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Chapter Text

The mid-morning sun filtered softly through the tall Georgian sash windows of the Tomlinsons’ breakfast room, casting a golden haze upon the fine china and polished silver. At the head of the long, dark oak table sat Louis Tomlinson, stirring a solitary lump of sugar into his tea with a rather absent air. The spoon clinked gently against porcelain before he sighed and rose, crossing the room with easy familiarity. With the faintest raise of an eyebrow from the butler—Mr Baker, who held firmly to the customs of a more rigid time—Louis seated himself beside his wife at the far end of the table.

Without a word, Baker retrieved the tea and relocated it to Louis’ new place setting just as Mrs Stevens, the cook, arrived bearing a tray laden with breakfast—cured bacon, eggs, fried bread.

Louis had not been born to such comforts. Once Louis Austin, he had entered the world the son of a farmer, reared in a modest cottage with coarse linens and a scullery too cold in winter. He had lived an extremely modest yet comfortable life until his father had died, leaving his mother destitute. When Louis was the tender age of seven, his mother—Johannah—caught the eye of Mr Mark Tomlinson, a successful and genteel businessman of a certain age, whose admiration for her grace and beauty rapidly eclipsed the misgivings of his own relatives. Marriage followed with astonishing haste, and young Louis was promptly lifted from barn and pasture into drawing rooms and Latin tutors.

Over the following years, his mother birthed numerous Tomlinson daughters, yet on Louis' sixteenth birthday he was officially adopted. With a silver-handled pen and solemn legal wording, Louis Austin became Louis William Tomlinson, heir to the estate and legacy of a man he had come to revere. He was gifted his current home, a small townhouse on the outskirts of Doncaster, when he graduated law school.

Despite a decade of relative affluence, Louis had never quite taken to the presence of household staff. His upbringing clung to him like the scent of tilled soil. His wife, however—Elizabeth, daughter of a Yorkshire landowner of some esteem—was far less inclined to do without. She insisted, with genteel firmness, upon maintaining at the very least a butler, a cook, and a maid.

"I do wish you would allow us to hire a hall boy,” Elizabeth said presently, her tone clipped but not unkind as she reached for the teapot. “It’s rather improper to be served breakfast by one’s cook. No offence, Stevens.”

"Oh, none taken ma'am," Stevens said cheerfully.

Louis rolled his eyes, "Stevens manages admirably, love. Even the manor houses are letting go of staff. We must follow the times. I daresay I'm capable of scooping me own sausages onto me plate."

"My family comment on it when they join us for supper."

"Well, perhaps we ought to stop inviting them," he sliced into his sausage and gave his wife a matter of fact stare. She sighed and took a delicate sip of her tea.

"I was thinking on having a new rug commissioned for this room, if you would allow it?"

Louis frowned, moving to look down at the red Persian under his feet, "whatever for?"

"It clashes dreadfully with the new paint. Regency blue and red are... combative," she gestured towards the paneling.

"If that's the case, paint the walls. This rug belonged to Mr Tomlinson's grandmother. It will not be replaced."

Elizabeth sighed and turned slightly away from her husband. This earned a scowl from him, she lived a pleasant life of luxury on his purse, the least she could do, he thought, was extend respect to the heirlooms of the man who’d raised him.

They ate in silence for some moments as Louis glanced over the broadsheet in front of him.

At last, Elizabeth broke the quiet. “Baker heard from next door’s butler this morning. It seems the heir to Doncaster Butterscotch is to take possession of the house any day now. A nephew, from Manchester, apparently. We shall have to meet with him, I do hope he has a wife. We must introduce ourselves once they are settled."

"I'm sure they won't be interested in us, love. They'll be stately home types no doubt," Louis noted Elizabeth's eyes light up at the thought.

He folded the newspaper and stood, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt.

“Well, I must be off. Court papers don’t file themselves. Have a pleasant morning, darlin.”

He leaned to place a kiss on her cheek—light, perfunctory—and made his way toward the hall, calling for Baker to prepare his coat.

Elizabeth watched him go, her eyes lingering on the door long after it had clicked shut.

***

Louis Tomlinson’s office was situated in a modest brick building along the high street of Doncaster, neatly sandwiched between a haberdashery and the stationer's. Though humble in size, the interior had been made respectable with dark-stained wainscoting and shelves that climbed from floor to ceiling, each one groaning under the weight of legal tomes, worn case files, and boxes brimming with correspondence. The scent of paper, dust, and coal lingered in the air, familiar and oddly comforting.

He entered with a brisk step and exhaled sharply upon discovering the hearth cold and ashen, his secretary having forgotten to light it. “Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, shrugging off his overcoat and setting about the task himself. Stooping before the Victorian fire grate, he arranged two firelighters, tucked kindling in among the ashes, and struck a match with practised ease. A thin tongue of flame caught, and he coaxed it gently before shovelling a healthy scoop of coal into the growing fire. It would be some time yet before the chill retreated from the corners of the room, but the ritual was a comforting one.

He moved towards his desk and took a seat in his polished leather chair, he pulled a thin file toward him—a petty dispute between two shopkeepers, no doubt destined for swift resolution. He flipped through the papers, the morning light soft through the frosted panes.

The office door creaked open moments later, and in swept a petite young woman clad in a smart shirt-dress and a navy cloche hat pulled low over her brow. She cradled a chipped china cup, from which the aroma of strong black coffee wafted.

“Good mornin’, sir. Beg pardon for the lateness—me mam’s taken poorly this mornin’.”

Louis glanced up, his features softening with mild concern. “Is it serious, Dianna? You’ve only to say, and I’ll see you home.”

Oh no, sir!” she said quickly, colour rushing to her cheeks. “Me sister’s with her now. She’s in good hands.” She placed the coffee on his desk and offered a grateful smile. “You’ve a meeting at two o’clock with Mr Bryant. He telegrammed not long ago.”

Louis gave a quiet nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you, Dianna. And do let me know if you must dash.”

She bobbed her head. “Of course, sir.” And with that, she turned on her heel and returned to her little desk beyond the door.

Louis leaned back in his chair, lifting the coffee to his lips. Bitter and scalding—just how he liked it. He watched the fire take hold, embers beginning to glow in the grate. Outside, the street bustled with spring activity, but within these walls, it was quiet—just the scratch of his pen and the gentle hiss of coal.

***

It was drawing close to five o’clock when Louis turned the corner of the quiet avenue and pulled his motorcar to a smooth stop outside the townhouse. The orange-brick Georgian façade caught the late spring light handsomely, its tall sash windows glowing faintly with the firelight within. As he stepped out and straightened his coat, Louis’s eyes wandered momentarily toward the grand manor next door—a Regency behemoth, no doubt constructed to impress. Its cream-brick exterior and blue-grey roof gleamed like polished stone in the setting sun. From the open double doors, he observed a handful of porters wrestling with furnishings while a harried butler paced furiously on the gravel drive, barking orders with clipped precision.

The rattle of a latch pulled Louis’s attention back to his own threshold. The black-painted door creaked open, revealing the ever-grave face of Baker, who squinted into the light.

“Ah—Mr Tomlinson, sir. My sincerest apologies,” Baker said with a small bow, stepping aside to allow Louis to enter. “Mrs Tomlinson has left word that she shall be dining with her mother this evening.”

Louis removed his coat, handing it to Baker with a thanks.

He proceeded through the hallway and into the quiet of the library, settling at last into his green leather cocktail chair to await the call for dinner. He poured a measure of brandy into a crystal glass and allowed the warmth of it to sit comfortably in his palm. The house was still, the kind of stillness that came only when one lived in rooms far too large for two people. The clock on the mantel ticked softly.

The doorbell rang through the house. Voices drifted up the stairs and moments later Baker knocked at the library door.

"Sir, there is gentleman here to see you. I have shown him to the drawing room."

Louis sighed and nodded, "I'll be there in a moment, see to it you offer him a drink."

Baker gave a curt nod and withdrew. Louis raked his fingers through his hair, straightened his tie, and tugged the hem of his jacket into place before crossing the passageway to the drawing room.

The long space welcomed him with the scent of rosewood and old linen. To his left, a delicate arrangement of chaise longues and lady’s armchairs framed a carpeted alcove complete with sewing cabinets and the slender pianoforte Elizabeth favoured during family gatherings. He passed through this feminine corner and into the more masculine end of the room, where leather armchairs faced a small but lively hearth.

A man was perched on the sofa with a whisky in hand. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a posture too elegant for someone his age. Thick, unruly curls crowned his head, falling with artful abandon over his brow. Louis found the sight surprising—so rarely did one see a gentleman of standing with hair unpolished by pomade or beeswax. Yet on this man, it did not seem improper. Rather, it felt disarmingly sincere.

The man locked eyes with Louis and immediately rose to his feet with an air of shy yet natural elegance. He held out his hand to shake Louis'.

“Do forgive the intrusion,” the man said with a slight smile. His voice was gentle but assured. “My wife was quite insistent I call at once. We’ve just taken up residence next door.”

Louis shook his hand, trying not to notice how incredibly beautiful his facial features were. Green eyes that betrayed a kindness rare in upper class business men, and a shy smile that seemed somehow extremely masculine yet beautifully feminine simultaneously.

Louis Tomlinson,” he said, recovering his manners. “A pleasure, Mr...?”

“Styles. Harold Styles—though I beg you to call me Harry, if you please.”

Louis smiled faintly. “Then Harry it is. I suspect our wives would get on famously—mine suggested much the same this morning.”

Harry chuckled, easing back into the sofa with a casual grace. “They’re likely conspiring already.”

Louis returned to his own chair, picking up the brandy again. “I hear you’ve come from Manchester?”

"Holmes Chapel, my family have a manor estate there. Quite rural—family estate, tenant farms, that sort of thing. This is my first venture into anything resembling industry.”

Louis nodded, "this must be quite the change in scenery."

Harry laughed, "very much so. I was entirely unaware that I was the soul heir of an entire estate until just a few months ago. I must admit, the closest Ive come to running a business is playing landlord to our tenant farmers on the estate."

“I’m sure you’ll find your footing,” Louis replied, leaning forward with quiet amusement. “Doncaster’s not so fearsome a place.”

Just then Baker knocked at the door and entered to announce dinner. Louis stood instinctively. “You must stay, of course.”

Harry rose as well, but shook his head with a smile. “Gracious of you, Mr Tomlinson, but I’d best not. My wife would never forgive me if I wandered in after soup’s been cleared.”

"Call me Louis, please. It were a pleasure to meet you, I'll have Baker show you out."

"The pleasure was all mine, Louis," Harry clasped a hand to Louis' upper arm as he stood. Louis blinked, momentarily startled by the electricity it seemed to carry beneath the polite formality of the drawing room.

Chapter Text

The next morning was Sunday, the Lord's day. Louis dressed swiftly in his grey tweed three-piece and descended to the dining room on the ground floor. Elizabeth was already seated, her cream drop-waist dress and matching cloche hat as neat and poised as ever. He kissed her cheek, took his place at the head of the table, and the pair ate a silent breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and smoked fish.

Afterward, Louis fetched his dark grey overcoat and Elizabeth’s navy wrap with its modest fur trim from the small boot room. She allowed him to help her into it, and they stepped into the morning breeze arm-in-arm.

The church was only a short walk from the townhouse, so Louis insisted on the exercise.

"Do you think our new neighbours will be in attendance this morning?" Elizabeth asked, voice lilting with curiosity.

Louis shrugged, "I rather doubt they'll have the time, they've only just arrived."

"Pity, I was hoping to make their acquaintance. The wife was at the florist’s yesterday—she was putting in an order for weekly bouquets.”

"How do you know that?"

"Stevens is chums with the florist. She informed me whilst I was approving the orders this morning."

Louis rolled his eyes, "you really ought to stop using the staff for gossip."

Elizabeth smiled devilishly, "where would the fun be in that, my love?"

"Gossip is a sin," Louis stated, matter of factly.

"And you, my love, are a dreadful bore,” she replied with affection.

***

Once home from the church service, Elizabeth retired to the morning-room book in hand and Louis took refuge in the library to listen to the wireless.

He loosened his tie and slouched into his favourite armchair with a slice of prune cake. Albert Ketèlbey’s melodies hummed softly in the background. He closed his eyes, and immediately, the image of his new neighbour—curls wild and smile enigmatic—crept into his thoughts. They had spoken only briefly, but Harry Styles had left an impression not easily shaken. Handsome, yes. Striking, certainly. But it was the look in his eyes that lingered. A knowing look. A kindred one. Louis got a sense that Harry was the same as him. It was there, he saw it his eyes. He was almost certain he had.

He frowned and rubbed his eyes in frustration, this had to be nothing more than projection. A desire to know that he wasn't alone. He thought back to the morning of his wedding, he had been in his stepfather's study shakily sipping brandy when his mother, Johannah had knocked on the door, a kind smile on her face.

"I've just come to wish you well, our car leaves for the church shortly."

Louis had nodded, his glass still at his lips.

"Louis...love. May I be upfront with you for a moment?" He nodded as she sat opposite him, placing a comforting hand on his knee, "I’ve known for a while now… that you were—how shall I put it? A fan of Oscar Wilde? No, do let me finish," she insisted just as Louis opened his mouth to deny the accusation. "Maybe this is quite wrong of me, but I have the sense that it can't be helped, and I know you ent ever acted on it. Marrying Elizabeth is the right choice, it's the safe thing to do. I just want to ensure that she is suitable, that you could see yourself growing to love her? That you could have some form of happiness."

Louis had stared at his shoes, holding back the swell of emotion.

