Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The bass of the club pulsed through Harry’s chest, a steady, rhythmic thrum that vibrated in his bones. The air was thick with stale beer, cheap cologne, and the metallic bite of sweat. Overhead, neon greens and blues flickered through the haze of bodies pressed too close together in the dim light.

This wasn’t some underground, anonymous club. It was loud, packed, and buzzing with energy—the kind of place where cheap drinks flowed too freely, where people danced until even their excuses dissolved into the music.

Harry hated the club. But then again—what club had he ever liked?
It didn’t matter if the floor was sticky and the drinks were two-for-one, or if the room smelled like money and exclusivity, it was always the same: too loud, too many eyes, too much of everything. A curated circus of people pretending not to watch each other.

But tonight he wasn’t here to be seen.

Tonight, he was here to get wasted.

He leaned against the bar, the wood beneath his elbow scratched and sticky, his fingers curled around a half-full glass of whiskey. Not his first of the night. Probably not his last, either. The burn had become familiar by now—warm in his stomach, soft around the edges of his thoughts. Just enough to quiet the noise in his head.

Relax, Harry.

That’s what Nick had told him earlier, voice clipped with the kind of patience people only use when they’re two seconds away from strangling you. Lately, Nick had been watching him too closely—clocking every tense jaw, every tight smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’ve been acting like a right prick,” he’d muttered, shoving a drink into Harry’s hand like it was medicine. “The golden boy of Formula 1 shouldn’t look like he’s about to deck a journalist every time someone asks about tyre strategy.”

Harry hadn’t argued. Couldn’t, really. Nick wasn’t wrong.
He’d been short-tempered, brittle. The pressure mounting from all sides—his father, the team, the sponsors.

So he’d agreed to come here tonight, hadn’t he? To let go, have fun, so that he could play that version of himself they wanted. The charming one. The lady’s man. The winner.

But even here, in the middle of a club full of strangers, he felt too much like this fake polished version—wrong somehow. Out of place.

His gaze drifted to the mirror behind the bar, catching his own reflection between rows of cheap liquor and neon glare.

The sharp jaw, the high cheekbones, the soft, almost delicate curve of his pink lips—lips that had given a thousand interviews, lips that people wrote fanfiction about. His curls, tousled just enough to look accidental. That stare: green, piercing, a little too knowing. The kind of face people stopped to stare at—even when they didn’t quite know why.
But all Harry saw was the boredom in his own eyes. The tight line of his mouth. The kind of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from too many days spent being someone else.

He’d thrown on the hoodie thinking it might help him disappear in the crowd. Black, oversized, inconspicuous at a glance.
But then again—it was Prada.
Of course it was.
Expensive in that quiet, smug way only luxury could pull off. The fabric draped over him like a calculated shrug. It was designed to be an understatement—which, ironically, was a statement. It gleamed faintly under the lights, soft and flawless and anything but ordinary.

And then there were the rings. He never left the house without them. They were part of him now—like his voice, like his shadow. But they weren’t exactly subtle.
Silver flashed on his fingers with every flick of his hand, catching the strobe and reflecting it right back into the room like a flare.

So much for blending in.
He looked like someone trying not to be noticed—while doing an absolutely terrible job at it.
Cheers to that, he thought, raising his empty glass in mock salute to his reflection. Stealth mode: failed.

He lifted his glass and let the whiskey burn its way down, soft and slow and familiar. It sat warm in his stomach, loosening something that had been wound too tight for too long.

Then he stepped away from the bar—without reason, without thought—into the crowd, into the noise, into the heat.

The music didn’t invite him in. It dragged him. The beat was relentless, not rhythm but pressure, pounding up through the floor and into his bones. Around him, the bodies moved like waves—swaying, pulling, crashing.

They didn’t make space.

They consumed him, moved with a hunger around him.

And Harry? He let himself be taken.

