If I could fly (BOOK 2)

Muted

Early September felt quieter than Harry expected.

Not calm-just muted, like someone had turned the volume down on his life without asking first.
The house was still when he woke, pale morning light slipping through the curtains in soft bands. He lay there for a moment, listening. No phones. No voices. No rush.

Then he heard it.
A small sound from the living room.
Not a random babble. Not a mistake.

Intentional.

Harry pushed himself up and followed it, bare feet padding softly across the floor, his heart already tightening.

Darcy stood near the couch, one hand pressed against it for balance, the other hovering in the air like she was testing her courage. She looked up when she saw him, eyes bright and focused.

"Da," she said.

Clear. Careful. Certain.

Harry stopped breathing.

Y/N sat on the floor nearby, her hand flying to her mouth as tears welled instantly.

Darcy smiled-proud, pleased with herself.

Harry crouched slowly, afraid to break the moment. "Hey," he whispered, voice rough. "Hey, sweetheart."

She watched him, studying his face the way she'd started to do lately, then said it again.

"Da."

The sound cracked something open in him.

Not joy exactly-something heavier. The realization that she wasn't just growing, she was choosing. Learning who mattered. Learning who to reach for.

And he'd almost missed it.

Not because he wasn't there-but because time didn't slow down for anyone.

He gathered her into his arms, holding her close, pressing his face into her hair. "I'm here," he murmured. "I'm right here."

Y/N watched them, heart aching in the best way. "She's been doing that all morning," she said softly. "Waiting."

Harry swallowed hard. "For me?"

"For you."

⸻

The set for the History music video felt strange before anyone said it out loud.

Too familiar. Too final.

The boys stepped out one by one, wardrobe settling around them like old versions of themselves. When Harry emerged, Y/N's breath caught without warning.
He wore a loose yellow button-up, only a few buttons fastened, black skinny jeans, black Chelsea boots scuffed in a way that somehow made him look more real. His hair was longer now-past his shoulders, heavy and wild, brushing against his collarbones when he moved. When he pushed it back, it fell forward again, refusing to be tamed.

He looked older. Not aged-rooted.

Still him. Just... more.

Y/N felt it low in her chest, the familiar pull. She loved it. Loved him. But she didn't let it steal the moment. She stayed quiet, present.

Filming began gently.

Old footage. Laughter. Familiar chaos softened by memory.

Then came the running.

They ran toward the camera-toward each other-toward something that looked like reunion.

And then past.

Away.

Each of them peeling off in different directions, space stretching wider between them with every step.