patience he had exuded all along. It was devastating, the kindness now an ache that deepened inside you, the second you pressed your palm flat to the center of his chest.
Yet his stillness remained as you felt the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart, but you still couldn’t look, because here was the fear telling you that you couldn’t have it, that you weren’t worthy, that this wasn’t real, but god he was real, and the breath that left his body was real.
And it hurt, and you were scared, and when his hand moved to yours, pressing your palm into his chest, you felt yourself breaking. Then you braved a look, your eyes finding his, and it was like something cracked within you, a well of every insecurity you had ever had, came spilling from your chest with a gasp, as a sob rose, and it wasn’t even him that you were crying about.
It was everything, all at once, it was you, it was him, it was the broken girl inside you, crying to be healed, to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved, because you wanted to be loved, you wanted to be seen, you wanted someone to love you the way you deserved. You had always had so much love to give, but no one who could reciprocate, the world always taking, but never giving back.
Then his hand was cupping your face, his eyes on your mouth, and the second his lips pressed to yours, delicate and soft, he drew in a deep breath, like you were the air he needed to fill his lungs with, like suddenly here you were, and as your mouths begin to move, the chatter in your head began to fade away.
As the kiss deepened, hands roaming, you felt yourself letting go, slipping to a place of peace, to a place you had only ever felt with him, to those times when he had you in a room full of people, yet the world always seemed to narrow to just the two of you. This was that moment, a universe that belonged to you and Harry.
And for the first time, maybe ever in your life, you allowed yourself to just exist.
When you pulled away, your eyes met, making a silent exchange, and you grabbed his hand with a slow nod, ready to make sacred what you felt in your heart, give him the pieces that he had made whole with the kindness of his spirit. You wanted to give yourself in the only way you knew how to convey what words couldn’t say.
And when he laid you down on the bed, he was gentle, hands moving over your curves like they were the most sacred gift you could give, and maybe they were in that moment, and when he kissed your lips, you felt the passion and the need in the delicate balance of his control. It felt safe. Harry was taking his time to explore the plains of your body, no rush, just a tender embrace that had tears streaming down your face.
“Is this okay?” he whispered against your skin, and the care in his voice made your chest tight. Always checking, always making sure, like you were the most beloved artifact, instead of too much.
You nodded, but your hands were already moving to guide his away from your stomach, that soft place you had spent years hating, years hiding. He noticed, you knew he would, and he paused, his green eyes searching yours in the dim light of your bedroom.
“Talk to me,” he said softly, his hand stilling on your hips. “What’s going through that beautiful mind?”
“I just...” You said, turning away, and the look in his eyes was too much for the shame pricking at your skin. It wasn’t like you hadn’t had sex before, but there had never been this level of positive vulnerability on both parts. The feeling reminded you of your first time, and maybe almost every time, actually.
The good times, few and far between.
Yes, the fear was there, and so was the desperation, but that was the part you didn’t want to be there. You didn’t want that desperate feeling of doing, just to feel wanted. You knew this wasn’t the case now, but it was hard to shake that pattern of thinking when this was the only relationship you had to sex. “You’ve probably been with so many girls who are... who look...” And the words stuck in your throat.
Skinny. Fit. Perfect. Everything you weren’t.
“Hey.” His finger gently turned your chin back to him. “I’m here with you. Only you. And I’ve wanted to be here, exactly here, for weeks.”
But when his hand moved again, you caught it, redirecting it away from your middle, and this time he didn’t let you. Instead, he slowly lowered down your body, holding your eyes as he did, and before you could stop him, his lips were pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach, right where you were trying to hide.
“Harry—”
But he was already kissing every inch, every delicate place, every roll and curve you had spent years despising, and as he continued, your body trembled with sobs beneath his lips, overwhelmed by the adoration in his touch.
“God,” he breathed against your skin, “Every inch of you is beautiful. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
And just when you thought you couldn’t break anymore, here was another wall crumbling, and when he moved back up to kiss you, you could taste the mingling of your tears on his lips now, salt and beauty, a messy mix of his devotion and time.
“Can we just...” you start, then stop, embarrassed by what you wanted to ask. This was the part you wanted to skip, the lead up, you didn’t think you were strong enough for it, not right now, not in this moment, not when you were barely hanging by a thread, your emotions everywhere.
“What do you need?” He pulled back slightly, studying your face. “Tell me.”