The lights flashed in pulses, green and blue and white, strobing across sweat-slick skin and open mouths, slicing everything into fragments. Faces lost their features. Hands became noise. The air was thick with perfume and skin and something like desperation, sweet and sour at once.

He didn’t dance. He dissolved.

His body followed the music, not because it wanted to, but because it didn’t know how not to anymore. The bass filled him, pushed the rest out. Thought, name, shape—gone.

Like he could vanish between the flashes of light,
drip out of himself and into the pulse of the room—
no weight,
no history,
just rhythm and warmth and the sweet, brief ache of not existing.

Someone brushed against him—hip, shoulder, back. He didn’t look. Didn’t flinch. The contact didn’t register as real. It was all part of the same organism, the same slow flood of need moving through the dark.

And then—she was there.

Glitter on her collarbones, neon in her eyes, and that smile: too bright, too clean. She danced toward him like the rest of the night was already written. Her hips swayed with practiced ease, her fingertips grazed his arm, and her breath touched his cheek without ever quite being hers.

She was beautiful. In the way empty things sometimes are.

He didn’t want her. Didn’t want her gaze, her touch, her body pressed too close in a room that already took too much.
She looked at him like he was something she deserved.

Harry barely turned his head. Just enough to step away, just enough to disappear from under her gaze without a word.

He moved on, deeper into the crowd, letting the bodies shift around him like current. Let them press and graze and pull, let them reach for things they’d never say aloud. All of them searching, all of them pretending they weren’t.

He didn’t search. He didn’t pretend.
He just floated.

And then the rhythm faltered.
A new song rolled in—slow, aching, wrapped in synth and smoke.

All I am is a man… I want the world in my hands…

The bass dropped low, steady now, not demanding, just there—like breath, like heartbeat. The kind of sound that settled under the skin and refused to leave. The air around him felt heavier, softer. Like velvet. The lights dimmed into something muted and blue, everything washed in slow motion.

Harry lets his head fall back slightly, curls brushing against his shoulders. Closed his eyes. Just for a second.

Use the sleeves of my sweater… let’s have an adventure…

The words bled into his thoughts, strange and tender. He didn’t mean to listen, but they found him anyway. They curled into the quiet places, the ones he tried not to touch.

…Head in the clouds but my gravity’s centered…

Harry moved, still. Not quite dancing. The music guided him the way sleep sometimes does—slow, unwilling, but inevitable. His fingers brushed against someone’s shoulder. Someone else’s arm skimmed past his side. None of it stuck. None of it mattered.

…Touch my neck and I’ll touch yours…

It felt like the crowd was holding its breath. They spit him out again, waiting for something soft to happen.

….And if I may just take your breath away….I don't mind if there's not much to say…

And then he saw him.

A boy—no, a man—leaning against the far wall, looking entirely too comfortable in the chaos of the club. He was effortlessly magnetic, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but still drew it like breath. His white T-shirt clung to his lean frame, the fabric stretching slightly over his chest, hinting at the muscle beneath. The black skinny jeans sat low on his hips, frayed at the edges, lived-in in a way that made them seem made for him.

He had that messily perfected look—brown hair in deliberate disarray, strands curling just slightly at the ends, like he’d run a hand through it too often, too carelessly, and somehow it only made it worse—in the best way.

But it was his face that caught Harry first.
The angles of it.
Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips that curled at the corners like they knew a secret, like they were always on the verge of saying something just a little too bold.
And then—his eyes.
Ice blue, cutting through the low light. Focused. Bright. Flickering with something unreadable. Mischief? Confidence? Amusement?
Whatever it was, it hit Harry like static beneath the skin.

He shouldn’t be staring.
And yet—he was.

The man laughed at something, his head tipping back just slightly, the kind of motion that felt real, unfiltered. The lights caught him in the middle of it, shadows playing over the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t curated. It was the kind of laugh Harry hadn’t seen in a long time—not in the mirror, not in anyone around him.

There was no performance in it.
And just like that—Harry was hooked.

The moment stretched.
The crowd blurred.
Just motion, just sound—something external, distant, irrelevant.

