Harry:
It was late. You and Harry were half-watching some mindless TV when she appeared in the doorway. Sixteen years old, but right then she looked younger, nervous in a way that made your stomach tighten.
“Everything okay, love?” Harry asked, muting the TV.
She didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, wringing her hands, breathing shallow, eyes darting everywhere but at you.
“Come sit down,” you said gently, patting the couch.
She shook her head. Her lips trembled before she finally blurted it out, quick and sharp, like ripping off a plaster.
“I’m pregnant.”
The room fell silent.
Harry blinked at her, his brows pulling together. “You’re… what?” His voice wasn’t loud, but there was an edge of disbelief.
Her chin wobbled, and tears spilled over as she nodded. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen, I don’t even... we weren’t even really together, and...”
“Christ,” Harry muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face as he sat back. He looked stunned, scared, older somehow.
You swallowed, heart hammering, and tried to keep your voice steady. “You’re only sixteen, sweetheart. This is… this is a lot.”
“I know!” she cried, her whole body shaking. “I’m not ready. I’m not ready for any of this. Please don’t hate me.”
Harry’s head snapped up at that, his expression pained. “Hate you? No. Never.” He sighed heavily, pushing himself up from the couch and crossing to her. He wasn’t smiling but his arms opened all the same. “Come here.”
She folded into him instantly, clutching his shirt like she used to when she was small. He kissed the top of her head, eyes closed, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back.
You moved beside them, wrapping your arms around both. She was sobbing, shrinking into Harry’s chest like a little girl again, and all you could do was hold on.
It wasn’t a perfect reaction. You were both shocked. A little panicked. But beneath it all... she was still your daughter, and you weren’t going anywhere.
Niall:
Niall came into the kitchen with something clutched tightly in his hand, his face pale and unreadable. You were rinsing a mug in the sink when he stopped a few feet away, holding the object out as if it burned him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice quiet, strained.
You frowned, confused. “Tell you what?”
When he opened his hand, you saw the stick lying in his palm. Your breath caught, but only for a second before you realized what he must be thinking. You shook your head quickly, wiping your damp hands on a towel. “Niall… that’s not mine.”
The room went silent except for the faint hum of the fridge. You noticed, then, how the clink of a spoon against a cereal bowl had stopped. Your daughter sat at the counter, frozen mid-bite, her eyes wide and her face suddenly ashen.
Niall followed your gaze, slowly turning his head toward her. His jaw tightened. “What?” he whispered, but the answer was already written all over her face.
Her spoon dropped into the milk with a splash, and she bit down on her lip until it trembled. “It’s mine,” she admitted, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.
The words shattered the air. Niall set the test down on the counter as though it had scorched him. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing two steps before stopping, staring at her like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