“Can we just... be together? I want to feel you, to kiss you. Is that okay? I don’t need...” You gestured vaguely over your body, unable to say the words.
Then you watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. “If that’s what you want,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “But… hopefully you’ll let me take care of you another time—”
“Another time?” You repeated, a little too excited, because god, the hope in your voice was already embarrassing.
He smiled, that dimpled smile that had you out of your mind from the beginning. “Yeah, love, there’s no way this is a one-time act. I’m already hooked. You have me completely. Trust me.”
That was all you needed, because then you were reaching with a shaky hand to your nightstand, pulling out the condom you had optimistically kept there. He took it from your trembling fingers, and the care he took with everything—with you—made fresh tears spring to your eyes.
And it was like a light switch flipping on in your brain when he pushed inside you, like something waking. At first, you weren’t sure what to do, whether you should just lie there, and let him lead like you had usually done in the past with others, or if you should use your words. But everything in you wanted to take some kind of control, to show him that you weren’t just passive, that you could give as good as you got.
The feeling built slowly, his hands mapping your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every response. And just as you felt yourself getting close, that familiar tightening, a surge of confidence unlike anything you had ever felt before, flooded through you like a line of fire.
That’s when you pushed your hands into his shoulders, trying to be smooth about the move, hoping he would get the hint, but then he stopped without hesitation, concern flashing across his face. “Do you want me to—”
But you were already moving, pushing him onto his back and climbing on top, not giving a fuck that your stomach was visible, or that your boobs would bounce, that hell, maybe everything would jiggle, but for once, you didn’t care, because the way he was looking at you, like the fucking goddess you were and felt, was everything. It made you feel powerful, turning what was already pleasure into a feast that fed the famished hunger within.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping at the flesh of your hips, as he bucked up to meet you, and the awe in his voice was already pushing you to the edge. It didn’t take long until you came hard, crumbling forward, and his arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you tight against his chest as he followed you over.
Even though you were aware of everything, all the flaws, all the thoughts, the way your body felt pressed against his, you stayed like that for a long moment, giving your body time to meld with his, no matter how uncomfortable it was or if you felt like your body would crush him. You wanted to be with this man in every way, maybe even savor the way his hands still moved up and down your body, caressing over every curve as both of you caught your breath. When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with such tenderness, such wonderment that it made your chest ache.
“You’re incredible,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Absolutely incredible.”
Later, after he had cleaned you both up with a warm washcloth, yes, you let him, because he insisted on taking care of you despite any objections, and damn he was a sweet talker, you knew you couldn’t resist the power of his words. Because you knew he meant them. Afterward, when you lay curled against his chest, his bad knee elevated on a pillow, and you with all your insecurities knocking at your mind’s door. You knew in that moment that you were two broken people, but even two broken halves can make something whole together, and that was the devastating truth you held onto.
And as you drifted off to sleep, his arms around you, his heartbeat steady under your ear, you thought maybe the universe was finally giving you something good, giving you someone who saw you, saw the real you, not just as a project to fix or some kind of problem to solve, but as someone worth loving, exactly as you were.
You knew the journey to confidence wasn’t over. You knew that you would still have your bad days, still struggle with mirrors and fitted clothes, and that fucking voice in your head that said you were never enough. But for now, you had someone who wanted to be there for those days, too, someone you knew would remind you of your worth when you forgot it yourself.
Someone who would love every inch of you, especially the parts you’ve allowed yourself to hate. Someone who made you believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to take up space in this world—and in his heart.
And that was worth more than any number on a scale could ever be.
She might not be their actual mum but these boys love her like she is
But you’re our mum
Finn’s words echoed in her head and she couldn’t stop the sob in her throat, clamping her hand over her mouth to try and contain the sound as tears welled and blurred her vision.
In all their years as a family neither of them had ever called her ‘mum’. She was always ‘Clara’ or ‘that’s our step-mum’. Which was fine - exactly how it should be really, because she wasn’t. She would never be Aoife and she’d never had any wish to try and replace or usurp her like that.
But, as the little sobs made her shoulders shake, and she grabbed a tissue to stifle her sounds, she couldn’t pretend that it didn’t mean the world to hear him call her that.
After all their trying, and all they had lost, she was finally a mum.
- A Month In Fragments
I forgot about Mother’s Day when it happened here back in March but since it’s happening in other parts of the world today, I get the chance to make up for it.
Happy Mother’s Day to the best step-mum they could ask for, from Eoin and Finn
» The Lockdown Sessions «
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