im thinking angst, you usually both watch shania, but you had an argument before, so he is watching by himself, leaving you alone backstage, the ending can be whatever you decide xx
Still The One.
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my blurb masterlist is here!!
authors note - hey everyone, happy sunday, enjoy this little bit of angst and a little surprise near the end.
word count - 4.3k
in which, usually you watch shania twain together, she’s your artist, but after a tense argument backstage, your not stood next to him and it’s absolutely killing him inside.
The thumping bass rattled the floorboards, a physical manifestation of the adrenaline pulsing through the stadium, but Harry couldn't feel it.
He was standing precisely where you had seen him earlier, pressed back against the cold, teal-blue wall, His hands were loosely clasped in front of his dark athletic shorts, his body entirely still while his friend—one of the crew members—stood beside him, gesturing and talking animatedly about the stage cues for Harry's upcoming set.
Harry wasn't processing a single word.
His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.
The air in the dressing room was thick and humid, the kind of heavy, backstage heat that a single oscillating fan could do nothing to fix.
To your right, the soft, rhythmic puffing of your eight-month-old baby boy was the only sound cutting through the quiet. He was fast asleep in his buggy, stripped down to nothing but a nappy, his little chest rising and falling.
The poor thing had been up since 4:00 AM, teething and restless, which meant you and Harry had been running on fumes before the sun even came up.
You were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, your arms raised over your head, completely immersed in trying to get a neat French braid down the back of your head. Your fingers were tangled in your strands, your focus entirely narrowed down to sections of hair, blindly weaving them together by feel.
The heavy dressing room door clicked open and shut with a sharp thud.
Harry walked in, smelling faintly of sweat and the crisp afternoon air outside. He had just finished a grueling pre-show workout with Brad, and every line of his body screamed pure exhaustion.
He was flushed from the workout, wearing his slouchy white long-sleeve tee, dark athletic shorts, and the grey compression sleeves still pulled up over his knees. His white socks were slipped into his striped slides, dragging slightly against the carpet.
His eyes were bloodshot, heavy-lidded, and desperate. All he wanted—the only thing keeping him going—was the thought of crashing onto the sofa for a thirty-minute nap before the frantic pre-show schedule kicked into high gear.
But as he closed the door, his eyes landed on you. Sprawled out right in the middle of the couch, arms up, taking up the entire space.
Harry’s jaw instantly tightened, his brow furrowing into a hard, agitated line. The sheer fatigue of the 4:00 AM wake-up call, combined with the physical drain of his workout, had left his fuse dangerously short. He was vibrating with irritation, a dark cloud settling over his shoulders.
Your hands froze in your hair, but you didn't drop your arms. You were so hyper-focused on keeping the braid tight that you completely misread the rough edge in his voice, assuming he was just groaning about being tired.
"Oh, good, you’re back," you said, your voice breezy and fast as your fingers kept weaving. "Listen, Brad didn't keep you too long, did he? Because the tour manager was already in here looking for you. Apparently, the schedule got pushed forward by fifteen minutes. And oh, before I forget—the hotel in the next city called back about the crib. They don’t have the one we requested, so we might have to use the travel one from the bus, but the zipper on the travel bag is stuck again. Did you manage to look at it? Harry? Also, we’re almost out of the specific nappies he likes, the ones that don’t give him a rash in this heat, so I was thinking maybe one of the runners could—"
"Can you just shut up for five seconds?"
The words didn't come out as a tired grumble. They cut through the room like a whip, loud, sharp, and dripping with pure venom.
Your hands instantly dropped from your head, the half-finished braid unraveling down your neck. The sudden, violent volume in the quiet room made your heart leap into your throat. You stared at him, stunned.
Before you could even process the shock of him yelling, a sharp, frightened wail pierced the air.
To your right, the buggy rattled. The sudden shout had violently jarred your eight-month-old out of his precious sleep. He kicked his little bare legs, his chest heaving as he burst into a hard, breathless cry, terrified by the loud noise.
