You walk into the dressing room expecting to see Harry fixing his collar or playfully arguing with his stylist.

But instead?

He’s holding her baby.

The tiniest bundle, curled against Harry’s chest like they belong there. He’s bouncing gently, whispering something soft with a sleepy smile.

“She likes the humming,” he says without looking up. “I don’t even know what I’m humming.”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy watching him—his gentle hands, the way he adjusts the blanket, the way his pinky brushes over her cheek.

He finally glances over, catches your look.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just... wondering how you’d feel if that was ours.”

His whole face changes. “Wait, seriously?”