Being in your room still feels like I’ve hacked into a secret level of life that wasn’t supposed to unlock for nerds like me. It’s warm here—not just the fairy lights you strung up or the candle that smells like vanilla and something expensive I can’t name—but the kind of warm that wraps around your chest like a good memory, like a glitch in the universe accidentally dropped me—Harry Styles, dungeon master and anime connoisseur—into the life of you and somehow, I haven’t been booted out.

You’re curled into my side, your head resting on my chest, scrolling your phone with that scrunched-up period face you do every month. Your brows are furrowed like the entire internet just offended you—which, knowing how TikTok can be, might not be far off.

I keep my arm around you, rubbing soft circles on your back. You've got that heated pad thing strapped around your belly like it's a life support system and a half-empty cup of hot chocolate on your nightstand, forgotten, because you fell asleep for ten minutes and woke up complaining about a cramp and then demanded attention like a royal decree. Not that I mind, I love it.

It’s been six months, six. I still feel like I’m buffering every time you kiss me. You were my first kiss, my first girlfriend, the first person I ever made out with on a gaming chair (RIP to the structural integrity of that poor thing), and the first person I ever—well, yeah—that.

You hum, still staring at your phone, then shift so your head’s angled up toward me, your cheek squished against my shirt and your eyes wide and kind of dangerous.

“Harry?” you whisper in that voice, the one that usually means you’re about to ask me for something like back rubs or cookie dough or, last time, for me to recreate an entire Lord of the Rings scene with sock puppets.

“Yeah, baby?”

You blink up at me, puppy-eyed. “I want your baby.”

I blink, once, twice. “You…what?”

You nod, like this is the most logical thing in the world. “I want you to get me pregnant, babies are so cute and periods suck. If I’m gonna hurt, I’d rather be in pain from contractions and get something adorable at the end instead of just…blood and misery.”

There’s a beat and then I burst out laughing. It’s not mean—it’s helpless, like, full chest, slightly wheezy laugh, because you’re so damn you about this—dramatic and cozy and deadly serious about baby fever during peak hormone hours.

“Babe,” I say, still laughing into your hair, “we’re still in school and babies cry at night, a lot, and someone’s gotta change the dirty diapers, like—the smelly ones. Like, worse than Louis after Taco Tuesday.”

You groan dramatically and press your face into my chest. “But diapers are temporary, periods are forever.”

I kiss the top of your head, still grinning like a fool. “You’re ridiculous, beautiful, dangerous, absolutely unhinged and so, so mine.”

You grumble something into my shirt that sounds suspiciously like “so are you.”

I pause, glancing down at you with a smug little smile. “Y’know,” I say casually, brushing your hair out of your face, “I do know a few ways to help the pain go away, if you’re interested.”

You raise a brow. “Are you being filthy, Styles?”

“I might be,” I whisper, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Can you blame me? My hot, moody, baby-fevered girlfriend is laying on me looking like a goddess in sweatpants.”

You snort and it’s the best sound in the world.

God, I’m so gone for you.