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Harry watches Miriam's feet a lot more closely these days.
She didn't notice it at first. But on this crisp Sunday morning, as she's descending down the stairs, she catches his eyes watching diligently as he waits for her by the foot. One of her hands cradles her protruding baby bump that seems to be growing daily now, while the other glides along the railing to keep herself steady.
"Am I wearing mismatched shoes or something?" she leans forward in an attempt to look at her feet over her belly, nearly toppling down the last few stairs. The look on Harry's face would be comical if it wasn't burdened with so much fear as he lunges forward to meet her and help her the rest of the way down.
"Careful!" he warns. "Nothing's wrong with your shoes, sugar. Just wanted to make sure you made it down safely, know how clumsy you are."
"I beg your pardon? I am not," she says. "I would've made it down fine if you hadn't been staring at my feet."
"'M allowed to worry about you both. You positive I can't convince you to stay home and let me do the grocery shopping this week?"
"No, I wanna go. Last time you forgot to buy me mangos."
"Are you ever gonna forgive me for that?"
"Maybe," she shrugs, "Might take extra kisses though."
"You've got yourself a deal."
One of his hands moves to rest warmly on the underside of her belly, the other one still supporting the small of her back as he ducks down to dot kisses across her face. A kick from within her stomach has both of them giggling and looking down to where the pointy belly is crammed between the two of them.
"Are you mad at daddy too, hmm?" his honey-like drawl tugs on Miriam's heart. "Already two against one around here, I see. Alright then, baby gets kisses too."
A few days later, Harry palms harshly at his eyes as he hobbles out of his home office and down the hallway jutting into the living space. He just wrapped up a video conference with his team at Columbia, discussing potential singles and an album release date.
He has a quick look in the mirror in the washroom. Harry sports a pair of faded blue jeans and his flamboyant Prada Banana and Flames flannel. His unruly chocolaty curls are aloof, pointing in different directions—he's been running his fingers through it incessantly over the past few hours. He slicks his hair back and goes in search of Miriam.
The flat is disturbingly quiet—there's no music playing, no sound of her hearty laughter at the tv show she's been binge-watching—Fleabag, or of Sarah Jones' venting wavering through the house. He delves further into the hall.
Lately, he's found it increasingly difficult not to worry himself senseless over Miriam. He's in the process of learning a practical balance between trying not to overcrowd her and not to worry himself sick.
He's about to head upstairs, thinking she's re-folding baby clothes for the hundredth time this week when he casts a frantic glance into the living room and his eyes land on a pair of fuzzy sock-clad feet sticking out over the edge of the couch. A dimpled smilearches across his raspberry lips. Moving closer, he cranes his neck and peeks over the couch.
She's asleep. Truly flaked out. She's clutching the soft cashmere throw blanket he keeps draped on the arm of the sofa, one hand of hers holding it to her cheeks. Her other hand is invisible, but he reckons it rests on the crest of her bump. Her face is half-buried into the blanket, her hair braiding into it.
He swoons with overt fondness as he snaps a mental picture of her peaceful state.
He is hesitant in waking her because he knows damn well that she's been getting her eight hours of sleep by napping. The resident of her womb and insomnia keeps her up at night so she just naps.
Tentative fingers chase the curve of her drool-crusted lips then stroke her puffy cheeks. Her diminutive nose crinkles at the gentle intrusion and Harry has to bite his bottom lip to hold back the chuckle that threatens to bullet out of his mouth.
Drowsy eyes pop open, they're unfocused and hooded.
"Hey, sugar. You good?" he croons.
She manages a half-smile. "'M alright. Just wanted t'take a nap," she drawls.
Her eyes flutter close again as she nuzzles into the blanket. Harry doesn't have the heart to coax her out of her sleepy state and ultimately, he wagers, letting her rest a little longer won't hurt.
"Budge over f'me," he mumbles, indicating he wants to cuddle.
The tugging on the blanket exposes her cutesy outfit. She wears black, distressed denim dungarees and absolutely rocks Harry's iconic Women are Smarter t-shirt.
She does as she's said, scooting back into the sofa because he tsks when she leans forward to let him curl in behind her. He doesn't want her hanging off the edge of the couch. She peels back the blanket and he lowers down next to her, sliding into the spot she opened for him. He lifts one arm so she can tuck herself into him which she does immediately, nosing into his clothed chest, purring.
The harsh material of his denim brushes her also denim-clad leg as he tangles their heavy limbs together. Her belly, still bigger, around the size of a hefty pineapple, is wedged between the two of them, Harry beams at the feeling, his heart swirls with a feverish kind of happiness.
"Comfy?" he asks, his lips ghosting her hairline.
"Mhm," she hums, snuggling.
His fingers circle against her lower back while her hands rest against his chest in a ball. He adores having her next to him, tucked away in his side, safe and sound.
He plants a lingering kiss on her hairline, pausing, then another.