And then—

Blue eyes met his.

Harry froze. Just for a second. Just long enough for that smirk to return—subtle, slow, unmistakable. The man lifted his bottle, took a lazy sip, all ease and intention, eyes never leaving Harry’s.

The man raised an eyebrow.
Like he’d caught him staring.
-And liked it.

Harry swallowed. Felt the heat rise, creeping up his neck, blooming behind his ears.

Shit.

He should look away. Should pretend this hadn’t happened, hadn’t landed exactly where it did—in the center of his chest, between bone and breath.

But he didn’t.

For once, he didn’t care.

His fingers tightened around the glass. He tipped it back, draining the rest in one sharp motion. The whiskey burned down like fire and adrenaline, but he barely noticed.

…And if I may just take your breath away…

The lyric slipped through the space between them, caught on the air like a spark, like something more than coincidence.

Harry didn’t wait.

Before the voice in his head could speak, before doubt had time to rise, he stepped forward. Moved without thinking. Moved because not moving felt suddenly impossible.

…Sometimes the silence guides a mind… to move to a place so far away…

The line hummed through his skin, familiar and foreign at once, like something meant only for him, only for now.

He didn’t remember deciding to move—just the way his body had leaned forward, the song echoing in his chest like a dare, like gravity.

But now, with every step, the world grew louder again. The press of bodies more tangible, the lights harsher, less forgiving. The beat no longer wrapped around him—it pushed.

His glass was empty. His throat dry.
And somehow, he was still walking.

Drawn by something quiet.
Something charged.
Something he wasn’t sure he’d survive—
but suddenly, desperately, wanted to touch.

The blond was saying something, laughing too loud, but Harry didn’t catch the words at first. His pulse was still in his ears. His heart, still somewhere between the bass and the breath.

“Well, well,” the blond beside the man drawled as Harry approached, his grin wide, bordering on smug. His face was boyish in the way that didn’t age—sharp but warm, framed by hair that looked like it had been styled by wind and mischief. His accent was Irish, thick and unapologetic, and his eyes—bright, teasing—sparked with something restless.

He cocked his head, let his gaze drift over Harry in an exaggerated once-over, slow enough to be playful, sharp enough to land. Then he gave a low whistle.

“Didn’t expect to see someone in a Prada hoodie slumming it with the rest of us common folk.”

Harry paused for half a beat, the weight of attention settling on his skin like static. He wasn’t used to this—being approached without pretense, without calculation. No hand extended, no name dropped. Just... noticed.

He shifted slightly, suddenly aware of the way he stood, the cut of his clothes, the way the lights caught on the silver rings at his fingers.

The brunet beside the blond snorted softly, shaking his head.

“Ignore him,” he said, voice smooth, low, threaded with that kind of lazy amusement that made it hard to tell if he was teasing you or just amused by the whole world. “He thinks he’s funny.”

“I am funny,” the blond shot back, rubbing his arm where the brunet had just elbowed him, his mock-offense only half faked.

Harry barely heard them.
His focus had narrowed—pulled toward the brunet, toward the way he watched him.

Not obvious. Not impolite.
But precise.

The way his head tilted. The flicker of his gaze—measuring, interested. The way his lips curved like he knew something Harry didn’t. Like he might be willing to share it, if you asked the right question.

"You don’t belong here," the brunet murmured, stepping slightly closer, beer bottle dangling from his fingers. His voice was confident, easy, but there was something else beneath it—something daring, like he was testing Harry, waiting to see what he’d do.
"But you’re here anyway."

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
"Maybe I just like to watch."

"Oh?" The brunet’s eyes gleamed with something sharp, something undeniably teasing.
"Didn’t realize I was being studied."

Harry’s pulse skipped.

Normally, he was the one in control of conversations like these. The one who smirked first, who left people fumbling for words.