She is kind, patient, pious, and brings with her a handsome dowry. For a vagrant like me, she is the closest thing to happiness I might deserve.”

A knock at the library door broke the reverie. Baker entered, crisp as ever., "Mr Styles has left a message inviting Mrs Tomlinson and yourself to supper this evening. What response shall I send back?"

Louis sat upright in his chair, his heart suddenly thumping aggressively within his chest.

"Tell them we would be delighted."

***
Elizabeth was thrilled, practically skipping to her dressing table. She spent the afternoon curling her hair into finger waves and arranging the lengths into an elegant bun. After a short tea break, she returned to her room and slipped into her finest evening frock—drop waisted, champagne silk with black embroidery. Long pearls, court shoes, gloves, earrings, and a chic black headband to complete the ensemble.

By the time she finished, Louis was ready in full—tuxedo, black bowtie, polished shoes, hair slicked with pomade.

***

Louis rang the bell, his lips curving into a smile at Elizabeth’s palpable excitement. She was, as always, the epitome of grace and charm in public, though he knew her true nature far better.

The butler answered the door, rather more promptly than Baker was known for. He welcomed them in, offering to take Elizabeth's cloak, which she handed over gladly.

They were led further into the house, coming upon a large hallway, still clad with it's regency mouldings. In the middle of the room stood an imposing dark wood staircase with black iron bannisters and a golden runner carpet. Louis could not help but feel awestruck by the elegance of it all. The butler directed them to a door leading into the drawing room.

Inside, the drawing room was just as opulent as the rest of the house—columns, marble, panelled walls, and thick gold-framed paintings adorned every inch of space. A striking contrast to the room’s traditional style was the modern-looking armchair by the fire where Mrs. Styles sat. Louis’ gaze was immediately drawn to her: her gown of pale green, delicately embroidered in gold, was clearly expensive and very much of the latest fashion. The obnoxious headband perched upon her head only added to her extravagant appearance. Her hair was the shortest Louis had ever seen on a woman—dark and harsh against her pale complexion.

Harry was dressed almost identically to Louis, and had made little attempt to tame his curls, which were combed back only half-heartedly with beeswax. Louis had, upon meeting his eyes, almost frozen with the shock of his beauty. Had he been so breathtaking upon their first meeting?

Harry grinned at his guests and strode across the room, extending a hand to Louis.

"I was so glad you could join us this evening. Welcome to our new home!"

Louis smiled, still grasping onto the other man's hand, "we were glad of the invite."

Harry’s eyes held Louis’ a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for something in his expression.

Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately, offering a soft smile. Louis, ever the gentleman, quickly released Harry’s hand and gestured toward his wife. "This is me ever patient wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is Mr. Styles".

"Harry," he corrected with a grin, kissing Elizabeth’s hand in the manner of a true charmer. "A pleasure, Mrs. Tomlinson."

He then turned and moved across the to his own wife, "This is Matilda."

Mrs Styles looked up at them over the almost empty dry martini in her hand "do sit Elizabeth, martini?"

Harry led Louis from the drawing room with a friendly gesture. As Louis glanced back at Elizabeth—who nodded reassuringly—he followed Harry up the grand staircase to the first floor.

"We have cocktails in the drawing-room, apparently it's the done thing across the pond. I figured you more of a spirit man."

Louis laughed lightly, "you couldn't be more correct."

They climbed up the large staircase coming onto the first floor. Harry stepped forward and opened the door to an extremely dark wood smoking room. Louis stared wide eyed for a moment before taking a seat opposite Harry in a brown leather armchair.

"The only room my uncle refurbished," Harry explained peering around the room. "Matilda despises how old fashioned the house is, but to be honest, I'm quite fond of it. She'd have every room look like this if I were to allow it."

"I think it’s beautiful," Louis replied, settling in further.

Harry smiled, offering him a cigar. Louis accepted, and they lit their cigars with a box of old matches, no doubt remnants from Harry’s uncle.

"Drink?" Harry stood and moved toward the sideboard.

"A brandy, if you have it."

Harry poured the drinks and settled himself back into his armchair, holding his glass up in a silent cheers before taking a long sip.

"Have you been married long?" Harry asked after a moments silence.

Louis shuffled in his seat, "yes, I suppose I have. I got married when I were 23. I'm 30 now. How about yourself and Matilda?"

"6 months."

"Oh, congratulations are in order then."

Harry scoffed, "I wouldn't quite put it that way."

Louis fell silent, unsure how to respond. His stepfather had always been adamant about the importance of maintaining a public appearance, never airing personal grievances, especially not in the company of relative strangers.

"Apologies, that was rude of me," Harry commented, clearly picking up on his companions discomfort, "marriage is a funny thing is it not?"

Louis nodded, taking a sip of brandy, hoping the warmth it brought to his chest would steady his nerves. He wasn't typically a nervous man, but Harry’s presence had a way of disarming him, igniting a strange and intense attraction he could not fully comprehend.

"Do you have children, Louis?"

"No," Louis replied quietly. "We’re... unable."

Harry frowned, "sorry to hear that old boy. I think I would like a child someday."

Just then a deafening sound vibrated through the house. The dinner gong. Harry stood and Louis followed suit.

Chapter Text

Louis, ever the gentleman, pulled out the chair beside him, allowing Mrs Matilda Styles to settle gracefully at the long mahogany dining table. He waited a beat until Elizabeth had arranged herself opposite him, and only then took his seat as Harry rounded the end and claimed the head of the table.

No sooner had napkins been unfurled than the anteroom doors parted once more. The butler reappeared, ushering in a slender hall boy balancing an ornate silver tureen, its contents gently steaming. The boy halted beside Matilda, who delicately filled a porcelain bowl and passed it to Elizabeth with a rehearsed grace. She then served Louis, then Harry, before finally tending to herself.

"Elizabeth’s been telling me about the renovations to your townhouse, Mr Tomlinson,” Matilda said, tilting her head as she addressed Louis, her smile a little too polished, her tone edged with something unreadable. Across the table, Harry was already engaged in cheerful discourse with Elizabeth.

Louis offered a modest shrug. “I shouldn’t call it much of a renovation. A fresh lick of paint and some new wallpaper, that’s the extent of it. I must confess, I’ve never been one for change.”

Matilda grimaced very slightly as she moved her soup spoon to her lips. Once finished her mouthful she spoke again, "you and Harry are of the same persuasion. He is positively allergic to modernisation."

Louis laughed kindly, casting a glance at his host, who was now reaching for his wine glass. “We men are rather set in our ways.”

"Aren't you just," Matilda replied, the corners of her mouth twitching as though the sentiment was more curse than comment.

Once the soup bowls were cleared away, a light course of fish mousse and toasted bread was served, the wine glasses refilled with a chilled white to accompany the dish. Louis took a sip, savouring the balance of flavour.

“So, when do you begin your work with Doncaster Butterscotch?” Elizabeth asked, her interest still directed to Harry.

"Tomorrow morning," Harry dabbed his lips with his napkin, "There’s to be a brief introduction to the partners and my secretary, followed by a visit to the factory on Tuesday. My solicitor tells me the company runs itself, more or less. I daresay I’ll have little to do."

Oh, Harry,” Matilda interjected with a faint groan, “must we speak of business over dinner? It’s quite frightfully dull, don’t you think?” she slipped a spoon of mousse into her mouth.

Harry shot her a glance, sharp and swift, but said nothing. The tension stretched for a breath before he shifted his attention back to Louis.

"Have you done much travelling?” he asked. “Tilda and I spent our honeymoon in India. She was quite the...intrepid explorer, weren't you darling,” he added with a glance that seemed more challenge than compliment.

Matilda stiffened, her jaw momentarily clenched, betraying a private meaning to Harry's words. She forced a smile and turned to her plate.

Louis cleared his throat. “Ah—Paris, last summer. And we honeymooned at me father’s estate in the south of France.”

"Charming! The French countryside is really something, isn’t it?” Harry said warmly, lifting his glass.

As the table was once more cleared, a procession of hall boys entered bearing roast poultry, potatoes, and steaming vegetables artfully arranged on silver platters.

“There’s a rather spirited community at my father-in-law’s estate,” Elizabeth said with a bright laugh. “I may as well have honeymooned alone—Louis was out on the lawn every evening, kicking a ball about with the other husbands. He's ever so good, us wives would cheer on with a port," she smiled dreamily.

Harry chuckled. “A man after my own heart. I spent half my childhood playing football with the local farmer’s boys. Raggedy and muddy, but I loved every second.”

“How... dignified,” Matilda said, her tone a fine blend of derision and amusement. She offered a brittle laugh, the sound falling too quickly.

"We must organise a proper match in the garden one evening,” Harry said, eyes twinkling as he leaned back in his chair. “Have a bit of fun.”

Louis nodded amiably. “I’d quite like that.”

Matilda raised her brows. “Do take care not to damage the orangery windows. They’re terribly delicate.”

Harry ignored her entirely and lifted his empty wine glass toward the footman.

“More claret, if you please.”

***

After they had made fair work of the roast—served with claret in crystal goblets—and followed with a modest dessert and a measure of fine port, the ladies prepared to retire to the parlour. The gentlemen rose as their wives glided from the room, the rustle of silk and scent of perfume lingering in their wake.

As the door clicked shut, Harry let out a soft groan and collapsed into his chair, loosening his collar with one finger.

"Do forgive Tilda,” he muttered, raking a hand through his tousled hair. “I rather think I ought to have warned you. She’s not… well, she finds no joy in my company.”

Louis furrowed his brow. “Surely that isn’t true. Perhaps it's melancholy? Or, might she be homesick, perhaps? It’s no easy thing, to leave one’s world behind.”

Harry gave a tired laugh and reached for his water. His cheeks were warm with drink, his eyes hazy yet searching. “Louis, may I speak plainly? I feel as though we've struck up something of a friendship tonight.”

Louis offered a gentle smile and shifted from his seat, taking the one just vacated by Matilda. “I would be honoured to call you a friend, Harry.”

Harry sighed again, long and low. “The truth is, I married under pressure. My mother—bless her stubborn heart—was fretting over the matter of heirs. My sister’s blessed with three children and not a boy among them.”

He paused to swirl the last of his port. “I met Tilda at a debutante ball last summer. We barely exchanged a dozen words. But her father—Colonel Worthington—he commanded my battalion in the war. A damn fine man. He didn’t return from the front. I did.”

Louis glanced down at his hands, listening intently.

“Her family were left with nothing but debts,” Harry went on. “I pitied her, I suppose. Thought I could help. We were married three months after we first met. She’s but eighteen, Louis. A child really. She resents me, spends without thought, speaks without restraint. Acts like a petulant toddler.”

Louis stood and took a decanter of red wine from the anteroom, filling up their glasses, "I'm sure she'll settle down in time. Losing her father, getting married, leaving home. It's a lot of change for someone so young."

Harry smiled faintly and raised his glass. “You’re one of those chronically decent chaps, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am,” Louis replied, sitting once more. “I've experienced a lot of generosity in me life. I try to return the favour.”

Harry laughed softly. “Well, then. I’ll endeavour to grant her a touch more grace—for your sake, at least.” He reached out, giving Louis a friendly swat on the shoulder, his hand lingering just a moment too long. His fingers tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly.

Louis froze, the warmth of Harry’s touch searing through the fabric of his jacket. Their eyes met, the silence between them suddenly weighty. Harry’s gaze drifted down, settling—unapologetically—on Louis’ lips. He drew in a shallow breath, and for a suspended moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

Then the spell shattered.

The door creaked open, and the butler entered, eyes respectfully lowered. “Mrs Styles requests that we begin to retire for the evening, sir.”

Harry sprang to his feet, clearing his throat as he stepped away. “Quite right, Hayes. Thank you.”

He turned to Louis with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Shall we?”

Chapter Text

The hour was unreasonably early, far earlier than Harry was accustomed to seeing. Yet, there he stood, half-drowsy, before the mirror in his dressing room, fastening the last button of his crisp white shirt. The house was quiet in that peculiar, expectant way it always was before the staff had finished stoking the hearths or clattered breakfastware in the scullery.

He tucked his shirt into neatly pressed pinstripe trousers, reaching for a burgundy tie, the colour a modest rebellion against the dull palette expected of a man in his position. With waistcoat and tailored jacket donned, he hesitated before the jar of beeswax that sat accusingly atop his dresser. He knew full well that a proper man of business—chief executive of the entire Doncaster Butterscotch estate—ought to tame his hair, slick it into something sharp and respectable. But he could not quite bring himself to flatten the curls his mother had always adored. They gave him, he felt, a quiet sort of strength. They reminded him of who he was beneath the title.

Once dressed, he bounded down the stairs to the breakfast room, ringing the bell by the hearth. The ritual was automatic now. Matilda had claimed the privilege of breakfast in bed—"a lady's prerogative," she'd called it, though more often than not she simply remained hidden from sight.

So it was that Harry sat alone at the small mahogany table, a solitary figure against the morning hush.

In truth, he had grown rather used to solitude these past months. Matilda had taken to her own bedroom—an arrangement she proudly modelled after her parents'—and Harry was summoned only when required to do his husbandly duty, an affair so mechanical and joyless he hardly thought of it at all. Breakfasts and luncheons were spent in silence; Matilda preferred the company of novels or long walks with her maid. Only supper drew them together, and even then she wore her melancholy like jewellery.

Hayes entered presently with the full-time hall boy in tow, who placed a silver tray upon the table: grapefruit, toast with marmalade, strong black coffee, and the morning paper. Harry offered a quiet thank you and began his breakfast without appetite.

