If I could fly (BOOK 2)

Im sorry...again?

Morning came too early.

The house felt careful in the way people do when they're afraid of saying the wrong thing. Harry moved quietly-making tea Y/N didn't ask for, brushing crumbs off the counter that didn't need cleaning, hovering without touching.

Y/N noticed everything.

She kept her distance anyway.

They spoke when they had to-about logistics, about Darcy's bag, about timing-but never about it. The argument sat between them like a third presence. Heavy. Unfinished. Neither of them brave enough to move it yet.

Harry wanted to apologize again. Wanted to explain himself better. Wanted to promise things he didn't yet know how to keep.

Y/N wanted time. Space. Proof.

They packed up in silence and headed toward the venue, Darcy babbling happily in the backseat, blissfully unaware of the way the air felt tight and thin in the front.

⸻

Soundcheck was loud-louder than it needed to be.

The venue buzzed with energy that didn't quite feel real yet. Crew moved fast, voices overlapping, cables everywhere. The boys joked, but quieter than usual-watchful. They could feel it too. Everyone could.

Harry caught Y/N's eye once across the floor.

Held it for a second too long.

Then looked away.

Touches were restrained-his hand hovering near her back but never landing, her fingers brushing his sleeve and pulling back. Close, but not connected.

And then she saw him.

Harry stepped out in his final One Direction outfit.

The red suit was covered in flowers, bold and impossible to ignore. Black Chelsea boots grounded the look, sharp and familiar. He looked unreal-beautiful in that way that still knocked the breath out of her even after everything they'd built together.

And just like that, the spiral started.

Look at him.
Look at the life he's lived. The rooms he walks into. The people who look at him like he's something untouchable.

Why would he want someone like me?
Someone tired. Someone pregnant. Someone who felt bigger, slower, heavier than she used to.

Her chest tightened. Her eyes burned.

She swallowed it down because now was not the time. Because Darcy was laughing. Because the boys were watching. Because Harry looked over and smiled at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

She smiled back.

She held it together.

⸻

Minutes before he was due to go on stage, Harry stopped.

Everything inside him screamed that he couldn't do this-not like this. Not with her hurting. Not with words left unsaid.

He found her just outside the chaos, the noise muffled, the lights dimmer.

"Hey," he said softly.

She turned, guarded. "Hey."

"I'm sorry," he said, and this time there was no rush to it. No rehearsed calm. Just honesty. "I was wrong. I let my fear turn into anger, and I hurt you. I hate that. I hate that I did it on her birthday."

Her throat tightened.

"I can't fix everything right now," he continued, voice steady but vulnerable. "But I need you to know I'm trying. I hear you. I see where I messed up. And I will keep showing you that I mean it."

For a beat, she just looked at him.

Then she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

The relief hit him so hard his breath stuttered. He hugged her back immediately-tight, protective, grounding-like he needed the contact to remind himself she was still here. Still choosing him.

"I don't need perfection," she said quietly against his shoulder. "I need consistency."

"You'll have it," he said into her hair.

She pulled back just enough for him to see her face, and before either of them could think better of it, he leaned in and kissed her-soft at first, then firmer, like a promise he intended to keep.

They didn't linger.
They didn't rush forgiveness.
But when they stepped apart, they stood closer.
And that was enough.
Harry took a breath, nodded once, and walked toward the stage.

⸻

The night passed in a blur of sound and light and memory.

The last notes rang out. The crowd roared. The boys hugged-once, twice, then all together-arms locked tight as if letting go might make it real too soon.

When Harry stepped off stage, the weight of it all finally hit him.

And Y/N was there.
He folded into her arms, emotion spilling out unchecked, tears soaking into her shoulder. She held him firmly, grounding him, whispering reassurance into his hair.

"You did it," she murmured. "You did so good."

He stayed there a moment longer than he meant to, breathing her in, letting himself break where it was safe.

As the noise finally softened and the backstage lights dimmed, reality crept back in-quiet and unavoidable.
There were still things ahead. A few remaining appearances they couldn't escape just yet. The AMAs in November. Press for the album that would be out in less than a month-questions, headlines, explanations they'd give without ever really explaining anything at all.

But there would be no more performances as One Direction.

That part was finished.

Harry held Y/N close, his hand firm at her back, his forehead resting against hers as if anchoring himself there. Darcy slept nearby, unaware that something enormous had ended-and something just as big was beginning.

This wasn't an ending.

It was the last page before everything changed.