"Look what you did," you whispered, your own anger flashing through the shock as you immediately stood up to tend to the baby. "Harry, he’s been teething all day, he barely slept—"
"No, look what you're doing!" Harry snapped, his voice staying dangerously high, completely unravelling from the sheer exhaustion of the 4:00 AM wake-up and the crushing pressure of the tour. He threw his hands up, gesturing wildly at you and the buggy. "I have a two-hour show to give to thousands of people, I’ve been running on three hours of sleep, and I walk in here to a bloody barrage of noise! You’re suffocating me! I just wanted thirty minutes of peace on the couch, but you're taking up the whole room, prattling on about zippers and nappies!"
You froze, your hand hovering over your crying son, staring at your husband as if he were a stranger. "It's our son, Harry. It's our life. If you're stressed about the show, don't take it out on—"
"I wouldn't have to take it out on anyone if I could just get some space!" he roared, the final filter of his exhaustion snapping entirely. He stepped closer, his eyes wild and dark, and delivered the blow that made the room go completely cold. "Honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour if this is what you’re going to be doing every night. You’re just in the way."
The silence that followed was suffocating, save for the heart-wrenching cries of your baby.
The moment the words left his mouth, you saw the instant flash of horror in Harry's eyes. The anger drained out of him so fast it left him looking pale, his jaw going slack. He reached a hand out, his chest heaving. "Wait—no, I didn't—"
"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper but sharp enough to stop him in his tracks.
Your eyes stung with hot, furious tears, but you refused to let them fall in front of him. Carefully, deliberately, you scooped your crying baby out of the buggy, pressing his warm, nappy-clad body against your chest, bouncing him gently to soothe his whimpers. You didn't look at Harry again. You just grabbed your bag with your free hand, walked right past him—forcing him to step back against that teal wall—and marched straight out into the corridor, leaving him alone in the wreckage of what he’d just said.
His eyes were completely glazed over, staring blankly toward the bright lights of the stage wings. His mind was trapped in a suffocating loop, replaying the look of absolute heartbreak on your face in the dressing room just twenty minutes ago.
Maybe you shouldn’t have come on the tour... You’re just in the way.
The words tasted like poison in his mouth. How could he have said that? To you? To the person who had spent the last eight months sacrificing sleep….comfort.
"...and then we'll transition straight into the encore, mate. Sound good?" his friend asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
Harry just gave a dull, numb nod, not even knowing what he was agreeing to. He felt hollow, stripped of his usual pre-show energy, looking utterly defeated against that stark blue backdrop. He wanted to turn back, run down the corridor, and find you—to beg, to explain that the exhaustion had completely hijacked his brain.
But his feet felt like lead.
Suddenly, the roaring crowd let out a collective, deafening cheer as the high-energy track Shania was performing faded out. The stadium lights dimmed into a soft, intimate amber glow.
Then, the first tender, unmistakable acoustic chords of a guitar rippled through the monitors.
Harry’s entire body went rigid against the wall. His breath hitched violently in his throat.
It was "You're Still the One."
Your wedding song.
Every defense mechanism he had built up over the last half hour crumbled to dust. That wasn't just a song on Shania's setlist; it was your song.
The song you had slow-danced to at your wedding, your foreheads pressed together, whispering promises that no matter how crazy his career got, you would always be each other's home.
Hearing it right now, with the sting of his venomous words still hanging fresh in the air, felt like a physical blow to his chest.
"Looks like we made it
Look how far we've come, my baby
We mighta took the long way
We knew we'd get there someday..."
Shania’s smooth, emotive vocals soared through the backstage monitors, crisp and crystal clear. Each line felt like a targeted strike. The contrast was agonizing—the song was singing about overcoming the odds, about proving the doubters wrong, but Harry had just become the biggest threat to his own marriage over a petty argument about a stroller zipper.
As the chorus hit, the massive stadium crowd joined in, a stadium of thousands of voices echoing the declaration of enduring love.
"You're still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You're still the one I want for life..."
Harry dropped his head. His jaw clenched so hard it ached, his eyes burning as a wave of pure, unadulterated regret crashed over him. He felt so far away from being the man you belonged to right now.
