Harry’s exhausted. He feels the bone-sinking lethargy weighing him down, yet he keeps pacing—up and down the bedroom—his mind a whirlwind of scattered thoughts.
“Harry,” Draco calls softly from the bed where he’s half sitting, half-laying, “Darling, sit down.”
“I can’t,” Harry croaks and chews on his thumbnail. “What if—what if I’m no good at it?”
“Harry,” Draco repeats, arranging himself into more of a sitting position without disrupting the small bundle in his arms. “You’ll be great at it. You wanted this so badly.” Draco’s eyes are soft under his tired eyelids, yet bright like fireflies in the sunset-kissed room. His hair is messy and falls around his face in a white-blonde frame.
Harry’s heart lodges at his throat, and his eyes begin to prickle. He’s never known happiness like that and now, presented with it, he doesn’t know what to do. “It’s—it’s real,” he says, his voice breaking.
He joins Draco on the bed, and Draco takes his hand, pulling him forward and Harry goes, soft like clay, melting into him, breathing in. He smells warm and musky, of home. “I love you,” he murmurs. “We can do this.”
The bundle in Draco’s arms moves and Harry holds his breath as the tiny baby coos in its sleep.
Draco squeezes his hand. “Yes, Harry, we can.”