The door swung open with a soft slam, the echo of Harry’s sneakers bouncing off the walls of their home. His hair was still damp from the London rain, curls falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed from rushing straight from the studio. “I know, I know—I’m late,” he muttered, tossing his keys onto the hallway table without looking up. He crossed the room like a man on fire, one hand already digging through his coat pocket for his phone. “Baby, I’ve got ten minutes to change and get to this meeting. Can we talk when I’m back?”

She stood near the kitchen island, her hand instinctively resting over her belly—tiny, barely showing, but enough. Enough to feel the difference. Enough to make her want to scream.

She tried to call him, but he was already halfway up the stairs, flashing her a tired but affectionate smile. “Promise I’ll make it up to you, yeah? You’re my best girl. Just… not now.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

She exhaled slowly, the house swallowing her silence. He hadn’t noticed the sonogram on the fridge. He hadn’t noticed she barely touched her dinner anymore. He hadn’t noticed her tearful eyes when he came home late every night smelling like work and exhaustion. And he definitely hadn’t noticed the soft heartbeat fluttering inside her—because he hadn’t placed his hand on her stomach in weeks.

Harry wasn’t being cruel. He was just… somewhere else. Drowning in chords, lyrics, deadlines. So obsessed with getting the album right that he’d forgotten the life growing right under his nose.

He still kissed her on the forehead every night. Still called her “love” and “darling” and “my girl.” But he hadn’t really looked at her. Not really.

And she was starting to wonder if he ever would.