If I could fly (BOOK 2)

Rehearsal

The rehearsal dinner was loud in the way only family could be.

Not polished-loud. Not performative-loud. Just voices overlapping, chairs scraping, laughter bursting out mid-sentence. Anne sat at the center of it all, radiant and teary in turns, holding Darcy like she'd been waiting her whole life for this exact weight in her arms. Gemma hovered close, snapping pictures on her phone and occasionally wiping her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

Harry's dad laughed easily from across the table, retelling a story Harry had begged him not to repeat, while cousins and aunts leaned in like they were hungry for every detail of how this all came together.

Darcy, seven months old and thriving, took it all in with wide eyes and grabby hands. She squealed when a fork clinked against a glass. She leaned toward voices. She laughed when Louis made an ill-advised toast that somehow turned into a joke about rehearsal dinners not being weddings.

"This is why we don't give speeches yet," Liam muttered.

Harry watched it all from the edge of the room, a quiet smile on his face, heart full and fragile all at once.

Y/N sat beside him, Darcy eventually passed back into Anne's arms, her hands folded in her lap. She was smiling. Laughing. Present.

But Harry felt the small shift when she leaned in closer.

"I tried to call her today," she said quietly, so softly it barely registered over the noise.

Harry's smile faded just a fraction. "Your mum?"

She nodded. "Texted too. Nothing."

He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer solutions.
He just reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it once, firm and steady.

"You showed up," he said gently. "That's what matters."

She nodded, swallowing.

Anne caught the moment from across the table and softened immediately, her expression full of understanding without needing words.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the noise had dulled into background hum, Darcy was carried upstairs and settled into her crib-the room quiet, familiar, dimly lit with the soft glow of the night-light they'd picked together.

Harry lingered.

He stood beside the crib for a long moment, watching her sleep-one arm flung above her head, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that still amazed him.

"Hey, love," he whispered.

She didn't stir.

He rested his hand gently against the crib rail, grounding himself.

"Big day tomorrow," he murmured. "You don't even know it yet."

Darcy shifted in her sleep, letting out a small, content sound.

Harry smiled, blinking hard.

"I wish I could explain it to you," he said quietly. "How much everything's about to change."

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead through the slats, careful not to wake her.

"I'm scared," he admitted under his breath. "But I'm ready."

Down the hall, Y/N stood alone in the bathroom, one hand braced against the sink.

She stared at her reflection for a long moment, breathing slowly.

Tomorrow.

She touched her collarbone. Her wrist. The place where the ring rested heavy and real.

She hadn't expected the ache to come back tonight-not like this. Not so sharp. But it was there anyway. The absence. The unanswered call.

She pressed her palm flat against the mirror and whispered, "I'm okay."

And she meant it. Mostly.

When she stepped back into the hallway, Harry was there.

He didn't ask. He didn't push.

He just opened his arms.

She stepped into them immediately, forehead against his chest, breathing him in.

"You don't have to be alone with it," he murmured into her hair.

She nodded. "I know."

They stood there quietly-two people on the edge of something enormous, holding steady.

Tomorrow would be loud.

But tonight belonged to them.

And they held onto it gently, knowing it wouldn't last-but grateful it existed at all.