***
At precisely 7:36, he dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, placed it next to his plate, and rose from his chair. The car was not due until a quarter to eight, but the thought of fresh air beckoned. He stepped out onto the front steps, inhaling the scent of springtime—flowers just beginning to bloom, dew on stone, and the faintest trace of chimney smoke.

The village stirred gently around him—doors creaking open, the clatter of a milk cart, birdsong.

A sudden thud interrupted his reverie. Harry turned just in time to see Louis Tomlinson stumble out of his doorway, arms piled high with boxes, barely able to see where he was headed.

Hold there!" Harry called, leaping down the steps and hurrying along the street. He caught the topmost box before it slipped.

Louis beamed. "You're a lifesaver, thank you."

Harry flushed despite himself. There was something in that grin, in the sheer ease of it, that made his chest stir, "not at all, we couldn't have you dashing your head on the pavement."

They walked to Louis' black motorcar and Louis tossed his box on the passenger seat before taking the second from Harry, "case files. I have court this week," he explained.

Harry nodded, allowing himself the liberty of quickly looking the other man up and down. looked dashing in his dark suit, hair combed to a gleaming part, blue eyes catching the sunlight like stained glass. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

"Beautiful morning in't it," Louis smiled, pulling off his outer jacket and placing it inside his motor.

"Quite," Harry replied. "Much warmer than Manchester. I daresay I’m still adjusting."

"How are you and Matilda settling in?"

He nodded, "well, thank you. Although I'll admit, Tilda has had more time to explore than I."

"I'd be happy to show you about one afternoon," Louis hesitated, "if you'd care for the company."

Harry smiled, "I'd like that very much."

"Right, best be off. Office waits." Louis held out his hand, firm and warm. Harry took it, his other hand resting instinctively on Louis’ forearm. For a moment, he thought—just maybe—Louis coloured beneath his collar. But then he was gone, sliding into the driver’s seat with a brief farewell.

***

Harry had spent his boyhood tearing through the estate fields, ankle-deep in mud and mischief with the tenant farmers’ sons. His mother would greet him with a look of theatrical despair when he would return home in dire need of a bath.

“You’re not like them, Harry,” she’d say from her wicker perch in the bathroom, watching on as the nanny scrubbed between his toes, “They’ll inherit pigs. You’ll inherit their land. It matters how they see you.”

He had tried to act more proper with the boys, truly—but he had liked them better than the visiting lords and ladies. One in particular: Matthew, a golden-haired boy two years older, sturdy and gentle. They had shared countless afternoons, bread and apples hidden in coat pockets, lying in the tall grass talking about books, about the strange creatures Harry's parents called friends, or the subjects they had learnt from their respective schools that week.

Harry soon found himself waking at night in a fearful sweat, his dreams, once innocent, had grown suffused with longing. His feelings towards Matthew continuing grow until he began to feel anxious in the older boys company. He insisted to himself it was nought but jealousy that kept the boy in his mind.

A week after Harry's 14th birthday. His parents threw a ball in honour of Gemma's coming out, which was due to take place in the coming spring. Harry had been permitted, as a one off, to attend the evenings festivities, and had spent half the party perched on a bench watching adults adorned with expensive jewels, dancing in each others arms.

At 11pm, Harry, stifling a yawn, stood to make his way to bed. He was the youngest person in attendance by three years and had spent the night being fawned over by elderly ladies. It had been cumbersome and he was glad that, now all rather tipsy with drink and distracted by each others gossip, he could slip away from the adults unnoticed.

He smuggled a bottle of champagne into his jacket before making his way up the grand staircase onto the second floor. His bedroom was situated at the far end of the corridor, and he started to walk briskly, fearful of being caught with the stolen fizz. As he passed the blue guestroom, the sound of muffled giggling spilled out of the slightly ajar door, causing him to freeze. He tiptoed close, pressing his eye as close as he could without touching the creaking wood.

Inside, a man was perched on the dressing table by the window, his trousers wrapped around his ankles. He was gasping, his hand grasping at a head that was bobbing between his legs. Harry's eyes snapped down to the heads body and he immediately realised it was wearing a suit and brogues. He gasped and stumbled backwards, running for his bedroom.

That night, he realised what he had spent years denying: he hadn’t envied Matthew his good looks. He had loved him.

***

It had been just over a week since Harry and Matilda had moved into their new home, which Matilda had taken to referring as 'Butterscotch House'. Harry had not seen Louis other than in passing, and had found himself always on the look out, hoping he would bump into the other man. He knew it was unlikely, what with Louis being in court, and his own late hours between the office and factory, but one could always hope.

There was a brisk knock at the smoking room door and Hayes entered, a note sat on top of a small silver tray. He placed it on the table next to Harry and left the room again. Harry picked up the small piece of paper and opened it, he grinned as he read the messy handwriting 'care for that tour? -Louis'.

He jumped to his feet and made haste next door.

Louis himself answered, sleeves rolled, a warm smile playing at his lips. “It’s Baker’s afternoon off,” he explained. “Shall we?”

Harry nodded with smile, and they both made their way down onto the street.

"I'm afraid there's not too much to see, it's just a small village. Theres a square with a few shops, and pub down this way," he pointed ahead, "you've likely seen, on the other side of our houses is the road to the city. The houses get newer as they stretch towards Doncaster. I swear they build a new one every year."

They crossed the street, coming to an open park of grass edged with flowerbeds just starting to bloom. It was quiet save for a few of the wealthier village residents, older and still adorned in Victorian style clothing, promenading with small dogs and frilly umbrellas.

"Are there many people our age here?" Harry asked curiously.

"Plenty, but they're all working people. The rest are gentry and mostly retired."

Harry nodded in understanding, looking around the green as they followed the path, towards the village centre.

They reached a large square of old stone buildings with a tall clock in the middle. Louis stopped walking, pointing towards the closest shop.

"Sutton's Greengrocer, that's owned by Edward Sutton. There's Sutton's sweetshop, that's owned by Edward's nephew Phillip, you supply to them, I'm sure. Miller & Son's Butchers over there, Brian Miller owns that one and the bakery across the road. That little building there is a hairdressers and barbers, owned by Mr & Mrs Deacon. And that one is the post office and florists. Then we have The Sun Inn," he gestured towards a large three storey building and started walking towards it. "Care for some lunch and an ale?"

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise, "I've never tried ale before."

Louis stopped at the inns door, "have you ever been to a working man's pub?"

Harry shook his head. Louis laughed, gently grabbing the top of Harry's arm, "you're in for a treat. Nicest and most genuine people you'll ever meet."

They stepped inside, the strong smell of cooking meat and beer filling Harry's lungs, making him suddenly famished. Louis greeted the barman, before taking a seat near the fire.

It was loud, with men bellowing and laughing, some already dirty from their mornings work, all drinking from large glasses of beer.

"It's steak pie on Saturdays," Louis smiled, as he waved at someone behind Harry. Harry couldn't help but feel impressed by how Louis seemed so at ease in any location. He was a marvel. Wealthy and well spoken yet with a strong Yorkshire accent that couldn't be hidden. Well dressed and gentlemanly yet somehow down to earth and friendly with the working men.

Louis stood and walked to the bar, requesting two ales and two steak pies. He returned with drinks, handing one to Harry and raising his own in cheers, "to new friends."

Harry grinned, "to new friends."

Chapter Text

It was late in the afternoon, and the pub had settled into a quieter rhythm. The lunchtime rush had thinned, and most of the village men had returned to their trades—farmers to their fields, clerks to their ledgers. The hum of voices had softened, leaving only the low crackle of the fire, the gentle clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter from the corner.

Louis was lounged comfortably in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, the other cradling a half-full pint of bitter. He nursed it slowly, eyes trained on the dartboard where Harry stood with his sleeves rolled up, deep in playful competition with William Blake, the butcher’s delivery man.

William had wandered over not long after his mates drained their pints and trudged back to their duties, a half-smoked cigarette hanging rakishly from the corner of his mouth. He clapped Louis on the shoulder with a familiarity that made a few nearby heads turn.

“Well, if it ain’t Corporal Tomlinson,” he drawled with a grin.

Louis gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he exhaled through his nose. “Now, Mr Blake, you really mustn’t keep calling me that. We left the trenches behind some years ago.”

William shrugged, unfazed. “What would you prefer—Old Sweat? Either way, a man like you deserves to be remembered properly. Never forget what you did for me out there.”

He turned then to Harry, offering a hand. “William Blake. This one here saved me backside int war”

Harry took the man’s hand with warmth, his smile genuine. “Harry Styles. Pleasure to meet you. Mr Tomlinson and I are neighbours.”

"Ahh, so you're the posh bloke what's moved int big house?"

Harry let out a laugh, full and unbothered. “I suppose I am. Though I’m not half as interesting as that makes me sound.”

Louis observed them in silence, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. There was something disarming about Harry—his unfaltering kindness, his ease with people from all walks. He did not puff himself up nor shrink to make others comfortable. He simply was, and it seemed to put everyone around him at ease.

"Care for a game of darts, Mr Styles? Always nice to have a new challenger," William asked, plucking the last bit of ash from his cigarette.

“Gladly,” Harry replied with a glint in his eye, and the two made their way to the board, pint glasses in hand.

Louis watched them play, the occasional jab and burst of laughter passing between them. At first, he’d been uncertain how a man like Harry—public school educated, raised on silver spoons and titled family friends—would fare in a working man’s pub like The Sun Inn. But he recalled then what Harry had said, about playing football with the tenant boys on his father’s land.

Louis had always felt a little out of place around the upper class, feeling as though his accent betrayed him as a fraud. His manners a little too learned. An impoverished man dressed up to play a part.

But with Harry, that awkwardness seemed to melt. He felt himself, not measured or judged, simply seen.

The game wrapped with a flourish—Harry missing the bullseye by a hair and conceding the round with mock dramatics. He and William exchanged another firm handshake, both men laughing.

“Fine shot, Mr Styles,” William said, tipping an imaginary cap. “You’ll give us village folk a run for our money yet.”

He offered a wave to Louis as he slipped out the door, cigarette already lit anew.

Harry returned to the table, cheeks flushed from the ale and the cheer of the game.

"Nice fellow," Harry beamed as he sat back down, “told a story or two about you out in the trenches.”

Louis groaned softly. “God help me. I can only imagine.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled as he sipped his drink. “All complimentary, I assure you. Spoke of your heart, your bravery—and apparently, it takes quite a lot to get you fuddled.”

"Speaking of being fuddled, I'll get us another ale. We've some time yet before our wives call out the constables."

Harry gave a wink, "Go on then, it’s not every day I find myself in good company.”

Louis turned his back to Harry at the bar and smiled to himself, feeling the warmth of the room settle into his bones.

Yes—it most certainly was good company.

***

The late afternoon air was brisk as Louis stepped out of the warm glow of the public house, the door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud. The village square stood all but deserted, bathed in the amber wash of a low sun. Smoke curled lazily from a dozen chimneys, carrying with it the mingled scent of roasting meats and boiled vegetables—supper was being prepared behind lace-draped windows, and the world outside had grown still.

Beside him walked Harry, his footsteps easy and unhurried, coat collar turned up against the chill. Their shoulders brushed now and again as they strode across the cobbled street, each touch sending a quiet thrill through Louis’ bones. He was a touch inebriated—enough to feel it in his fingertips—but was doing his utmost to maintain a steady gait, chin lifted and brow composed.

They were halfway across the square, nearing the path that would lead Louis to his front steps, when a firm but gentle hand caught him by the arm.

"Come in for a brandy," Harry said, his tone light but coaxing, "or perhaps a glass of wine?"

Louis hesitated, glancing towards his home. “I ought not to mix me drinks,” he murmured. “Mrs Tomlinson would be quite put out if a blotto shows up to supper."

Harry chuckled, his smile half-pleading, half-charming. “Just one glass. Come along, Louis.”

And that, of course, was the end of it. Resistance seemed an absurd notion. Without further protest, Louis let himself be steered past his own gate, up the polished steps of Harry’s house, and into its quiet grandeur.

The house was dim and serene, the sound of their footsteps muffled by fine carpets and the occasional creak of polished floorboards. They ascended to the smoking where the smell of leather-bound books and pipe smoke clung to the air like memory.

Harry made straight for a sideboard on which sat a decanter of red wine, and with the ease of long practice, poured two generous servings into cut-crystal goblets. He passed one to Louis, who accepted it with a murmured thanks, then turned toward one of the armchairs. He faltered when Harry did not move to sit at the chairs. Instead, he moved to the gilt-framed sofa by the window, a delicate thing upholstered in emerald velvet, clearly built for proximity. He settled there, then gestured, almost shyly, for Louis to join him.

The elder man hesitated for a moment. The sofa was narrow, more suited for whispered conversation than casual lounging. Still, he crossed the room, and as he lowered himself beside Harry, his knee bumped the younger man’s. The space between them was intimate, stifling. Louis felt the wine warming his throat—and something else altogether setting fire to his chest.

Harry took a sip of wine and set his glass carefully on the marble-topped table before them. Then, as he leaned back, the side of his hand brushed against Louis’ thigh. It was the barest of touches, perhaps accidental, but Louis’ entire body tensed as though struck. His breath caught, his pulse quickened. Surely it was nothing—but it felt like something.

Harry turned his head then, voice low and roughened by something that might have been nerves.

“Your hair,” he said, “it’s come loose.”

Louis said nothing. His mouth had gone terribly dry.

“May I?” Harry asked, lifting a hand.

Louis gave the slightest nod. His chest rose and fell like a ship on waves as Harry reached up, fingers running slowly through his hair, smoothing it back into place. The hand lingered at the nape of his neck for a heartbeat too long before Harry abruptly drew back, coming to his senses with a nervous cough and retrieving his wine.