But this guy wasn’t fumbling at all. If anything, he was setting the pace—and Harry wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

"Well," Harry said, his voice softening as he mirrored the other’s move, leaning slightly closer.
"Maybe you’re just hard to look away from."

The brunet blinked, his smirk faltering for just a second.
"Careful, posh boy. Keep talking like that and I might start to think you’re flirting with me."

Harry tilted his head, feeling bolder than he expected.
"And if I am?"

The words left his mouth before he could second-guess them, and the moment they did, his pulse quickened. But he held the other’s gaze, refusing to back down.

The blond let out a low whistle, breaking the tension with a cheeky grin.
"Christ, I think this one’s actually got some backbone."

The blue-eyed man studied him for a beat, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. Then his smirk returned—sharper.
“All right then, tell me, Curly… what’s your name?”

Harry hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, his rings catching the dim light.
“Edward,” he said, voice steady despite the slight lie.

It wasn’t untrue—Edward was his second name, though he rarely used it. But tonight, it felt safer. No one here had recognized him so far, but the thought of introducing himself as Harry—Harry Styles—felt too risky. He wanted to keep this moment untouched by all of that.

“Edward, huh? Sounds posh,” the brunet mused, stepping closer. He was shorter than Harry, but his confidence made him seem taller, his presence filling every inch of space between them. “Like someone with a family crest and a wine cellar he’s never been in.”

He tilted his head, letting his gaze sweep over Harry with casual interest.
“But I like it. Sounds like someone who’s never been told no.”
A beat passed. Then his lips curled.
“Bet you’d like someone to try.”

Behind him, the blond snorted, nearly choking on his drink.
“Jesus, mate,” he muttered, grinning. “You’re not usually this much of a menace up front. Ease him in.”

The brunet smirked but didn’t back off.
“Well, Edward,” he said smoothly, eyes still locked on Harry’s, “since you’re clearly not a local, let me show you how we do things around here.”

Before Harry could respond, the man reached for him, fingers wrapping around his wrist—not rough, just insistent.
Harry blinked. “What are you—”

“Come on,” he said, already tugging him away from the group. “It’s too loud over here.”

Harry shot a look over his shoulder, but the blond only raised his glass in a lazy salute, as if to say you’re on your own, kid.

The crowd closed around them as they moved, bodies pressing in from every side, but the brunet didn’t slow down. He wove through it like it was muscle memory, hand still around Harry’s wrist.

They reached the bar, where the music was marginally quieter and the light less seizure-inducing. The brunet let go of his wrist but didn’t step far.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, voice lower now, like the distance from the noise had made room for something slower.

Harry hesitated. “Whiskey.”

The man wrinkled his nose. “Whiskey?” He let out a soft groan. “Christ, I hate the smell of it. Makes me feel like I’m gargling bonfire ash.”

Harry blinked. And then—he laughed.
It slipped out before he could stop it, a low, surprised sound that curled into his chest and stayed there.
“Not your thing, then?”

“Only if I want to punish myself,” he replied, eyes gleaming. “I’m more of a vodka type. Preferably the cheap stuff—the kind that tastes like bad decisions and comes with stories you’ll never tell your mum.”

He flagged the bartender with a flick of his fingers, never looking away from Harry. “Two vodkas,” he said smoothly. “On me.”

The drinks arrived a moment later. He slid one across the bar with a lazy smile, their fingers grazing briefly.

“Pick your poison,” he murmured, lifting his glass. “… and enjoy it, Curly”

Harry shook his head, still smiling despite himself.
He hadn’t expected this. Not here. Not tonight.

But he liked the way the stranger talked—quick, ridiculous, shameless. Like everything he said was a little performance and he didn’t care if you laughed at him or with him, as long as you laughed.

And Harry was laughing.

He raised his glass, their eyes still locked, and tipped it back. The vodka burned hot and clean, a sharp contrast to the warmth already blooming somewhere low and slow in his stomach.

The man’s grin widened, all teeth and trouble.
“Who knows,” he said, voice dipped in mischief, “might end up being the best bad decision you’ll ever make.”

