——
Harry doesn't want to let go. He hasn't been this close to you since what feels like a lifetime ago. After a grueling year of separation, considerate greeting hugs and instinctual touches that respected boundaries can't hold a candle to this moment.
He can feel your heartbeat. The organ that once beat fiercely for him is now pounding against his own, its unsteady pulse fueling him with love.
Who is he kidding? He has always loved you. Even when you screamed at him on the other line, poisonous words creeping into every crack of his heart, he still couldn't bear the thought of never having a place in your life again. Even if that place wasn't beside you anymore.
You told him you were proud of him a mere minute ago. It was a simple statement but also a diminutive glance into your mind. What do you think about when you're pressed against him, aware of his hands on your back and the kisses left on your head? What feelings do they ignite? All Harry wants is to spread you open and lay your cards on the table, both the good and the bad ones, and just talk to you. He only sees you a handful of times a month, so the questions that have been piling in his throat beg to spill out.
He fears his patchwork heart would also spill out onto the floor, and you'd see how miserably he's been coping. Mentally draining months were spent mending the broken relationship. Yet, the last and largest shard that couldn't piece it together again was the one that was simply the dying relationship itself.
A year should be enough time to get over someone, but when that someone is his ex-wife and the mother of his beautiful child, he reminds himself that time never stops in moments of hurt. His personal life and career had to chug along even when the train constantly veered off the tracks.
The regret he feels for not putting his family first kills him inside every time he opens your door to take his daughter for half the week. It's never enough time, and to see you for much less weighs heavily on his soul. The haunting supposition of being unable to notice every tiny detail about you one day is the nail in his coffin. He remembers opening the door a few months ago to find you with shorter hair. It shouldn't have affected him the way it did, and he couldn't help but think that you probably would've asked for his opinion on it if you were still together.
He also hasn't kissed you or had sex with you in over a year. There have been no romantic dates or nights cuddled in bed, limbs tangled like the wilting vines of your love. He has not held your hand or watched you be a mother except for fleeting moments. He doesn't want those things with anyone else, so why can't you forgive him? Why can't you revive your love for him?
Harry knows asking for a revival of love is irrational.
"When do you need to be on stage?" Your voice reaches him, warm like melted honey and gentle like a balm that heals his wounds.
"Doesn't matter," he says, fixing the twisted strap of your dress. "I can be a little late."
You step away from the hug, and he feels an ache in his chest due to the loss of physical contact. "No, you can't."
He tilts his head to the side and smirks. "Says who? It's my show."
You narrow your eyes dubiously, but they slowly soften when they drift downward and take in his outfit. He'd be lying if he said he didn't plan a revealing outfit just because you were coming.
"You look handsome."
Handsome. When was the last time you called him that? He can't remember, but the word sends a tidal wave of shivers rolling across his body.
"Thank you. You look lovely, as always. How've you been?"
"Fine. Work keeps me busy." Something nearby clatters to the floor, and you nod your head toward the culprit, who has a guilty expression. "Her, too."
"Not overworking yourself, are you?" Harry asks. God knows he's seen you at your worst because of it.
"Not as much as you. I still worry about you with all this traveling."
He stuffs his hands into his pockets while moving closer to you. "Yeah? You worry about me?"
You nod and look past his shoulder. He misses when you didn't shy under his gaze. "But the videos I see ease my worries. I know you're safe and having fun."
He clears his throat and asks, "What videos?"
There's a heavy lull of silence before you say, "Ones of you performing. They pop up on social media all the time. You're pretty famous if you didn't know."
He ignores your teasing because he's grasping at straws, needing to know if you still keep up with him like he does with you. "And you watch them?"
"Yeah, I do," you say, nervously rubbing your earlobe. "It's hard not to with those outfits and how happy you look, you know?" You point to your daughter and add, "She loves to watch them too."
Harry roughly swallows and curls his hands into fists. Your admittance makes the ache in his heart grow tenfold. He never would have guessed.
Someone suddenly knocks loudly on the dressing room door, making him flinch. "Harry, we need to start heading to the stage! Right now, preferably!"
With a sigh, he heads over to the connected bathroom to grab his mic pack and in-ears, but not before crouching in front of his daughter. "Hey, Dad has to go," he tells her. "Gonna stay with mum and watch me?"
She nods and lifts her arms. He picks her up before setting her on his hip and swaying her. "Do I look okay?" he murmurs.
"Mm-hmm," she hums, grabbing at the silk material of his vest.
"Good." He kisses her forehead and then rests his own against hers. "I love you, all right? Dance your heart out for me."
She impatiently squirms in his arms. He sets her down so she can play with the toys you brought and then moves to quickly fix his hair in the mirror. He can already tell tonight will be one of his favorite shows, and it has everything to do with the fact that his two favorite people will be in the audience.
After he puts his in-ears in, he shuts the bathroom light off and shakes his arms to get any remaining pre-show jitters out. He looks at you the entire time, watching you glance around his dressing room like it's an art gallery. His vulnerable belongings are all out in the open and on display — his shirts you used to wear stuffed in his duffel bag, printed pictures of his daughter tucked into the mesh pocket of his suitcase, and a pack of diapers he had delivered earlier today in case you forgot or ran out.
Most vulnerable, however, is his wedding ring right next to the microphone that you're about to grab for him. It's the same ring he kisses every night before he goes on stage, never having gotten rid of it because it's one of the only things he has left of the love you once had for him.
You freeze, your hand hovering over the microphone. The color drains from his face as he stands there, dreading your reaction.
"Harry..." Your voice is weakened with a certain sadness that could break him if he let it.
People gather in the room, trying to get him to start heading to the stage, but he's stuck in place. Paralyzed from fear. Everything is a blur around him, and all he can focus on is the shake of your hand when you pick up the damned ring that was cursed from the beginning. You set it in your open palm, then stare at him with a slightly parted mouth and confusion swimming in your eyes.
Harry then makes a stupid fucking mistake.
He rushes toward you, grasps your cheeks, and smears his lips over yours with pitiful desperation. His eyebrows pinch painfully, and he lets out a muted sob when you don't return the kiss. Your hands push his chest, making him stumble back.
There's no time to apologize since he's immediately being escorted out the door and down the hallway toward the stage. He wants to look back, but he knows the expression on your face will tell him all he needs to know.
You don't love him anymore.
——