Louis drank deeply from his own glass, his hands faintly trembling. Something unspoken hung heavy in the air between them, suspended like the moment before a storm. He tried to clear his thoughts, but they galloped ahead of him. Could it be? Was Harry testing the waters, waiting to see if Louis might flinch or flee?

It was dangerous ground. If Louis misread the signs—if this were only affection, only friendship taken the wrong way—he could lose more than just his pride. In a world like theirs, one wrong step could lead to ruin, to prison for gross indecency.

And yet.

He glanced sideways at Harry’s hand, resting still and casual atop his own knee. Louis mirrored the gesture, then, almost imperceptibly, extended his little finger until it brushed against the side of Harry’s hand. A moment passed—long, unbearable—until he felt Harry’s pinky curl around his with a gentle, unmistakable squeeze.

Louis turned his head, heart pounding like a snare drum.

"Would… would you describe yourself,” Harry asked quietly, “as a man of peculiar disposition?”

The words hit Louis like a match to dry kindling. He leaned forward slightly, their eyes locked in silent understanding. Fear and longing battled within him, but he did not look away.

Harry’s gaze dropped to Louis' mouth. His breath quickened, and then, without further warning, he surged forward. Their lips met—urgent, messy, desperate. Harry’s hands cupped Louis’ cheeks, and Louis grasped blindly at his curls, the kiss wild with the hunger of words unsaid.

But it was Louis who pulled away, gasping slightly as his conscience clawed its way to the surface.

"I… I’m sorry, Harry,” he murmured, standing with sudden energy and brushing at his trousers as though that might undo what had just happened. “That were… unforgivable.”

He turned, but before he could take a step, a hand caught his wrist.

“Don’t go,” Harry said, his voice nearly breaking.

Louis looked down. Harry’s eyes held a kind of trembling reverence, and Louis felt his resistance crack like old plaster.

“Do you… do you find yourself enamoured of other men, Louis?” Harry asked, his bluntness all the more striking for the vulnerability beneath it.

Louis sat, stunned, barely hearing himself respond.

“I… Yes. Yes, I do.”

Harry exhaled, a shudder of relief coursing through him. “Then we are alike, you and I. I knew it from the moment I saw you in your drawing room. I knew I wanted you.”

Louis drained the rest of his wine in one breath, setting the goblet down with a quiet clink. “I felt the same. I didn’t dare to hope…”

Harry smiled—wide, luminous, unguarded—and reached out to cradle Louis’ face once more.

“We’ll be discreet,” he whispered. “We must."

Louis placed his hand over Harry’s, fingers curling around it. Then he leaned in, this time slower, surer. Their lips met again—soft, reverent, full of all the things they dared not say aloud.

Outside, the village square remained quiet, the evening creeping in like a secret. And in that quiet room above it all, two men clung to one another, bound by something fragile and dangerous, and utterly impossible to deny.

Chapter Text

Louis sat stiffly at the dining room table, his silverware poised obediently in his hands though he had made no real attempt to eat. Before him sat a fine supper—roast capon, buttered carrots, and creamed potatoes—all arranged with elegance upon the Wedgwood china. Yet he merely stared, glassy-eyed, as if the plate contained some riddle he could not hope to solve. His thoughts were tangled and far removed from the domestic calm of the dining room; they lingered on a certain pair of lips—soft, searching, undeniably male.

The walls of the room seemed to sway imperceptibly, and Louis found himself uncertain whether to blame the wine or the thrill of that evening’s folly. He could still feel Harry’s touch on his skin, could still taste the kiss they had stolen beneath the cover of drapes and candlelight.

Surely, some part of him had always known—had hoped, perhaps even prayed—that Harry Styles might share in his peculiar disposition. There had been something in the way he laughed, the way he looked at Louis a second too long. But still, to have it confirmed, to have it felt—that was something else entirely. Louis had known desire before. Passing infatuations, lingering glances, private torment. But never had he yearned so deeply that he might risk all—his name, his family, his very freedom—for the chance of another kiss.

Through the thick fog of Louis' thoughts came the muffled sound of his name being spoken. He cleared his mind and looked up at his wife who sat patiently for the response to a question he had not caught.

"Sorry darlin'?" he asked, blinking down at his untouched meal. “Forgive me, me thoughts were elsewhere. Caught up in court business, I suppose.”

Elizabeth smiled patiently, though her eyes were sharp with observation. “Are you quite well? You look awfully flushed,” she said, reaching forward to touch his wrist. “And you’ve not touched your supper.”

Guilt twisted low in Louis’ stomach. How undeserving he was of her kindness—her loyalty, her gentleness. She had never failed him, and yet he had strayed into anothers arms.

"I confess I’m not quite meself this evening,” he said, forcing a wan smile. “Perhaps I’ve taken a chill. An early night might set me right.”

Elizabeth stood at once, urging him to remain seated. She came to his side and laid a cool hand against his brow. “You do feel rather warm. Yes, you ought to get to bed. I’ll have Stevens bring you some tea—lemon and honey, perhaps.”

Louis mumbled his thanks and excused himself from the table, ascending the staircase with a measured tread. Once in the solitude of his dressing room, he peeled away his evening clothes with little grace, casting his shirt and waistcoat over a nearby chair. He slipped into striped pyjamas and padded softly into the bedroom, where the heavy curtains had already been drawn against the night. With a weary groan, he collapsed onto the feather mattress, burying his face in the pillows. His last thought was not of his wife—but of Harry. Of the man resting mere meters away.

***

"Louis, dear?"

Elizabeth’s voice filtered through the layers of sleep, delicate and distant. Louis stirred, reluctant to open his eyes. The soft red velvet curtains of the four-poster bed held the morning at bay, casting the room in a dim, comforting haze.

A gentle hand smoothed across his brow. “Are you feeling any better?”

Louis propped himself up on one elbow, squinting against the muffled light. His head throbbed dully, and though he had slept through the night, he felt unrested, as though his dreams had offered no solace. It was not an ideal state of affairs, especially as he had offered to do a reading at church that morning, but he concluded he would live.

“I’m quite recovered,” he mumbled. “A splash of water and a bit of toast ought to put me straight.”

Elizabeth gave a little sigh of relief and pressed a kiss to his brow before turning to dress. Louis drew a long breath, then swung his legs out of bed, the cool floorboards grounding him in reluctant reality.

***

By the time they stood upon the front steps, the sun had risen high enough to dazzle painfully in Louis’ eyes. He winced and steadied himself against the railing, cursing last night’s drink—and the foolishness of thinking he could still hold his liquor like a young buck straight out of university.

"Oh look, Mr and Mrs Styles!" Elizabeth chimed beside him, waving cheerfully.

Louis’ gaze snapped next door, heat blooming beneath his collar. There stood Harry—radiant, reserved, and impossibly close. The younger man flushed when their eyes met, offering a timid smile that caused Louis’ chest to flutter.

Harry wore a brown summer-weight suit, crisply pressed, while Matilda Styles stood at his side like a sunflower in full bloom, wrapped in a yellow drop-waist dress with a lace collar and matching straw cloche. Compared to her, Elizabeth appeared almost old-fashioned in her simple blouse and pleated skirt, though her natural grace remained unmarred.

"Good morning Mr Styles, Mrs Styles. Are you both off to church?"

Harry nodded, his eyes lingering upon Louis with quiet intensity.

"You must accompany us."

"We would be honoured,” Harry replied, finally tearing his gaze away from Louis.

The quartet made their way across the street, skirts brushing and shoes tapping against the cobblestone path. As they passed the square of workers cottages, Matilda let go of Harry's arm and pulled Elizabeth away from Louis.

"I'm just borrowing her for a moment," she gave a sweet smile as Elizabeth giggled like a schoolgirl.

They walked ahead slightly, talking in muffled tones that indicated gossip. Harry drifted toward Louis with a sideways glance. “Extraordinary,” he murmured. “She’s already managed to root out the village gossip.”

Louis chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “Elizabeth will be delighted. She’s long awaited a confidante.”

They fell silent for a moment, keeping a distance between one another as they walked. It felt strange now, being in public with Harry, not being able to speak candidly, unable to touch one another. The last time they shared company had been so intimate, and now they appeared as though practical strangers. Louis peeked sideways at the other man and their eyes met.

Harry looked around to check nobody was in earshot before whispering, "Come to luncheon after the service. We can find a moment," he looked down and reached a finger forward, grazing the back of Louis' hand.

Louis immediately found his entire body to be burning for Harry. He smiled and nodded, not daring to respond as they came towards the churches black iron fence.

The courtyard was buzzing with the villagers chatting pleasantries to each other. A few stopped to tip their hats at the women, Matilda receiving most of the attention.

"Good morning, Mr Tomlinson! I fear I have yet to make the acquaintance of your new friends," a short balding man in an old style suit patted Louis on the back, eyeing Harry through his expensive gold-framed spectacles.

"This is Mr Harold Styles, and his wife Matilda has just entered the church with me wife. They are me new neighbours. Harry, this is Mr Frank Montgomery."

"Styles, I see. Your uncle was a dear friend. A keen investor in my electric locomotive factory," he shook Harry's hand vigorously, "I'm sure you'll be kind enough to continue said investments."

Louis rolled his eyes, putting a hand on Harry's back and steering him towards the church, "Come now, Mr. Montgomery, surely business can wait until after the Lord’s Day?”

Harry smiled gratefully and they dipped into the church foyer.

It was a small, simply built church with wooden pews and a green carpet that ran up to the alter. Above the alter was an imposing stained glass window showing the resurrection of Christ. Louis led Harry towards the front left pews where their wives were already waiting.

"Louis is doing the reading this morning," Elizabeth informed Harry proudly as the two men sat down, "Corinthians 10:15."

Harry turned to look at Louis with a raised brow, clearly questioning the choice of a verse regarding temptation. Louis leaned over to him and muttered "Reverend's choice."

And they sat together, shoulder to shoulder in the Lord’s house, with the sins of last night still warm on their skin.

***

After the service was over, Harry officially invited Louis and Elizabeth to lunch. Elizabeth gladly accepted, prompting a knowing smile to be shared between Louis and Harry.

Upon returning to the Styles residence, the staff were swiftly informed of the unexpected guests. Louis caught the fleeting expression on the butler’s face as he took their coats—a brief tightening of the jaw, the subtlest hint of disapproval—but it vanished beneath professional grace. The garments were whisked away to the boot room without comment.

As they made their way down the panelled corridor, past the heavy velvet curtains and polished walnut furniture, Harry slowed his step and stopped just outside the drawing room.

“Would you ladies be dreadfully cross,” he said with mock solemnity, “if I were to steal Mr. Tomlinson away for a cigar and a touch of business talk?”

The ladies demurred with pleasant smiles, Elizabeth offering Louis a gentle squeeze of the hand before disappearing into the drawing room on Matilda’s arm.

The moment they were alone, the two men turned smartly on their heels and took the stairs at pace, their shoes silent on the thick carpet runner.

The moment the smoking room door was closed, Louis gave up all pretence. He crossed the space in an instant, seized Harry by the lapels, and kissed him with desperate urgency, pressing him back against the wall. His fingers disappeared into that wild mass of curls, and Harry let out a soft moan of surprise.

Louis chuckled, pulling back only slightly to shush him with a whisper. Harry’s laughter joined his, breathless and delighted, as he took Louis’ hand and tugged him deeper into the room.

"I’ve been waiting all morning for this,” Harry murmured, his eyes shining with mischief.

Louis allowed himself to be guided into one of the high-backed leather armchairs. Harry leaned over to kiss him again—sweet and searching—before sinking slowly to his knees. His fingers reached for Louis’ belt, hesitating only to glance up with a question in his gaze.

Louis placed his hand atop Harry’s, stopping him gently.

“C–can we talk for a moment?”

Harry stilled. His brow furrowed, but he softened almost immediately, rising to sit opposite Louis once more.

“I…” Louis swallowed. “I en’t been with a man before.”

There was no judgment in Harry’s expression—only quiet patience. “That’s perfectly alright,” he said.

Louis shifted in his seat, his hands clammy, unsure of where to look. “Have you?” he asked. “I mean—if you don’t mind me asking.”

Harry gave a casual shrug. “Hard not to, at an all-boys grammar. But nothing terribly serious, mind. Just… curiosity.”

Louis nodded, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. “The thing is, Harry... I en’t really been with anyone. Not in that way.”

Harry tilted his head, visibly puzzled. “Elizabeth?”

Louis exhaled a half-laugh, more ashamed than amused. “She’s never shown much interest. Not even on our wedding night. I thought she might… in time. But I were too embarrassed to ask.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“So that’s why you’ve no children,” he said softly.

Louis nodded. “One can’t quite produce an heir by osmosis.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “Thank you for telling me that, Lou.” he said. His voice was gentle, and the use of a nickname—Lou, so familiar, so affectionate—made his heart lurch.

“You officially know all me deepest, darkest secrets,” Louis said with a smile that didn’t quite hide his nerves.

“And you know mine,” Harry replied, moving once again to kneel in front of him. His hand came up to rest gently against Louis’ cheek, thumb tracing a soft line along the skin. “Shall we have that smoke now?”

“Only if I get to kiss you again first.”

Harry’s smile widened at Louis’ reply, and with no further words, he leaned forward, capturing Louis’ lips once more—this time slower, softer, their mouths moving in a gentle rhythm that seemed to ease the tension from Louis’ shoulders.

It felt different now. Less frantic, more deliberate. A shared indulgence rather than a stolen one.