He couldn't just stand here anymore. He didn't care about the schedule, the crew, or the impending stage time. He needed you.
Slowly, his head turned, his heavy, guilt-ridden gaze tearing away from the stage and sweeping down the dim, crowded corridor, desperately searching the shadows for the only person who could put him back together.
The crushing weight of everything became too loud to bear, suffocating him. Harry couldn’t stand there for another second. He couldn't just stand against that teal wall and pretend his world wasn't ending.
Abandoning his spot, he broke into a frantic jog, his slides slapping against the concrete as he tore through the backstage corridors. He was a man possessed, his chest heaving as he threw open the heavy door to the green room.
The room was a bright, noisy haven of family life, completely oblivious to his internal agony. Across the carpet, your eight-month-old boy was wide awake, happily babbling and playing with Sarah and Mitch’s kids, alongside Jeff and Glenne’s little one. The tour family was doing what they always did—rallying around, babysitting, keeping the kids entertained.
But as Harry’s eyes frantically swept the room, his heart plummeted. You weren't there.
"Hey, man, you good?" Pauli asked, noticing the pale, frantic look on Harry’s face.
"Where is (Y/N)?" Harry panted, his voice tight and breathless. "Have you seen her?"
Pauli blinked, sensing the gravity in Harry's tone. "She's back in the dressing room, mate. Said she needed a minute."
Harry didn't even say thank you. He turned on his heel and sprinted down the final stretch of the hallway, practically throwing himself against the dressing room door.
When the door swung open, the sight inside made his breath leave him completely. You were there, but you weren't resting. You were frantically moving around the room, packing the baby’s toys, formula, and extra nappies into a travel bag. And right next to the buggy sat your own canvas duffle bag—halfway zipped, stuffed with your clothes.
"What are you doing?" he choked out, his voice cracking.
He didn't wait for an answer. He crossed the room in two large strides, his hands coming down over yours, firmly but gently wresting the baby blanket out of your grip and setting the bags down on the floor out of your reach.
"Don't touch them," you said, your voice dangerously quiet, though you didn't look up at him. You kept your eyes glued to the empty space where the bag had been. "I'm just taking him back to the hotel. It’s better if the little one gets a decent night's sleep. And... like you said. It’s probably better if we aren’t on the tour if we’re just going to be in the way every night."
"No. No, absolutely not. I am not letting you leave," Harry broke out, his voice raw and pleading. He reached for your hands, his fingers trembling as he caught your wrists, forcing you to look at him. "Please, just look at me. Look at me, sweetheart."
You finally raised your eyes, and the sheer devastation in them made him flinch.
You didn't yell.
You didn't pull away.
You just stood there, completely exhausted, as the first silent, hot tear spilled over your eyelashes and tracked down your cheek.
Then another. You were silently sobbing, your chest trembling with the effort to keep from breaking down completely.
"I am so, so sorry," Harry rushed out, the words tumbling over each other as he stared down at you, his own eyes swimming with tears. "I am a bloody idiot. I’m an absolute monster for saying that to you. I was tired, and I was stressed about the set change, and I took it out on the only person in this entire building who doesn't deserve it. The only person who keeps me grounded."
He squeezed your wrists gently, his head dropping for a second before he looked back up, his face pale with desperation.
"I was running on pure adrenaline and exhaustion, and my brain just completely short-circuited. It was a stupid zipper, a stupid schedule change, and I let the pressure of everything turn me into a stranger. I looked at you taking care of our boy, doing everything on your own while I went off to a workout, and instead of thanking you, I snapped. It’s disgusting. I hate myself for how I made you feel just now. I saw the look in your eyes when I said those words, and it's going to haunt me for the rest of my life."
You didn't answer, a choked, silent gasp escaping your lips as you closed your eyes, more tears streaming down your face. Harry’s hands moved up from your wrists to cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping at the wetness on your cheeks, though his own hands were shaking.
"You aren't in the way," he whispered, his voice cracking completely as his forehead came down to rest against yours. "You could never, ever be in the way. You and our baby are the only reasons I do this. This entire tour, the crowds, the music—it means absolutely nothing if I don't have you waiting for me when I walk off that stage. You are my home. I am so sorry I made you feel like a burden when you’re the most precious thing I have. I need you here. I need you beside me. Please don't leave me, sweetheart. I love you so much."
