Art | Harry Styles

EPILOGUE

Even after all these years, he's still insistent on 'no gifts' - "You're more than enough, darling. All I could ever want and more." - but still, each year the rule is broken in some sneaky manner, whether it be a small trinket found and wrapped up in secret, an item of jewellery, or perhaps just a sketchbook that looked like something the other would drool over - it is broken. He knows he'll be breaking it this year, but much to his discretion - she'll be breaking it too.

"Right," she outstretches her arm, holding a mug of steaming tea for him to take, "what's the lineup?"

"Thanks, love," he takes the mug, setting it down on the table, and picking up a stack of DVDs from the couch beside him, "kicking things off.. 'Love Actually', and then we've got 'The Notebook', and then we've got 'Notting Hill'."

"Dream," she tilts her head back, "before I forget though, I just got off the phone with my mom. 'Wanted me to send you her love. 'Said Merry Christmas."

"I wondered what took you so long in there," he nods, setting the DVDs back down. One of her hands holds her heated mug comfortably, and the other fiddles with a button on the large chunky cardigan that she'd stolen from him a few weeks back.

It's his favourite mug - the one he's holding. It's got a scrappy drawing printed on the front of the ceramic - one of a man resembling him with curly brown hair and poorly drawn green irises, standing tall above a dozen dwarfs resembling students.

He's a fifth grade art teacher, and holy shit does he love it. It's combining two of his favourite things and more - art and working with young children; getting to contribute to the growth of individuals is something so rewarding, when all it takes to make his day is their little shouts of gratitude when the bell sounds for the end of school - "Thank you, Mr Styles! See you tomorrow, Mr Styles!"

He loves his students to death, and the joy he finds in watching them splatter canvases while seeking his approval is indescribable. Morphing little minds, he calls it; he honours it.

Harry's always had that about him though. Sophie reckons that's why he just slotted into a teaching role so seamlessly. He's got that about him - that gentle nature, that softness. He's kind - truly, and genuinely so kind. And it's so admirable - the way in which he never even hesitates before putting others before himself, and that's what children need in a teacher - a mentor, a role model. And he has those qualities.

Sophie remembers wrapping up his first semester, and he'd come home in tears with a stack of paintings that the class had done for him. He was bawling, simply because one of the parents had approached him to say how helpful his influence was to her child, and that Harry was 'an angel of sorts'. He'd sobbed into Sophie's neck, tears of pure happiness at being able to help people.

Harry's a godfather of five children. Five. If that doesn't sum up all of his qualities in one position, then Sophie doesn't know what does. He's so morally good, and it's magnetic - everyone he meets, and befriends, the moment one of their pair falls pregnant, they're immediately itching to label him as their 'godfather'. And he embraces it, too, spending time with them all individually and treating them as if they were his own children.

He'd caught her eyes lingering yesterday when they'd gone out for dinner on Christmas Eve, but he still hadn't thought much of it. A family of four had been seated on the table beside them, and though Sophie wouldn't usually give a neighbouring table a second glance - she'd had her eyes on a mother and little girl (no younger than four) pair for the majority of the meal.

"Overanalysing, pet," he'd mumbled, as she'd torn her eyes away and prodded a piece of chicken on his plate with her fork.

"Sorry, m'stealing your brand of overanalysing," she'd replied with a flustered grin.

Last night, long after Harry had fallen asleep, Sophie had plugged in her earphones and Google'd cute ways to give the news. Nothing special had struck her eye, and so she'd made the decision to stick with her original plan. Lacking pizazz of any kind, but still more than sufficient.

"It'll come as no surprise," he says, now, his hand winding around her wrist to tug her onto his lap. She rests comfortably on his thighs, his hands slipping under her cardigan to brush over her waist as he continues, "'m kind of about to break our rule again, but-"

"That's funny, because I am, too," she grins, nervously bringing her teeth over her lip.

"You've gone all pink, lovey," he laughs lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "what're you not telling me?"

She pulls a tiny box from the drooping pocket of her cardigan, encased in festive wrapping paper and laced with a neat bow. His eyebrows furrow, landing on the box in her hand - big enough to fill her palm but clearly not heavy. He catches the shaking of her fingers as she lays the box in his hand, and he purses his lips.

"Do I get to guess first?" he quips, and she rolls her eyes with a playful scoff.

"This is our third married Christmas, and you've never guessed anything correctly - I don't think this year will be the year you guess correctly. You've never been good at it," she teases, swiping her thumb softly over his warm cheek, "Just open it."

She's fidgeting in his lap, practically squirming as the pads of his fingers trace the shape of the bow she'd tied last minute. Sophie doesn't notice her own restless movements until she feels Harry's hand gently squeeze her hip in a nudge to keep still. She inhales sharply, certain that if he doesn't open the box soon, she'll explode.

His fingers tear the paper, and he goes to pull of the lid, a grin on his lips as he prepares to send her a witty remark of gratitude. But then the lid's off and his emotion seems to freeze in his expression.

His jaw wavers, as his eyes scan repeatedly over the contents of the box. His mouth moves, but the words don't form in a fruitless attempt to speak.

Harry swallows dryly, and all he can do is stare. At her, now, his eyes landing on her face, still flushed in anticipation. He needs confirmation from her, whether it be verbal or not - he's almost waiting for her to burst out laughing and say she's made the whole thing up. That the pregnancy test that lays in the box in his hand is simply a piece of plastic, on which she's inked the positive symbol with a permanent marker.

His hands are shaking as his lips begin to twitch, "No, n-no way." He feels dizzy; out of it - as if he's just woken up after being asleep for a week on a whole other planet. "You're-"

"Yeah," she laughs a breathy laugh, as his eyes flicker between her and the test in his hand.

"We're-"

"Having a baby?" she suggests, watching the tears brim in his bold, green eyes as his hands continue to shake.

"This isn't a joke-?" he's daring her to say that it is - but it isn't.

"No, angel," she tells him, a joyful smile on her face as his lip trembles.

"Y-You're gonna be a mum, y-you-" he says shakily, "I-I'm gonna be a dad.." his hand smooths carefully over her stomach, his touch feathery light. And in that moment - despite already knowing that Harry's going to be that father - she realises that throughout this pregnancy, he's also going to be that husband. The one obsessively concerned with her health, rubbing her back through the daily vomiting sessions, waiting patiently by her side and squeezing her hand. He'll cater to her every need with no hesitation, she knows that.

He's Harry. And she loves that - and she loves him, so, so much.

"A baby," he whispers, his breath shakily fanning over her lips, "our baby. It's our baby, Soph."

"Yeah it is," she replies, her lip falling between her teeth as his arm winds around her waist, "Our baby."

"I love our baby," he mumbles, almost dazed as he presses his lips to her forehead, "and I love you. 'Love you so, so much."

She can't stifle the grin on her face as his eyes shift back to the pregnancy test that lays in between them on his lap.

"Merry Christmas, Harry."

"Hang on," he sniffs, as his fingers dart upwards to wipe the tears from his eyes, "let me get my camera."

THE END.