Harry’s hand slid up to rest behind Louis’ neck, fingers threading through his hair in slow strokes, while Louis brought his own hand to rest over Harry’s heart. The thrum beneath his palm was steady, warm, real.

Louis sighed into the kiss, feeling himself surrender to the moment more fully than he ever had with anyone before. There was no fear here, not now. Only the soft tick of the mantel clock and the distant murmur of the women’s voices below.

When they broke apart again, Harry didn’t move far. He pressed his forehead to Louis’ and closed his eyes.

“You’ve nothing to be nervous about,” Harry whispered. “Truly.”

“I know,” Louis breathed. “I just… I’ve never felt like this.”

Harry drew back enough to look at him, and Louis was struck again by the sheer beauty of him in the morning light filtering through the narrow windows. He looked so young, and yet there was a wisdom in his gaze that steadied Louis in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Neither have I,” Harry admitted.

They sat like that for a moment, just breathing, just being. Then Harry shifted, drawing a cigarette from the silver case that rested on the nearby table. He offered one to Louis, who accepted with a grateful nod.

Harry struck a match and lit both, the flare of the flame briefly casting golden light across his cheek. He handed the cigarette to Louis and sat back on his heels, exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

They smoked in silence for a time, the occasional creak of the old house around them the only sound.

“You know,” Harry said after a while, his voice lower now, almost conspiratorial, “I rather like you in that chair.”

Louis raised a brow. “Oh, do you?”

Harry gave a mischievous grin. “Quite a sight. You look… well, comfortable. Important.”

Louis chuckled, the sound a little rough around the edges. “You do bring out the worst in me, Styles.”

“The very best, I’d say.”

A silence settled between them again, but it was companionable now. Louis leaned back in the chair, taking another drag of the cigarette, allowing the haze of smoke and warmth to wrap around him like a blanket.

It felt decadent. It felt dangerous. It felt right.

Eventually, Harry stood and reached for the humidor. “Would you like that cigar now, or shall we save it for after luncheon?”

Louis smiled up at him, more sure now than he had been in years. “Let’s save it,” he said. “We’ve already had the best part of the smoke.”

Harry winked and extended a hand to help him up.

They lingered another minute, straightening jackets, smoothing hair, carefully drawing masks of polite composure back over flushed cheeks and bitten lips. When they were ready, Harry opened the door with a quiet, “After you, Mr Tomlinson.”

Louis stepped through, the ghost of Harry’s touch still lingering at the small of his back.

The game would go on, as it must. But something had shifted between them—something quiet, and real, and utterly impossible to forget.

Chapter Text

The final sheet of paperwork was slapped unceremoniously atop the burgeoning stack awaiting its return to the filing cabinet. A weary sigh escaped into the close quarters of the office as Louis Tomlinson, collar loosened and shirt sleeves rolled past his elbows, hunched once more over his ink-blotched desk, fingers rubbing wearily at his temples. The late afternoon sun strained through the sooty glass panes, casting oblong shadows across the floorboards warped with age.

Briarwood v. Darnley Bowes. It ought to have been a straightforward affair—a quarrel between old friends fallen out of favour with one another—but Richard Briarwood, Louis’ client, had proven himself to be a stubborn fellow, the kind who clung to principle even as the ground crumbled beneath him.

With a grunt of resignation, Louis straightened his spine, pushed back off his desk, and reached toward the wooden sideboard nearly buried beneath a landslide of documents and discarded correspondence. A half-filled decanter of whisky teetered atop a dog-eared book with a broken spine. He poured a modest finger’s worth into a chipped coffee mug—too weary to bother Dianna with the business of procuring a proper glass—and turned back to his labours, ready to surrender the evening altogether.

The oaky amber liquid had scarcely warmed his tongue when a gentle knock tapped against the office door, and his secretary peeked in, ever so dutiful.

"There's a gentleman here to see you, sir. A 'Mr Styles'. Shall I show him in?"

Louis couldn't help but smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "Yes, please do."

The door opened in its entirety and in stepped Harry Styles, impeccably dressed in a tailored tweed suit of light brown, a fresh handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket. His curls had been subdued to some degree, though a few rogue strands still rebelled at his temple.

"Mr Styles, to what do I owe the pleasure?' Louis inquired, rising as Dianna made her exit, quietly drawing the door closed behind her.

Harry hadn't the time for response, no sooner were they alone than the space between them collapsed. They met in the middle of the room with a desperate, aching familiarity. Louis’ lips found Harry’s at once—urgent, breathless, as though to recoup every moment lost since their last stolen rendezvous. When at last they parted, they grinned boyishly at one another. Louis perched himself on the edge of his desk, his heart hammering and a pleasant dizziness dancing behind his eyes from the excitement.

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I might inquire whether you'd care for a walk? The weather is terribly agreeable.”

Louis smiled fondly, he could think of no finer use for his lunch hour and said as much, prompting a spark in Harry’s eye that made the moment feel touched by sunlight.

"I’d be glad to take the air.”

They stepped out into the bustle of the city, donning their masks—just another pair of gentlemen in quiet conversation, solicitor and client perhaps, or old schoolmates reacquainted.

Harry had not exaggerated the weather. Though a breeze toyed with their hair, the sun had cast a golden hue upon the pavements, and the world seemed briefly charmed. They ambled shoulder to shoulder, directionless and easy. Harry was recounting, with great animation, a dramatic row he’d been made to mediate between the foreman and one of the senior labourers at the factory that morning.

"He claims my uncle granted him every third Saturday off—full pay, no less—as a token of appreciation for his long service. Thames insists it’s utter nonsense, complete fabrication, and that I’d be a fool to humour it. But truthfully, I don’t much mind. The chap is in his sixties, and quite frankly, he looks in sore need of the rest. Worn through. And not one of the younger fellows seem to mind picking up the slack."

Louis considered the matter. “Then perhaps formalise it. A small concession, say one Saturday a month, for any man with over fifteen years' tenure. That’s not charity, it’s decency.”

Harry sighed, "Thames seems to think the more liberties we allow, the more we will be taken advantage of by the men. I've no wish to be the sort of man who fattens his purse at the expense of the working class, but it rather seems the done thing."

They turned a corner and came upon Doncaster Market Hall. The square lay awash in white canvas tents, wooden crates, and throngs of bustling customers—housewives in rough skirts haggling with produce men for a low-cost supper and kitchen maids stocking their employers’ larders for the weekend’s entertainments. The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread mingling with that of ripe tomatoes and muddy carrots. Broad Yorkshire voices and the song of giggling children echoed off the surrounding buildings.

Louis halted, his breath catching in his chest as he drank in the scene.

"Are you quite alright, old chap?" Harry inquired gently, laying a hand upon Louis’ upper arm.

It was then Louis realised his eyes were brimming. He coughed and blinked rapidly. Then cleared his throat and straightened, brushing it off.

"Sorry. Me Mam used to bring me here when I were a lad. She worked at one of the big houses nearby when me Da took ill.”

"What's she like?" Harry perched himself atop an empty crate, looking quite out of place amongst the chaos of the surrounding market.

Louis shrugged still watching the hum around him, "she's the kindest soul I've ever known. Warm, funny, clever as anything," he laughed. "Pretty, too. And strong. Stronger than she has any right to be. Da weren't exactly gentle, and I reckon she were half-relieved when he passed, even if it meant we hadn’t two pennies to rub together. She pulled up her bootstraps and got on with it. Tried her best to feed us, keep a roof over our heads. It were just the two of us back then. Before Mr Tomlinson, me stepfather, came along. Now there’s four sisters too.”

Harry offered a warm smile, "she sounds wonderful."

"She'd like you" Louis teased as he watched Harry get back to his feet and brush himself off.

"Would she now?"

"Certainly, she's partial to tall, dark, handsome types," Louis smirked.

Harry glanced nervously at the gruff vendor nearest them, a bald brute of a man, then followed Louis’ subtle nod toward a quieter side street.

"Me mam's no fool, she knows what sort of man I am,” Louis confessed, lowering his voice. “She told me as much the morning of me wedding.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in shock, "and she is yet to disown you?"

Louis shrugged, "said she didn't consider it an adequate sin to warrant losing her only son over."

Harry chuckled. “Well, I cannot say whether she’d take to me, but I assure you I am already terribly fond of Mrs Tomlinson.”

Louis smiled, then cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Without another word, he grasped the lapel of Harry’s coat and drew him into a narrow doorway, shaded and quiet. Their mouths met again—hungrily, reverently. A delicious recklessness coursed through Louis like a charge.

Harry drew back just enough to study Louis’ sparkling blue eyes, voice trembling with hope and yearning. “Do you suppose… do you suppose there might ever be a world in which people like us could be free?”

"I shouldn't have thought so. It's a sin Harry, to be like this," Louis placed a warm hand on Harry's cheek, refusing to break eye contact.

Harry shook his head gently, his voice barely above a whisper. “But if we were made this way… then surely He meant for us to exist. Why would He fashion us this way, only to punish us for it?”

"Perhaps,” Louis murmured, “it’s a cruel joke."

"There is nothing cruel about this," Harry said fervently, pressing Louis’ hand to his chest, then brushing a tender kiss across his brow. “Not a single thing.”

Footsteps echoed down the cobbled alley. They broke apart at once, resuming neutral postures. A soot-covered factory man passed with a courteous nod, oblivious.

"Oh, sweetheart,” Louis whispered once the man was gone, his voice thick with sorrow, “there are a thousand things cruel about this.”

***

The sun had long since dipped below the rooftops by the time Louis arrived home that evening. The amber street lamps cast long shadows over the quiet road. He slipped his key into the lock of the front door with the softest click, Baker would already have retired to his quarters for the evening, and Louis did not wish to disturb him.

Once inside, he paused in the dim hallway, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound to greet him. He removed his hat and gloves with methodical care, draped his coat over the stand, then made his way up toward the morning room. He knew she would be there—she always was after supper, curled up in her armchair beneath the window, reading by the soft light of the table lamp.

He knocked once on the doorframe, a gentle warning of his presence before stepping in.

Elizabeth looked up, her silhouette outlined by the golden lamplight. A small smile curved her lips—pleasant but faintly weary.

“Long day my darling?"

Louis nodded, brushing a hand through his hair and offering her a vague, tired smile. “Still chipping away at Briarwood’s case,” he murmured, crossing to the armchair opposite hers. “Endless pages of correspondence and none of it useful.”

Elizabeth closed the book upon her lap and set it on the small table beside her. “Tea, or would you prefer something stronger?”

He sighed, undoing his tie with a slow tug. “Brandy, if it’s not too much bother.”

She didn’t answer, only rose with graceful efficiency and moved to the sideboard, the hem of her house gown rustling softly with each step. He watched her pour with the ease of familiarity, the amber liquid glinting as it settled in the glass. She crossed back, handed it to him. Their fingers touched—lightly, briefly—and she hesitated for a beat, her eyes dropping to their hands before she withdrew.

She returned to her seat, folding one leg over the other. A pause followed, gentle and unhurried, like so many of their evenings. The quiet between them was well-practised.

We received a letter today,” she said at last. “From the vicar’s wife.”

Louis arched a brow over his glass. “Oh? Has she been offended anew?”

Elizabeth chuckled, a breath of amusement. “Apparently, there’s been a scandal involving the butcher’s wife and a tray of sausages. She has begged our support.”

"Whatever are they quarreling over now?"

"The butchers wife claims that horrid little terrier of hers stole no fewer than seventeen sausages right off the counter. She’s accusing the vicar's wife of negligence and poor training.”

Louis laughed, a warm, genuine sound that echoed off the walls and surprised even him. “Seventeen? Good heavens. That dog’s half the size of a ham. Rather heroic, in its way.”

"Quite,” Elizabeth replied, her eyes lingering on him for a moment too long. Then she smiled and looked down.

The room quieted again. The fire crackled gently, casting gold and copper shadows on the rug beneath their feet. Louis stared into the flames, brandy untouched, fingers curled around the glass as though it might anchor him to the moment.

He felt her gaze then—calm, ever-calm, but with something beneath it. Something soft. Something knowing. But he could not meet it. He feared what might stare back.

Elizabeth rose with her usual grace and moved to the fireplace, placing her book upon the mantle as though concluding a ritual. She walked over to where he sat and bent slightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Her hand rested momentarily on his shoulder, warm through the wool of his suit.

“You’ll be wanting your dinner and your bath,” she said gently. “I’ll let the kitchen know.”

He murmured something in the affirmative, but she was already turning. At the doorway, she paused, one hand resting on the frame as though to say something else—but thought better of it. A moment passed. Then she slipped away.

Louis sat motionless, the fire reflecting in the glass held steady in his hand. His stomach turned with the dull, constant ache of a man unmoored. To be known is one thing. To be seen without knowing it—it was an entirely different agony.

He could not tell her. He would never tell her. It had been weeks now—weeks of excuses, of catching Harry’s eye across crowded rooms, of hands brushing too long, of lips stolen between dinners, in quiet alleyways, in the safety of dusk. The moments with Harry were fleeting, frantic, devastatingly alive. Louis was caught in them like a moth in gaslight—drawn always closer to the flame.

He hadn’t yet slept with him. But the pull was growing stronger, impossibly so. It was only a matter of time now.

And then… then, there would be no return.

He set the brandy on the side table, untouched still, and leaned back in the chair, staring into the dancing glow of the hearth. His thoughts wandered to Harry’s voice, to the softness of his gaze, to the promise of something forbidden yet sweet.

He thought too of Elizabeth—her patience, her quiet sadness. Her kiss to his hair. He didn’t deserve her kindness. He never had.