Then he leaned in just slightly, enough to pull Harry back into the moment, into the tension curling between them like smoke.

“Come on, Curly. Let’s dance.”

Harry tensed. That was a bad idea. A really bad idea.
He knew better than to do something like that here—knew exactly how it would look, how quickly it would spiral into something he couldn’t control.

Dancing with a man in a place like this?
Not smart.
Not safe.

Not with eyes everywhere—watching, recording, ready to twist something fleeting into something permanent.

And Nick.
God, Nick was still somewhere in this building. Always lurking, always watching, always ready to shut Harry down.

The alcohol blurred the lines, sure, took the edge off—but it wasn’t enough to make him forget who he was. Or what he was supposed to be. He wasn’t drunk enough for that.
Not yet.

So instead, he leaned in.
Close enough to feel the heat between them, to let his breath ghost along the shell of an ear that was suddenly far too close.
And with a voice low enough to be almost nothing,
he murmured,

“Or we could do something else.”

God. He never would’ve said that sober.

The man pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, intrigue sparking in those impossibly blue eyes.
“That so?” he said, mouth twitching into something sharper. “Well, now you’ve got me curious, posh boy.”

He didn’t wait for a response—just grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him forward.

Harry barely had time to react, stumbling slightly before falling into step behind him. His gaze dropped—drawn to the way the man’s jeans, tight and low-slung, hugged his ass with effortless perfection.

Fuck. That view was criminal.

And the way this man moved? — controlled, athletic, all lean lines and self-assurance. Each step was smooth, unhurried. Like he knew Harry would follow.

Harry swallowed hard, heat crawling up his neck. He wasn’t sure anymore if it was the alcohol, or something else entirely.

It felt strange. Surreal, even.
To just let go. To let a stranger lead him, no questions asked.

They stopped in a shadowed alcove near the back of the club, tucked away from prying eyes. The music still pulsed through the floor beneath their feet, but here, the world felt smaller. Quieter.

The space between them was almost nonexistent—just a breath. Just a choice.

The man tilted his head, eyes flicking to Harry’s lips with an ease that wasn’t forced, just steady—like he wasn’t wondering if something would happen, only when.

“So,” he said, voice low, words curling like smoke between them, “you going to stare and talk all night, or are you actually going to do something about it?”

Harry’s breath hitched.

There it was—that spark, sharp and electric, running through him before he could brace. His fingers twitched at his sides.

He wasn’t supposed to do this.

He wasn’t supposed to want this.

But God, he did.

It wasn’t the first time the thought had surfaced, but it was the first time he hadn’t pushed it away. For years, he’d wrapped himself in what they wanted him to be—charming, flirty, always safe. Harry Styles, the ladies’ man. A performance so polished it had started to feel real.

But he knew better.
He always had.

He had buried the truth.
And now—under these lights, with the bass still humming low and this man watching him like he could see every part Harry had spent all his life covering up—something cracked.

Maybe it was the alcohol.
Maybe it was the way that smile didn’t ask for permission.
Or maybe it was just time.

The confidence in those sharp blue eyes.
The way he stood like nothing could shake him

Before Harry could talk himself out of it, he closed the space between them. His hand found the other man’s jaw, thumb brushing the sharp cut of his cheekbone—warm skin beneath his touch.
And then their lips met.

The stranger responded instantly—fingers curling into the front of Harry’s hoodie, tugging him closer with an easy sort of dominance—and the kiss shifted.
It turned charged, desperate.

Their mouths moved together with heat and hunger, like they were chasing something fleeting—something they weren’t supposed to catch.

A quiet sound slipped from Harry’s throat as teeth scraped teasingly against his bottom lip, a gentle tug that sent a shiver down his spine.

The stranger kissed like someone used to taking the lead. And Harry—God, he didn’t mind.
He let himself be guided, fingers sliding into short, impossibly soft hair, gripping just enough to steady himself against the storm unraveling between them.