You closed your eyes, a broken, hitching breath tearing out of your chest as his words tore down the final wall of your anger, leaving nothing but pure, aching exhaustion.
Harry didn’t wait.
The second he felt your posture soften, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist like a vise, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He was trembling, his chest heaving against yours as he held you so tightly it was almost hard to breathe, anchoring you to him as if he were terrified you might still vanish if he let go.
"I've got you. I'm so sorry, I've got you," he muttered frantically into your skin, his voice thick and rough.
When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, dilated, and swimming with a volatile mix of leftover adrenaline and sheer desperation. He looked down at your wet cheeks, his gaze dropping to your trembling lips, and the restraint in him snapped completely.
He leaned down and crashed his mouth against yours.
The kiss was heavy, raw, and completely unraveled—an explosive release of all the suffocating tension that had been building since he walked through the door. It wasn't gentle; it was a bruising, breathless apology, a silent plea for forgiveness translated through the hard, demanding press of his lips.
He tasted like the salty sweat of his workout and the sharp sting of regret, his tongue tangling with yours in a chaotic, bruising rhythm that made your knees instantly buckle.
You let out a soft, muffled sob against his mouth, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his baggy white long-sleeve tee, fistfuls of the cotton bunching in your fingers as you pulled him closer.
The sudden, intense heat of his body washed over you, melting away the cold isolation of the last hour in a single, devastating second.
"Harry," you gasped out when he parted your lips, your voice catching in your throat.
He didn't let you speak.
He caught your lower lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you whimper before his tongue swept back into your mouth, deeper and hungrier this time. He backed you up blindly until your spine hit the edge of the dressing room vanity, the jars of makeup and water bottles rattling behind you.
He crowded into your space, his heavy thighs pinning yours against the wood, completely trapping you beneath him.
His hands left your face, sliding down the column of your neck to your shoulders, before his large, warm palms slipped entirely under the hem of your shirt. His fingers were slightly damp and burning hot against the bare skin of your waist.
He gripped your hips with a possessive, unhinged tightness, his thumbs digging into your skin to lift you up onto the edge of the counter.
You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, the friction of your bodies rubbing together through your clothes sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to your core.
Harry let out a low, wrecked growl at the contact, burying his face in your neck.
His mouth traveled down your jawline, biting and kissing a feverish path down to the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, sucking deeply until he knew it would leave a mark.
"Tell me we're okay," he breathed against your heated skin, his chest heaving violently against yours as his hands slid up to frame your ribcage, his thumbs stroking the underside of your breasts. "Tell me I didn't break us. Please."
"We're okay," you whispered, your fingers tangling into his short, damp curls, pulling his head back up so you could look into his blown-out eyes.
Your own breath was coming in ragged shorts. "We're okay, Baby. Just kiss me."
He didn't need to be told twice. He captured your mouth again with a desperate, sweeping hunger that stole the remaining air from your lungs. It was an angsty, tangled mess of teeth and tongue, both of you fighting to get closer, trying to erase the cruel words he’d spoken with the sheer, bruising force of your bodies pressed together.
His hands moved frantically over your back, mapping the curve of your spine, pulling you so flush against his chest that you could feel the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beating in perfect sync with your own.
He ground his hips into yours, a heavy, agonizingly slow rub that made you arch your back and cry out into his mouth. The sound only drove him wilder; his kisses grew faster, sloppier, his breathing completely ruined as he devoured your lips over and over again, cementing the fact that you were his, that he was yours, and that neither of you was going anywhere.
"I want you," you breathed against his lips, the words a jagged confession that broke through the last of the frantic chaos between you. "H, I want you. So much."
The desperation in his movements instantly shifted, a profound, heavy silence settling over him at your words. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours, looking at the honesty in your tear-stained face. The frantic, bruising energy melted away, replaced by something deeply reverent and achingly tender.