And yet he stayed.

He stayed because it was easier to remain a good husband in name than to face the truth of what he was. He stayed because leaving would make it real.

The fire crackled, spat, died down a little.

And Louis sat there, between two lives, belonging to neither.

***

The organ hummed solemnly through the stone nave of the church, its notes rising into the ceiling like smoke. Morning light filtered through coloured glass, casting fractured reds and blues across the congregation, who sat upright in their pews.

Louis sat beside Elizabeth in the second row on the left. She was dressed simply but finely, gloved hands folded neatly over her lap, her hat modest and pressed. She sang in a low, reverent voice, unbothered by the dust motes that swirled in the light. Louis did not sing. He held the order of service, followed the words, moved his lips now and then, but the sound caught somewhere in his chest.

Across the aisle and three pews ahead, Harry sat with Matilda. Her short black hair was half tied in a velvet ribbon and she wore a look of perpetual disdain on her pale face. She stood stiffly during the hymns, lips pursed, eyes heavy-lidded with disinterest, as if the whole affair were some dreary school recital from which she longed to be dismissed.

Harry, by contrast, was the picture of Sunday virtue—well-combed, upright, his suit sharp and pressed. His head was slightly bowed, but his gaze was elsewhere. More than once, Louis felt the weight of it across the aisle, invisible and searing.

They had not spoken in four days.

At first Louis did not dare to look. But by the second hymn, he could not help himself. His eyes drifted forward, slow and cautious, like a man peering around a darkened corner.

Harry was already looking.

Their eyes met—just for a second—but it was enough.

Enough for Louis’ breath to hitch and his stomach to knot. Enough for his fingers to curl ever so slightly against the spine of the hymnal.

Harry’s expression did not shift, not even a twitch of the brow. But something passed between them—quiet and devastating. A recognition. A memory. A promise, perhaps. Louis dropped his gaze at once, heart beating against his ribs like a child desperate to escape a locked room.

Elizabeth turned slightly, offering him the next page of the order of service. Her gloved hand brushed his. “You’ve gone pale,” she whispered under her breath.

He cleared his throat. “It’s just warm in here,” he lied. “Stuffy.”

She nodded, not unkindly, and returned to the hymn.

The sermon began. The words rolled over Louis like sleet, cold and wet and unwelcome. Every sentence felt barbed, aimed too precisely, though he knew that was impossible.

He dared to glance up only once more, Harry was watching him again. Matilda stared straight ahead, chin tilted in boredom, her youth and beauty turned toward disdain like it was her only defence.

Louis met Harry’s gaze again—and this time, he held it.

There was such loneliness in Harry’s face. A quiet ache, hidden behind manners and a crisp collar. His expression was plain, but his eyes said it all.

Then, with the final benediction, the congregation stood. The moment shattered.

Matilda took Harry’s arm with all the grace of obligation. Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and offered Louis a calm, pleasant smile.

And just like that, the longing was folded away—stitched tight beneath waistcoats and Sunday gloves.

Outside, the bells rang bright and joyful across the green, and Harry did not look back.

The morning air was crisp, the kind that stung pleasantly in the lungs and brought a touch of pink to the cheeks. Churchgoers poured out into the green, gathering in polite clusters, tipping hats, exchanging pleasantries beneath the chiming bells. Children chased one another around their mothers’ ankles while husbands lit pipes with slow, deliberate hands.

Louis and Elizabeth emerged together, side by side, a few polite nods offered here and there. Elizabeth’s gloved hand rested lightly on the crook of Louis’ arm.

They walked a while in silence, the click of her heels on the pavement marking time between them. Louis kept his gaze ahead, jaw set, still feeling the echo of Harry’s stare pressed against his skin like sunlight filtered through stained glass.

“I suppose we’ll see the Styles at the Hargrave dinner next week,” Elizabeth said lightly, her voice unbothered, as though discussing the weather.

Louis startled slightly. “Mm?”

“Harry and Matilda,” she clarified. “You remember, don’t you? The Hargraves invited us last week, and she’s ever so fond of Matilda.”

“Ah. Yes,” Louis said quickly. “Of course.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways at him, though her expression was unreadable. “She’s terribly young,” she said, half to herself. “Not quite a woman, not anymore a girl. I can’t say I envy her.”

Louis dared a glance at his wife, but she did not return it. She was gazing ahead, face placid, save for a faint furrow between her brows. He said nothing.

A few steps later, she spoke again. “She seems... unhappy.”

“She does,” Louis agreed, almost too quickly.

Another beat passed.

“I wonder,” Elizabeth mused, her voice quieter now, “if she knows what her husband truly needs. What kind of love he longs for.” Her words floated out like a wisp of smoke—there, and gone.

Louis’s throat tightened. He looked down at the cobblestones. “I expect she gives what she can.”

Elizabeth hummed softly in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. They turned the corner onto their own street, ivy climbing the brick walls, the gas lamps still unlit in the morning sun.

She did not press the matter.

Instead, as they approached their front steps, she slipped her hand from his arm and moved ahead to chap the door to alert Baker of their return. “Will you want a luncheon tray, or shall I let Cook prepare for supper instead?”

He hesitated. “Just tea,” he said. “I’m not...very hungry.”

“Very well.” She stepped inside and paused in the hall. “I’ll see it brought to your study.”

“Elizabeth,” Louis said suddenly, and she turned. For a moment he thought to say something more—anything. A truth, even the edge of one. But it stuck in his chest like a stone.

He only nodded. “Thank you.”

She studied him a second longer, then offered the barest smile. “Of course, darling.”

Then she disappeared into the house, leaving Louis standing in the doorway with a hollow thrum behind his ribs.

***

Harry stepped into the marble drawing room, slightly taken aback to find Matilda perched by the fire already changed into a silk nightdress and robe.

He cleared his throat before moving over to pour a drink for them both. "I thought you looked lovely this morning,” he offered after a beat, “that ribbon in your hair... very elegant.”

She finally looked at him then, her eyes dark and unreadable. “You only complement me when you want something,” she muttered.

Harry’s brow lifted faintly. “I mean it.” He was making an attempt at being kinder to her, remembering his conversation with Louis after their first dinner together.

Matilda turned her gaze back toward the fire “It doesn’t matter either way.”

He sighed softly, reaching for his glass. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’ve been tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening around the armrest. “Perhaps because I’ve spent the last five months charting temperatures and lying on my back with my legs in the air whilst you think of nothing but that bloody factory."

Harry blinked, taken aback. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” she snapped, finally facing him fully. Her cheeks were flushed, her voice trembling on the edge of anger and grief. “I married you, Harry. I left my home, my family, everything I knew. And for what? To sit in this ugly old house and disappoint you month after month? You don’t even touch me unless the calendar says it’s time.”

Harry set his drink down carefully and sat on the chair before her, both hands folding together in his lap. “Matilda, listen... I know this hasn’t been easy. I know you’re feeling alone.”

“You think I’m lonely?” Her laugh was bitter. “What I am is useless. And don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. Everyone in your family has begun to whisper about it. ‘Seven months and still no heir? Poor Matilda, she’s not fit for it. He married her in pity and now he pitys himself.”

“No one is saying that,” he said gently.

“They are. And you—you barely even look at me, you never have.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, searching for words that wouldn’t sound hollow.

“I know I’ve been distant,” he said at last. “I’m...not good at this. But I’ve been trying harder—perhaps you might take leave to visit your mother for a week. A change of scene. You’ve not been back in weeks, it might do you good.”

She blinked. That was the last thing she’d expected.

“You mean that?”

“I do.”

“Why now?”

Harry hesitated, then offered her a small smile. “A friend suggested you might be homesick.”

Matilda’s lips twisted. “You mean Louis.”

He tilted his head, acknowledging it with a slight nod.

Her mouth pulled into something like a smirk, but without humour. “You've know the man meer weeks yet you listen to him like his words are gospel.”

"He's been happily married a fair time."

Matilda’s gaze lingered on Harry for a moment—sharp and suspicious. Then she stood abruptly, moving past him without another word. He watched her disappear down the hallway, the light stomping of her bare feet echoing until it stopped somewhere near the stairs.

After a moment, she called back without turning:

“I’ll think about visiting Mother.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He stared at the empty glass she had left behind, the pale imprint of her fingertips in the condensation.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Chapter Text

Harry hauled the third trunk down the staircase, his arms straining beneath its weight. Why he had ever suggested Matilda return to Manchester for the week—the same weekend as the household staffs evening off—was beyond comprehension.

Behind him, Matilda descended at a glacial pace, clutching a hat box as though it were made of spun glass. She sighed audibly as she reached the final step, as though she herself had carried down all three trunks.

Setting the case beside the front door, Harry allowed himself a moment's reprieve, silently thankful the chauffeur remained on duty. At the very least, he would have help getting the luggage down the front steps and onto the pavement.

"Honestly, Harry," Matilda drawled, "you might've hired a porter for all this. It’s hardly becoming for you to look like one of the dockworkers."

Harry’s head turned slowly toward her, his voice low but sharp. “Nobody is around to see,” he said, with just enough sting to cut. “I’m sure your reputation remains intact, my love.”

Just then, the driver stepped onto the porch, tipping his cap as he approached. Harry moved aside without another word, gesturing stiffly toward the luggage. Matilda didn’t thank him—she didn’t even look at him—as she glided towards the car.

***

The door closed behind Harry with a hollow finality, the soft drum of the motorcars engine echoing faintly in the hallway. Harry stood still for a moment, hands in his pockets, listening to the sudden stillness that spread through the house like a tide. No rustling skirts, no clack of heels against polished floors. No deep sighs. No judgment.

The house was his.

He stepped back from the door and drew the curtains, just enough to mute the glare of the afternoon sun. The silence settled heavy and warm around him, and he let it. He peeled off his jacket, folding it carefully over the arm of a nearby chair before rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. There was something liberating in the simplicity of the movement.

He didn’t rush. Instead, he wandered through the ground floor rooms, taking his time. In the drawing room, the gramophone sat idle beneath a layer of dust—Matilda had always said it was gaudy. He ran a finger along the lid, then turned away.

He took the stairs and when he reached the smoking room, he paused. The memory of Louis there just days ago—lips flushed, breath caught, fingers trembling against the fine buttons of his shirt—rose like smoke in the back of his mind. Harry felt it bloom in his chest, that familiar ache, that impossible hunger.

He crossed to the fireplace and lit a cigarette with deliberate care, watching the curl of smoke wind upward. Then, without turning his head, he murmured to the room as though Louis might already be there, invisible in the shadowed doorway.

“He’ll come,” Harry said to the silence, almost daring it to prove him wrong. “He said he would.”

And just like that, as though summoned by the hope in his voice or the yearning beneath it—there was a knock at the front door. Three measured taps.

Harry didn’t rush to the door. He dragged once more from his cigarette, tapped the ash into the tray, and then moved. A smile ghosted across his face.

Louis looked momentarily perplexed as the door swung open to reveal Harry rather than a member of the household staff. But the answer revealed itself quickly enough in the hush of the corridor beyond, in the absence of bustling footsteps or distant voices. The realisation settled over him like a warm shiver—Harry was entirely alone.

Harry's eyes lit up at the sight of Louis, and he reached out immediately, curling fingers around his arm and tugging him gently inside, closing the door behind them with a soft but certain thud.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” Harry murmured, the words a warm breath between them before his lips found Louis’ in a kiss that was both eager and aching.

Louis let out a soft gasp, half a laugh, half disbelief. “It’s been two days,” he said, lips brushing Harry’s as he spoke, his hands instinctively finding Harry’s waist.

“Two days is too long,” Harry whispered, as though the ache of it were something physical, something gnawing at the edges of his composure.

Their foreheads touched, their breath mingling in the quiet hallway. The house held its breath with them.

“Are you truly alone?” Louis asked, voice low.

Harry nodded, his smile turning sly. “Not anymore.”

Louis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. There was something thrilling about the secrecy, about the knowledge that the staff had vanished for the evening, that not a single soul stood between them now.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Louis murmured, though his grip never loosened.

“But you did,” Harry replied, fingers slipping down Louis’ arm to take his hand. “Come upstairs.”

And this time, Louis didn’t hesitate.

The climb upstairs was silent but electric, their hands clasped tightly as they moved with careful urgency. The old house creaked beneath their feet, but neither of them noticed, too attuned to the rhythm of each other’s presence.

At the top of the staircase, Harry led Louis down the hall to the smoking room—not the bedroom, not yet. There was something about that space, with its heavy curtains drawn tight and the faint smell of brandy and tobacco still clinging to the walls, that felt safe. Private.

Harry shut the door behind them and turned, his eyes searching Louis’ face as if to confirm he was really there. “I thought I might go mad waiting,” he said softly, stepping closer, hands already sliding up Louis’ arms.

Louis reached for him, fingers tangling in the open collar of Harry’s shirt, tugging him forward until their mouths met again. The kiss was slower this time—less a burst of need, more a slow-burning recognition. Harry’s hands roamed, not frantic, but reverent. He cupped Louis’ face, his thumbs brushing over his cheeks, as though he were memorising him.

“Have you truly never...?” Harry asked against his lips, hesitant.

Louis nodded faintly, his breath warm between them. “no, never."

Harry exhaled slowly, his brow softening. “Then we’ll take it slow. No need to rush.”

He guided Louis to the settee, drawing him down beside him, their knees brushing. He reached for the small decanter on the table and poured two fingers of brandy into a pair of tumblers, handing one to Louis with a slight tremble in his hand.

They sat side by side, sipping quietly. The fire crackled softly in the grate, throwing golden light across their faces.

