Wish Upon A Star [H.S]

10

"I'm so proud of you," she smiles up at him as she balances herself on her toes to give him a quick peck. After the success of his last project––and yes, that project––Harry is now an official partner, owning an even thirty-two percent of the company's holdings. He truly deserves it, especially considering how he had dedicated every minute of his life to working, upon completion of his degree. (It's only now that he's eased up, and he says she's to blame for why he's gone slack all of a sudden.) They're at his congratulatory party, surrounded by his colleagues from the firm.

"When we get home, how about you show me how much," he husks in her ear, his hand trailing dangerously low on her body. She releases a low giggle, her fingers reaching up to caress the small hairs on his chin.

She's sure to stick to his side all night. One of the other architect's secretaries seems to harbor a crush on her man and makes it so painstakingly obvious. Sometimes, when she visits him on her lunch break, she'll catch the redheaded woman––Ivy, she thinks her name is––shooting her annoyed looks whenever she passes through the doors. It's quite funny though, how Harry never seems to notice when she's trying so hard to show off her cleavage from her unbuttoned blouse. When she'd asked him about it before, his reply was a simple, "I only really like looking at your tits, love," and that was the end of that discussion.

"If looks could kill," she says, and he doesn't even need to turn around because he knows exactly what she's referring to. Instead, he presses his mouth to her temple, keeping them there as her scent floods through his nostrils. "You should really talk to Greg about this one. Naomi told me she's been begging her for a switch." Naomi, Harry's secretary, a sweet older lady, had expressed her grievances about the whole situation.

"Stop paying attention to her, and pay a little more attention to your fiancé, yeah?" he smirks, letting his breath hover over her expecting lips.

***

Uh-oh.

All the wedding planning has consumed their free time outside of work. Harry's just finalized the designs for the hotel––they're about to start construction within the next couple of days–– and Y/n has finally managed to organize the company's budget (no one bothered to tell her that the former executive accountant had been such a moron). When they're not at work, they're meeting with the wedding planner, or knocked out in bed. Any minute in between their busy itinerary is used for a quickie on the couch, in the shower, or against the fridge.

They knew this was bound to happen eventually, they've talked about it multiple times now. The timing isn't necessarily bad. With the wedding in just a little over two and a half weeks, her dress is sure to fit...hopefully. It's just that she can't believe she's gone an entire month without remembering. Y/n fiddles with her 2-carat white-gold engagement ring, as she stares at her untouched foil of birth control that sits contemptuously on the island.

"Harry?" she calls. His footsteps echo through their flat as he makes his way from the bedroom.

"Yeah, baby?" his hands slide down to her hips and he peeks over her shoulder. "What are you looking at? Aren't those your pills?"

She nods her head slowly, "They're from last month." He hums in acknowledgement, and she sighs when he doesn't get what she's trying to allude. "I haven't taken them in a month."

"A month," he repeats as if there's no underlying meaning. She listens as he says it another three times before he's spinning her on her heel to face him. "Are you...?" his eyes are bulging out of their sockets; his mouth hangs open with the ends turned up.

"I don't know. I mean, I can't remember if I got my period last month. Or the month before..." she searches her brain for whether she had ever sent him out for tampons, but it's all lost in the jumble of wedding prep that's marked every inch of her memory since the beginning of May.