"Yeah?" he whispered, his voice incredibly thick as his thumbs gently brushed a final tear from your cheek. "You've got me. Always, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise me," you whispered, your fingers tightening in his shirt.
"I promise you," he murmured, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I promise. Look at me... I am so sorry for what I said. Let me show you how much I need you."
Slowly, deliberately, he reached down to guide your legs down from his waist so you could stand on your own feet, though he kept his body pressed completely flush against yours.
With slow, trembling hands, he reached for the hem of his baggy white long-sleeve tee and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the floor beside your duffle bags.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his eyes traveling over your face as he reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. Slowly, gently, he pushed them down past your hips, helping you step out of them until there was nothing left between you but bare skin and raw emotion. "Just... stay with me. Please."
"I'm here," you replied softly, your voice trembling. "I'm not leaving."
He lifted you back onto the edge of the vanity, and this time, when you wrapped your legs around his waist, he stepped into you with a quiet, agonizing slowness. His eyes never left yours as his hands anchored underneath your thighs, supporting your weight.
When he slid inside you, it wasn't a sudden rush. It was a slow, deep, and unyielding push that made you both let out a long, shaky sigh.
He filled you completely, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours as he froze, letting the absolute perfect fit of your bodies sink in.
"Oh, God," he groaned quietly, closing his eyes for a brief second as he pressed his forehead against yours. "You feel so good. You have no idea how much I missed you today."
"Then don't stop," you whispered, your hands tracing the line of his bare shoulders. "Harry, please."
He began to move, and it was the furthest thing from the frantic pacing of before. It was a slow, rhythmic, agonizingly beautiful tempo.
He withdrew almost entirely, pulling himself out until the very tip of his length brushed against your entrance, making you gasp and arch into him, before he plunged back in, slow and deep, pressing his hips firmly against yours.
"Harry..." you whimpered, your fingers burying into the short curls at the nape of his neck, your forehead dropping against his shoulder as the intense, slow friction began to build a deep coil of heat in your stomach.
"I'm right here," he murmured, his breath warm and steady against your skin. "I've got you. Tell me what you need."
"More," you gasped, tightening your legs around his waist as he pulled out again, agonizingly slow, before sinking all the way back inside. "Just like that. Don't hurry."
"I'm taking my time," he whispered against your ear, his voice rough and laced with a quiet intensity. "We have all the time in the world right now. I'm right here with you. Every single part of me is yours."
He repeated the motion, pulling almost completely out, teasing the sensitive opening of your core until you were silently begging, before sinking all the way back inside you with a heavy, grounding weight.
Every single thrust was deliberate, an unspoken vow, a physical manifestation of the apology he had spoken earlier. He was taking his time, making love to you with a quiet intensity that healed the ache in your chest with every stroke.
"I love you," he murmured between shallow, heavy breaths, his lips grazing your jaw. "I love you so much. Say it."
"I love you, Harry," you cried out softly, your hands gripping his back as the pleasure started to overwhelm you. "I love you."
The room was silent save for the soft, rhythmic sound of skin against skin, your ragged, synchronized breathing, and the quiet declarations whispered between kisses.
He held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in his world, his lips constantly pressed to your temple, your jawline, your shoulder, whispering quiet assurances between deep, slow pulses.
The tension in your core coiled tighter and tighter, driven by the torturous, beautiful slowness of his movements. You gripped his shoulders, your muscles clamping around him as the edge of your release drew closer.
"Harry, I'm close," you breathed, your voice breaking. "I can't—"
"Go ahead, sweetheart," he whispered fiercely, his pace gathering just a fraction of momentum, his deep thrusts becoming a steady, relentless rhythm that pushed you completely over the precipice. "I'm right here with you. Let go."
You let out a choked, breathless cry, your body trembling with the waves of your orgasm. The tight contraction of your walls tore the last of his restraint away. With a low, guttural groan that vibrated against your chest, Harry drove into you one last time, burying himself as deeply as possible as he came, his muscles locking tight as he poured himself into you.
"You're mine," he panted against your neck, his voice fading into a ragged whisper. "Always mine."
“Your still the one.”