After a few minutes, Louis set his glass down and turned toward Harry. “Would you kiss me again?”

Harry didn’t answer with words. He simply leaned in and kissed him—deeper this time, one hand braced against the back of the sofa, the other resting over Louis’ heart. The moment stretched, melted. Louis sank into the feeling, every inch of him alight with nerves and something dangerously close to joy.

He wasn’t sure what would happen next—whether this night would be the beginning or the undoing—but for now, he didn’t care.

For now, he had Harry.

And that was enough.

***

An hour later, Harry stood and held his hand out to Louis. Louis let himself be pulled onto his feet and led out of the room, towards Harry's bedroom.

Harry gently closed the door behind them. The room was cast in the warm glow of a single lamp, the bed neatly turned down. Louis looked around, suddenly shy, his eyes falling on the polished wood, the soft linen, the clothes Harry had discarded earlier in the evening. It felt suddenly very real.

Harry stepped close, his hands brushing Louis’ shoulders. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” he said softly.

Louis shook his head, barely meeting his eye. “No, I want to. I do.” He hesitated, then laughed quietly, self-conscious. “I just… don’t quite know what I’m doing.”

Harry smiled and took his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Harry began to undress Louis with deliberate care, asking for permission with each motion: a hand on his lapel, a gentle tug at his tie, the buttons of his waistcoat. Every piece of clothing was removed like a secret shared.

When his shirt finally slipped from his shoulders, Louis felt the air on his skin, gooseflesh rising. But he also felt Harry’s hands, steady and warm, holding him like he was something fragile and precious.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry whispered, and Louis’ breath caught.

He reached out, fingers threading into Harry’s curls. “I never knew it could feel like this,” he said, voice thick.

Harry leaned in, brushing their lips together again. “It can. With the right person.”

They moved together slowly, reverently—no urgency, only the deep pull of something sacred. Louis felt everything—every shiver of skin, every sigh, every quiet laugh when a touch surprised him.

When they finally lay still together, the candle flickering low, Louis rested his head on Harry’s chest, heart beating like a hummingbird.

“You make me feel safe,” he murmured into the silence.

Harry kissed his hair. “Then let’s stay right here. For as long as we want.”

And for the first time in years, Louis believed they could.

***

The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Louis stirred, blinking groggily as he reached out beside him, finding only cool sheets. For a moment, confusion tugged at him but then he smiled to himself, the memory of last night still lingering, warm and sweet.

He pulled himself out of bed, stretching the sleep from his limbs, and made his way downstairs. The faint smell of something burning met him halfway down the stairs, followed by the sound of Harry muttering to himself in the kitchen.

As he stepped into the kitchen, Louis couldn’t help but laugh at the sight before him. Harry, standing at the Aga cooker, looked like a deer caught in the headlights, his hands awkwardly poking at the controls, clearly unsure of what to do next. A small cloud of smoke curled from one of the pans, and Harry looked up, sheepish.

“I might have—well, I think I might have ruined breakfast,” Harry admitted with a crooked smile. “I thought I could manage, but… this cooker is a bloody mystery.”

Louis leaned against the doorframe, grinning. “Looks like you’re trying to start a fire rather than cook breakfast.”

Harry flushed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve never used one of these before. Maybe I should just make tea?”

Louis chuckled softly as he walked into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “Here, let me show you,” he said, moving to Harry’s side and gently guiding him away from the Aga. He reached for the pan, turning down the heat before it could scorch completely, and with practiced hands, began to salvage the eggs that were on the verge of being ruined.

Harry watched him with a soft expression, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said with a small laugh. “You make it look easy.”

Louis glanced up at him, a knowing glint in his eyes. “It’s all about knowing when to take control and when to let things be.” He smiled, his hands moving deftly as he flipped the eggs with ease. “And having a bit of patience.”

As they worked together, the kitchen filled with the smells of breakfast—crispy bacon, soft scrambled eggs, and freshly brewed coffee. Louis, feeling the quiet joy of this simple, domestic moment, couldn’t help but glance over at Harry, his heart fluttering again. He’d spent so many years hiding parts of himself, wondering if there was ever a place where he could just be. But now, here he was, with Harry, and it felt like he’d finally found something real.

He paused for a moment, setting down the spatula, his breath catching in his throat. Harry looked up at him, brow furrowed in concern. “What is it?” he asked.

Louis swallowed, unsure of how to put the words into the air. His heart beat faster, and he knew this was the moment. “I—" He cleared his throat, gathering his courage. "I think I’m in love with you, Harry.”

Harry froze, his eyes wide, searching Louis' face. There was silence for a long moment before a soft smile slowly curled on Harry’s lips, as if the weight of the words had settled into his chest and he felt something he hadn’t expected.

“I think I might love you, too,” Harry said quietly, his voice sincere, eyes never leaving Louis. “I feel like you’ve… you've been what I’ve been looking for, without even knowing it.”

Louis felt a warmth spread through him, something he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for Harry’s.

Harry smiled, brushing his fingers over Louis’ hand, as though confirming the connection between them.

The sound of sizzling bacon and the soft hum of the kettle in the background seemed miles away, like everything else had paused just for them. Harry leaned in, brushing his lips against Louis’ cheek before whispering, “I’m glad it’s you, Lou.”

Louis smiled, his heart lighter than it had ever been. He knew, then, that no matter what the world might think, they were exactly where they were meant to be.

“Me too,” he murmured, and they turned back to the stove, their movements now in perfect sync, as if they’d always been this way.

Chapter Text

They sat together at the long wooden table in the kitchen—usually reserved for the house staff—bathed in the golden glow of morning light that poured through the windows. The scent of burnt toast and warm marmalade still lingered in the air, and laughter echoed softly off the tiled walls. Though the eggs had been slightly overdone and the tea steeped too long, it was, without question, the finest breakfast Louis had ever eaten.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting comfortably on his full stomach, the other curled lazily around a teacup. He looked across at Harry—hair tousled from sleep, eyes bright with mischief and warmth—and felt a smile tug at his lips. It astonished him, truly, that they had only known each other a mere five weeks. In that time, his entire world had shifted its axis. It felt at once like no time at all and an entire lifetime had passed.

The speed of it thrilled him—and terrified him in equal measure. That such a depth of feeling could bloom so quickly seemed preposterous… and yet, there it was.

“I could take the day off,” Louis said lightly, stirring his tea with deliberate slowness. “We could climb back into bed and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.”

Harry groaned theatrically and dropped his head onto the table. “If only. I’ve got to go to the factory. There’s an audit today—numbers and ledgers and dreadfully dull men in stiff collars.”

Then he lifted his head and grinned, eyes alight with a playful glint. “Come with me.”

Louis raised a sceptical brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And what exactly would be me purpose at the Doncaster Butterscotch factory? Moral support?”

Harry leaned forward, conspiratorial, his voice dipped in flirtation. “I’ll tell everyone you’re my lawyer. They’ll believe it. You’ve the suit for it and the frown. Please say yes, Lou. I don’t want to part from you just yet.”

Louis chuckled softly and set his teacup down, already knowing he’d say yes.

***

Harry led Louis down a set of steel stairs two hours later and onto the factory floor, the air thick with the scent of sugar and steam. The hum of machinery was near deafening, punctuated only by the clatter of tins and the occasional shout from a foreman. Louis had been in plenty of factories before—as part of legal settlements, inspections, negotiations—but never like this.

The workers paused as the pair walked through, eyes lingering longer than was polite. Harry greeted them warmly, by name, a small nod here, a clap on the shoulder there. He was utterly in his element.

Louis kept a polite smile fixed on his face, hands clasped behind his back like a gentleman in a museum. He tried to appear every inch the visiting lawyer, even as his eyes kept straying to Harry—his rolled sleeves, the way the light caught in his curls, the quiet strength in the way he moved among the workers.

An older man stirring a vat of molten butterscotch called out with a cheeky grin, “Din’t know Mr Styles needed a barrister just to count inventory!”

A few nearby workers chuckled. Louis felt his ears warm, but Harry only grinned, brushing it off.

“He’s just here to make sure I don’t pocket any sweets on the way out, Brian,” Harry replied.

They moved on, but Louis could feel eyes following them. It was subtle, but he knew the tone. Innuendo wrapped in humour. Suspicion dressed as jest.

When they reached the far end of the floor, near the packing line, Harry leaned close and whispered just above the hiss of the machinery, “I’m sorry. I didn’t think they’d be so... observant.”

Louis shook his head, managing a quiet smile. “They don’t know anything j j. They’re just looking for something to gossip about on their lunch break.”

Still, the moment stuck with him. They made their way back up the steps and into the privacy of Harry's office.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the world outside seemed to muffle instantly. Harry’s office, though modest, bore his unmistakable charm—dark wood furniture, a half-dead plant in the corner he clearly forgot to water, and a framed newspaper clipping on the wall detailing the company’s relaunch under his leadership. The desk was cluttered, yet somehow organised in its own chaotic way, with scribbled notes and open ledgers spread like a fan.

Louis wandered over to the window and looked down onto the factory floor below, where workers moved like clockwork among gleaming brass and belts.

Harry crossed the room quietly and poured two cups of coffee from a silver percolator—overheated and slightly bitter. He handed one to Louis, then leaned against the desk, watching him with a soft smile.

“You hated it, didn’t you?”

Louis chuckled. “I didn’t hate it. Though I can’t say I’ll be abandoning the courtroom to join the packing line.”

“I meant the stares,” Harry said gently. “The way they looked at us.”

There was a pause. Louis sipped his coffee. “It doesn’t matter.”

Harry raised a brow. “Doesn’t it?”

Louis turned from the window. “Of course it does. But not enough to make me regret coming.”

Harry’s smile grew—gentle, understanding. He set down his cup, walked over, and took Louis’ hand in his.

“You looked proud down there,” Louis said. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

“I was proud. Having you here—letting you see it. I want you to know who I am. All of it.”

Louis studied him, heart warm and aching all at once. “You’re extraordinary, you know. This factory, these people—they seemed to genuinely like and respect you.”

Harry shrugged, "they like that I pay them a fair wage that's all."

Louis shook his head, "no it's more than that."

Harry looked down, a faint pink brushing his cheeks. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Louis stepped closer, their hands still loosely joined. “They looked at you like you mattered to them. Like you weren’t just the man who signs the cheques, but someone who listens. Who sees them.”

Harry met his gaze, eyes soft. “I do try.”

“I saw that too,” Louis murmured. “And it made me want to know you even more.”

Harry let out a quiet breath, his thumb brushing over the back of Louis’ hand. “You already know more of me than anyone ever has.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.

Then Harry leaned in, resting his forehead against Louis’, voice barely a whisper. “When I imagined sharing all this… I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have someone like you standing beside me.”

Louis smiled, eyes closing. “Well, you’ve got me, Harry. For as long as you’ll have me.”

***

Louis returned home as the late afternoon light filtered through the small hallway windows in long golden streaks. The house was quiet, save for the ticking of the mantle clock. Louis tore off his coat and made his way through his home searching for his wife.

Elizabeth sat, as she so often did, in her armchair by the hearth, legs tucked beneath her, a novel resting in her lap. She looked pale and tired.

She glanced up when he entered, her expression unreadable but composed. A small, reserved smile flickered across her lips—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You did not come home from your meeting last night,” she said, her voice calm, but laced with something heavier. “I was dreadfully worried.”

Louis hesitated by the door, before crossing the room. He took the seat opposite her, posture stiff.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “The meeting ran late. I thought it best not to disturb you. I slept in the office."

Elizabeth gave a quiet sigh and carefully placed a silk ribbon between the pages of her book before setting it aside on the table. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him—truly looked at him, her expression full of pain.

“Louis,” she said gently, “please do not lie to me. I have stood beside you for years now, haven’t I? Held your arm at every dinner, smiled through every work event. Do I not deserve the dignity of the truth?”

Louis shifted in his seat, his eyes darting to the window, to the carpet, anywhere but her face. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cuff.

“We do not share a bed,” she continued, her voice still even, but quieter now. “We never have—not in the way other married people do. And you have never pressed the matter, nor even inquired why. I have long suspected that, in time, you would seek out… companionship elsewhere. I only ask that you do not insult me with falsehoods.”

He inhaled sharply, then let his face fall into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said, almost too quickly. Then, after a pause, “When I was a young girl… someone I trusted hurt me—in a way that cannot be undone. I have no desire to be touched by any man again for as long as I live. That is why I married you, Louis. You were kind. Gentle. From the moment I met you, I knew I would be safe. I knew what sort of man you truly are," she stared knowingly at him.

Louis looked up at her, stunned. His voice was barely audible. “You knew..?”

Elizabeth nodded, a softness in her gaze. “Yes. From the first moment. I saw it in you, Louis. The way you looked at some men when you thought nobody was paying any attention—not with lust, but with longing."

His stomach turned over, shame and astonishment twisting within him. “I thought I’d hidden it.”

“You did,” she said kindly. “From everyone else.”

She leaned forward then, resting her hand lightly atop his. “Who were you with last night?"

Louis’s eyes dropped to the patterned rug. He swallowed hard, colour blooming in his cheeks. For a long moment he said nothing.

“I give you my word, Louis,” she whispered. “No one else will hear of it from me.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes glistening.

“Harry,” he said simply. His voice cracked.

Elizabeth gave a soft breath—not of surprise, but almost of recognition. “I thought perhaps,” she said. “He looks at you the way you look at him.”

A silence settled between them, full of things unspoken.

“I didn’t plan it,” Louis added, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t need to explain,” she replied, her voice thick with feeling. “I only ever wanted us to be honest. And now we are.”

