If I could fly (BOOK 2)

Ten and a half months

Mid-September came quietly, the kind of quiet that only follows a week where everything finally slowed down.

The car hummed along the coastal road, windows cracked just enough to let the salt air linger even as the ocean disappeared behind them. Darcy slept in her car seat, one sock missing, cheeks flushed from the sun. Harry checked the mirror more than he needed to, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Ten and a half months old.

She looked bigger somehow. Longer. Like the vacation had stretched her out along with the rest of them.

Anne sat in the passenger seat, turned halfway around to look at her granddaughter, a soft smile permanently settled on her face. She hadn't said much for the last half hour-just reached back once to gently brush Darcy's foot before settling again.

Harry caught Y/N watching him watch Darcy and gave her a small, crooked smile.

"You okay?" Y/N asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said, then exhaled. "Just... didn't realize how much I needed this week."

Anne glanced back at him, warm and knowing. "That's how it gets you," she said softly. "Slows you down just long enough to notice what you already have."

They dropped Anne off just before sunset.

Her house glowed warmly when she stepped out of the car, porch light already on. Harry helped her with her bag, then pulled her into a long hug-one that lingered, his chin resting briefly against her shoulder.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For coming. For everything."

Anne kissed his cheek, then Y/N's, then leaned into the back seat to press a gentle kiss to Darcy's forehead. Darcy stirred, blinking up at her grandmother before breaking into a sleepy grin.

"I'll see you soon," Anne whispered. "All of you."

The drive home felt quieter without her-but not emptier. Just more focused.

Late September settled them back into routine-bags unpacked, groceries restocked, the familiar hum of home slipping back into place. Darcy, now braver than she'd ever been, had discovered she could walk without holding on... as long as someone was close enough to catch her.She took steps daily now. Real ones. Arms out, knees shaky, laughter bubbling up as she toddled from couch to coffee table to wherever Harry or Y/N happened to be standing.

She still fell. Often.
But she always got back up.

Harry watched her constantly.

From the kitchen. From the hallway. From doorways he didn't remember walking into.

The album was done. The hiatus loomed. The final show sat on the calendar like something fragile he refused to touch too directly.

At night, when Darcy slept, Harry and Y/N found themselves closer without trying. Longer kisses. Hands lingering. Quiet closeness full of intention but no pressure. They didn't name what they were doing-didn't need to. It lived between them, steady and hopeful.

By the end of September, Darcy turned eleven months old.

Final-show prep began creeping in-calls, fittings, conversations that circled the same unspoken truth. Time felt compressed. Everything accelerating except the moments that mattered most.

One evening, Harry stood in the doorway watching Y/N sit on the floor across the living room from Darcy.

"Come on," Y/N encouraged softly, arms open.

Darcy looked between them, grinned, and took three wobbly steps forward. She pitched slightly to the left, corrected herself, then fell straight into Y/N's lap laughing like she'd planned it all along.

Harry's throat tightened.

They were trying again-quietly, intentionally-without naming it, without pressure. Just choosing closeness wherever the days allowed.

He crossed the room and dropped down beside them, wrapping his arms around both of them at once. Darcy squealed, thrilled. Y/N leaned into him without a word.

End of September. Eleven months old.

One week after the coast. One chapter closing. Another already beginning-unsteady, hopeful, and walking forward anyway.