offshore | h.s

38

HARRY STYLES

I'm in that ultrasound room, the air thick with anticipation. The glow from the screen fills the small space, and as I watch, my heart surges with emotions I can't quite put into words. Two tiny figures dance on the screen.

Two babies. Our babies.

I turn to Gen, a smile tugging at my lips, wanting to share this overwhelming joy with her.

But when I see the tears glistening in her eyes, my happiness falters. I lean closer, my voice gentle with concern, "Are you okay?"

She doesn't respond with words, just locks her teary gaze with mine. Her silence speaks volumes, and my heart sinks.

She didn't want this.

I feel a pang of guilt for being so caught up in my own excitement that I failed to notice her feelings.

"I'm so shocked," she finally whispers, and I can hear the tremor in her voice. I sigh, my heart heavy with the weight of our reality.

"Oh, baby," I say softly and press a kiss to her forehead, trying to convey my support, my love, in that simple gesture.

Tears continue to stream down her face, and I wish I could ease her worries, make all of this easier for her. But there's one thing that neither of us can ignore, and the doctor's voice brings it crashing down upon us.

"Okay, so you're looking about 6 weeks," she says, and Gen and I both nod, her grip on my hand tightening. "Your due date looks to be around September 13th-20th, but I'm sure your OB at home will narrow it down for you."

And just like that, my elation turns to dread. The reality hits me like a freight train.

"Fuck, I'm on tour," I mutter, my voice laden with panic.

"Far out," Gen mutters, her gaze dropping to the floor, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

I watch her, my heart aching for her, the woman I love, the mother of our unborn children. Her emotions are laid bare, tears welling up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Quickly, I try to offer reassurance, my own voice quivering with the weight of our predicament. "I'll sort something out, it's okay," I say, though I have no idea how I'll be able to change anything. The tour, the venues—they're all etched in stone.

Yet, my children are coming, and I can't bear the thought of missing their birth or the first precious months of their lives.

Dr. Williams's voice interrupts our shared moment of uncertainty. "Everything is looking good, but it's very early to tell of any complications so far," she says, a hint of cautious hope in her tone.

The appointment wraps up, and we both murmur our gratitude, the anxiety still clinging to us like a heavy fog.

As we step out of the doctor's office and close the door behind us, the air in the hallway feels charged with the weight of what we've just learned.

I glance at Gen, my heart heavy with the looming uncertainty that hangs over us. Without a word, I pull her into a long, tight hug, seeking solace in her arms. I'm aware of the magnitude of the challenges ahead, and I know that my responsibilities on tour clash with my duties as a father.

"We're having two babies, Gen," I say, my voice tinged with both excitement and trepidation as I look down into her eyes, which shimmer with emotions.

Her lips curve into a smile, and it's a bittersweet moment. "We're going to be outnumbered soon," she chuckles, her laughter a brief respite from the worries that gnaw at us.