She stood, smoothing her skirts, and moved to the window. “Perhaps we may still make a kind of happiness out of this, you and I. It may not be the marriage others would expect—but perhaps it can be something better.”

Louis remained seated, hands clasped tightly before him, humbled by the quiet clarity of his wife's words.

“I used you, in truth,” Elizabeth said, her voice steady, though tinged with something long buried. “I married you because I sensed you could never desire me in the way other men might. And I knew, in turn, that one day you would use me too—to shield the part of you that the world deems… dangerous.”

Louis’s shoulders sagged as a tear slipped silently down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, his voice raw. “You know I love you. Perhaps not in the way most husbands love their wives, but I do. You’re me dearest friend, Elizabeth.”

She turned from the window then, eyes soft with understanding. “Do you love him?”

He hesitated, the question hanging heavy in the room. “Would it wound you if I said yes?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. I believe our bond has always been more akin to that of siblings than spouses. I never expected romantic love from you. In truth, I never wanted it. What hurt me, Louis, was not your heart belonging to another, but your silence. Your refusal to share your true self with me.”

Louis looked up at her, eyes full. “I were afraid. Of the consequences. Of what it might mean for us both.”

“And yet,” she said, moving to sit beside him, “here we are. And the world has not ended.”

He gave a small, broken laugh.

“I suppose it en’t,” he murmured.

Elizabeth reached over, laying her hand gently atop his. “Whatever comes next, we face it together. As allies, if not as husband and wife in the truest sense.”

Louis nodded, overwhelmed with gratitude and something like relief. He had spent years hiding in plain sight, and now—at last—the truth had found air.

As he sat there quietly by the fire, a memory came to Louis unbidden, as if stirred by the raw honesty of the evening's conversation.

The bedroom smelled faintly of roses and furniture polish, the fire casting a low, flickering glow across the polished floorboards. Louis stood by the hearth, his cravat already loosened, watching the flames as if they might offer some instruction on how to proceed. Behind him, Elizabeth moved quietly, slipping out from behind the screen in a fine silk nightgown, her bare feet barely making a sound on the rug.

He turned to face her, offering a small, nervous smile. “Shall we…?” he gestured vaguely toward the bed.

She nodded, her face composed, unreadable. They both sat down on the edge, a careful distance between them. Louis took a steadying breath, then turned toward her, raising a hand to gently touch her cheek. He leaned in, slow and hesitant, to kiss her.

But as his lips brushed his new bride, she flinched—ever so slightly, but unmistakably.

Louis froze. Her eyes were closed, her hands clenched in her lap, her entire posture stiff as glass.

He drew back at once, his stomach sinking with something like dread.

“I—I’m sorry,” he murmured, looking away. “It’s been a long day. Perhaps we ought to rest. I imagine we’re both exhausted.”

Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly, her expression blank with something he couldn’t quite read. “Yes,” she said softly. “That would be best.”

He stood and moved to the other side of the bed, taking care to keep the covers between them as he slid beneath. She turned away from him, curling gently on her side.

They lay in silence for a long time. The room was too warm, the blankets too heavy. Louis stared at the ceiling, heart pounding despite his stillness.

He had no language for what had just passed between them, no understanding of why her reaction had left him feeling ashamed and oddly relieved in equal measure.

But they did not touch again that night, and Louis never kissed her again—save for the occasional peck on the cheek, offered out of habit or ceremony rather than desire. It became an unspoken agreement between them, a quiet truth folded into the fabric of their marriage, never named aloud until now.

Chapter Text

Harry sat at his desk in the smoking room, sleeves rolled to the forearm and collar undone, poring over the ledgers from the factory. The air was thick with heat; spring had turned heavy-handed and hinted already at the languor of summer. Beads of perspiration gathered at his temple, and despite his best efforts to concentrate, his gaze drifted again and again to the same line of figures, read thrice and understood none.

With a sigh, he rose and crossed the room, his leather chair creaking in protest behind him. The drapes, thick and dark, were drawn against the morning light, cloaking the room in a sullen half-gloom. He gave them a hard tug, and the space was instantly flooded with gold, sun glancing off polished wood and casting long shadows across the floor. The window, old and stubborn in its frame, groaned as he pushed it open. At last, a breeze—a whisper of cool air that stirred his curls and brought welcome relief.

He lingered there a moment, leaning his elbows on the sill and casting his gaze out onto the quiet street. It had been just last night that Louis had returned to his own house—his own wife—and yet the ache of his absence had settled like a stone in Harry’s chest. He knew full well the nature of Louis’ marriage, knew too that there was no passion behind those walls, no sweet nothings whispered in the dark. And still, the knowledge did little to soothe the sharp sting of longing and jealousy.

His eyes drifted to the house next door, just in time to hear the click of a door latch and the familiar clip of a heel on the Tomlinson front steps. There he was—Louis—trim in a pale grey suit, hat angled neatly over his brow, carrying himself with that same careful elegance Harry adored.

Harry held his breath as he watched. He hoped—foolishly—that Louis might glance up, might spot him in the window and come by to steal a moment. Even a brief exchange, a kiss pressed quick and breathless behind a door, would have been enough.

But instead, Elizabeth’s voice rang out—light and pleasant in the morning air—as she bid her husband a good day. Louis tipped his hat to her, stepped into the waiting motorcar, and was gone.

Harry remained at the window a moment longer, his fingers curled against the frame. Disappointment bloomed quietly in his chest—not bitter, not angry, but laced with yearning.

He turned back into the room, its warmth pressing close once again, and resumed his seat at the desk. The ledgers waited, but he could not bring himself to look at them. His heart was elsewhere.

***

The street was cloaked in darkness by the time Louis climbed out of his motor car and onto the path, his steps slow, wearied by the long hours spent at court. The trial had dragged mercilessly into the late afternoon, and though he had argued well, the weight of the day hung heavy upon his shoulders. His stomach growled—post court meetings with his client had caused him to miss supper entirely, a fact that only now registered as the hunger gnawed sharply at his middle.

As he approached his house, he noted at once the absence of light in the upper windows. Elizabeth had evidently retired early. She usually waited up, reading quietly or half-dozing with her knitting in hand, ready to greet him with a soft, reserved smile. That she had gone to bed without him was unusual—and, perhaps, intentional.

An unspoken gesture, he thought. Permission without a word.

He hesitated only a moment before crossing the path that led to the house next door. The glow of a lamp burned in the front parlour window, and he allowed himself the small indulgence of hope. He climbed the steps and knocked lightly, then stepped back, smoothing his tie as he waited. Whether it would be Harry himself or the butler who answered, he couldn’t say.

Moments passed before the heavy door creaked open, revealing the butler in a dressing gown, brows raised in quiet surprise.

“Sir,” he said, clearly startled to see a guest at this hour. “Mr. Styles has already retired for the evening.”

Louis paused, heart drumming uncomfortably. He hadn’t expected Harry to be abed so early. Scrambling for an excuse, he drew upon the only plausible thread he could find.

“Yes—yes, I do apologise, old boy,” he said with a strained smile. “Mr. Styles asked that I call after court. He mentioned it were a matter of some urgency regarding the factory’s audit.”

The butler blinked, scepticism flickering behind his eyes, but gave a polite nod and gestured toward the closed library door.

“If you’ll wait here, sir, I shall inquire whether Mr. Styles will receive you.”

“Much obliged,” Louis said, stepping over the threshold.

The library was quiet, dimly lit by a single lamp atop the writing desk. It smelled faintly of old paper and furniture polish. He moved slowly to the sideboard and poured himself a modest whisky, then crossed to a narrow wooden bench nestled beneath a shelf of Matilda’s novels—romantic tales with spines worn soft by use. He smiled faintly as he ran a finger along their titles, his mind somewhere else entirely.

The house was quiet save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Louis sipped his drink, waiting—hoping—for the sound of familiar footsteps.

He didn’t have to wait long.

The soft pad of bare feet on the hallway rug reached him before the door creaked open. Harry stood in the threshold, tousled and blinking, his sleep-shirt half-buttoned, curls still sleep-mussed. His eyes lit up the moment they found Louis, and Louis felt warmth bloom across his chest despite the fatigue and whisky resting heavy in his stomach.

“You came,” Harry said, voice still rough from sleep.

“Well...you asked me to,” Louis replied softly, standing. “About the audit—”

Harry gave a quiet laugh and shut the library door to block out their conversation, “There’s no audit.”

Louis smiled sheepishly. “I know.”

They stared at one another for a moment, the lamplight casting long shadows around the room. Harry crossed to him, bare feet silent on the carpet, and placed a hand on Louis’ sleeve.

“You look exhausted,” he said, thumb brushing him gently. “Long day?”

“Endless,” Louis murmured. “And I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Harry’s face softened. “Come upstairs. You don’t have to say anything. Just lie beside me.”

Louis hesitated. “Your butler—”

“Is half asleep and knows better than to ask questions,” Harry interrupted gently, tugging on his hand.

Louis followed him wordlessly out of the library and up the stairs. The hush of the house wrapped around them like a secret, sacred and still. When they reached Harry’s room, the door closed softly behind them, shutting out the rest of the world.

Inside, the bed was rumpled and warm, the lamp on the bedside table flickering like a candle. Louis removed his jacket and shoes while Harry climbed beneath the covers, watching him with the same reverence he always did, as if Louis were something precious.

When Louis finally lay down beside him, Harry didn’t speak. He simply reached out and pulled him close, arms folding around him in a quiet, unquestioning embrace.

Louis pressed his face into Harry’s chest, breathing in the scent of sleep and skin and safety. They said nothing for a long while before Louis whispered into the dark.

"Elizabeth knows."

Harry’s arms paused around him, the easy warmth of their embrace tempered by the weight of Louis’ confession. His breath caught—just for a moment—before he released it in a slow sigh and bent to press a kiss into Louis’ hair, tender and steady.

“What did she say?” he murmured, his voice low, careful not to disturb the hush between them.

Louis shifted but didn’t pull away; instead, he curled in closer. “She said she has always known. From the very start.” He hesitated, then added, “Told me she married me because she knew I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t expect anything of her. And she were right.”

Harry said nothing, just let his fingers trail lightly across Louis’ chest in soft, steady strokes—grounding him.

“She said the only thing that hurt her were that I didn’t confide in her,” Louis continued quietly. “Not about us, necessarily. Just… that I didn’t trust her enough to speak the truth.”

Harry glanced down, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Do you trust her now?”

Louis nodded against him. “She promised she wouldn’t say a word. That she would keep our secret.”

Harry exhaled, deep and slow, as though releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Then he reached up, his palm resting gently on Louis’ cheek, guiding his face upward. Their eyes met.

“I love you,” Harry said softly, every syllable weighted with certainty. “And I hope you know—I mean that fully. Wholly.”

Louis leaned into the touch, heart brimming and aching all at once. “I know,” he whispered. “I believe you.”

***

The morning light filtered softly through the gauze curtains, casting a glow over the room. The air held the hush of early day, quiet save for the occasional birdsong and the gentle breaths of sleep.

Harry stirred, the remnants of sleep melting away as his eyes fluttered open to the quiet of the morning. Louis was turned toward him, one arm tucked beneath his cheek, lips parted ever so slightly. His brow was smooth in rest, the usual furrow of worry or restraint absent now, and Harry felt his breath catch at the sight of him.

He drank him in—the delicate curve of his lashes, the fine line of his jaw, the smile lines carved into the sides of his eyes. Every detail etched itself into Harry’s memory with reverence, as though he were studying a painting in a dim-lit gallery, one he feared he might never see again.

With aching care, Harry reached out and ran his fingers lightly through Louis’ hair, brushing back a soft, mussed curl from his brow. He leaned in, so close that his lips nearly grazed Louis’ temple, and whispered into the stillness, “Were you a woman, I’d marry you in a heartbeat.”

The words lingered in the room like a prayer.

He lay back, his arm draped over his lover’s middle, and stared up at the ceiling, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

If only the world were different. If only men like them could walk down the church aisle and exchange vows beneath stained glass. If only they could buy a cottage by the sea, argue over the garden, grow grey together. If only their kind of love didn’t need hiding.

But for now, Harry had this—the quiet moments, the borrowed mornings, the truth of Louis' body beside his. And for now, that was enough. It had to be.

Louis woke slowly, his gaze immediately landing on Harry, who was now sitting up in the bed beside him, his fingers gently brushing away a tear that had escaped down his cheek.

Louis frowned, his voice hushed with concern. "Harry... What is it? Whatevers the matter?"

Harry exhaled a shaky breath, his eyes meeting Louis' for a fleeting moment before he looked away, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. "I just..." He swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. "I wish things could be different. I wish we could just run off together. Be a proper couple, without this... this secrecy, this fear."

Louis reached out instinctively, his hand brushing Harry's arm in a silent offering of comfort. "We could," Louis whispered, though doubt lingered in his voice. "We could leave it all behind, if we really wish to."

Harry shook his head, his eyes clouded with frustration. "Where could we go, Louis? What society would accept us? The world doesn't approve of our kind. We’d be hunted, shunned, always looking over our shoulders. Even in the farthest corners, we’d still be prisoners of their hate."

Louis's heart ached, the weight of Harry's words settling in. He wanted to offer something, anything to ease that sorrow, but the truth was that Harry was right. No matter how much they wished it, they couldn't escape the world they lived in.

"I don't know," Louis said softly, "but I do know... I want to be with you. And that's enough."

Harry turned his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "It should be enough," he muttered, but Louis could see the lingering ache behind the words.

They lay together in silence for a long while, the weight of their shared longing hanging between them.