Everything outside this moment faded.
The music.
The lights.
The crowd.

Only the heat remained—thick and immediate between them.

By the time they finally pulled apart, Harry’s breath was uneven, his pulse hammering in his chest.
His lips tingled. His skin buzzed like a live wire.

The stranger leaned back just slightly, sharp blue eyes gleaming with amusement—and hunger.

“Still alright, posh boy?” he murmured, voice low, gaze steady.
Like he actually cared what Harry wanted.

Harry hesitated.
This was so irritating—no one ever asked Harry if he was still good.

He nodded.

The stranger’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was something reassuring beneath it now. His gaze flickered over Harry’s face, like he could feel the hesitation still clinging to him.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “You’re a gorgeous kisser, Curly.”

His thumb slipped beneath the hem of Harry’s hoodie, fingertips tracing warm, soothing circles against the bare skin of his stomach. The touch sent a shiver through him—gentle and grounding in a way that somehow made it worse.

Harry swallowed hard, throat tightening.
“I—I haven’t… I’ve never—”

The words faltered.

But the stranger didn’t push. He didn’t flinch.
His hand stayed firm at Harry’s waist. Steady.

“Never kissed a man before?” he asked, quieter now—gentle in a way that made Harry’s chest ache.

Harry shook his head, shame curling in his stomach.
“Not like this.”

The smirk softened into something almost fond.
“Then let’s do it right,” the man said quietly. “No rush. No pressure. Just you and me.”

His fingers pressed lightly against Harry’s stomach, grounding him.
“You don’t have to be afraid of wanting this,” he said. “You’re allowed to feel.”

The words hit Harry like a slow collapse.

“And I just want you to feel good, yeah?”
A beat.
“I promise—I’ll make sure you do.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, pulse hammering in his chest.

He met those impossibly blue eyes, and in that moment, something inside him gave way.

He wanted this.
More than he wanted to be careful.

He leaned in, lips brushing the man’s ear as he whispered,
“Make me feel good.”

The stranger pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto Harry’s—searching, for something. One last confirmation.

Harry didn’t look away.

Instead, he leaned in again, closing the space between them, capturing the man’s lips with his own. This time, with certainty.

The man responded instantly, his grip tightening. Fingertips traced the lines of Harry’s stomach, slow and sure.
A quiet groan vibrated against Harry’s lips as the stranger’s touch grew bolder, his palm pressing against his abs, mapping him out like he wanted to remember everything.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he murmured against Harry’s mouth—voice low, raw, and so full of want it made Harry shiver.

Harry exhaled shakily, letting himself feel.

Their kisses deepened, heavier now, edged with urgency. Heat pooled low in his stomach, spreading like a slow burn, until it felt like his whole body was tuned to every shift, every breath.

His breath hitched when the man pressed closer, their bodies fitting together with unspoken intention—heat radiating in the narrow space between skin and fabric.

And then—
His jeans were too tight.

The pressure was maddening, and the ache blooming in his core made it impossible to think.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the man’s hands moving across his skin—but it only made it worse.

A soft, helpless sound escaped before he could stop it.

The man pulled back just enough to smirk against his lips.

Fuck.

“Getting a little worked up there, Curly?” he murmured, voice dark with amusement, his thumb dragging slowly over the sensitive skin just above Harry’s waistband.

Harry’s breath stuttered, heat flooding his cheeks.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t process anything beyond the overwhelming sensation of touch and taste and the steady, insistent press of the other man’s body against his own.

And then—with slow, practiced ease—the man’s fingers found Harry’s belt, tugging at the leather strap.

He undid it with deliberate care, every motion confident.

But his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—never left Harry’s.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

Harry swallowed hard, dizzy from the heat, from the way the world was tilting on its axis.

His body burned.
His skin pulsed everywhere the stranger touched.

This was making him crazy.

And he didn’t want it to stop.

He nodded, exhaling shakily.

“Yeah.”

It was all the invitation the man needed.

He moved slowly, deliberately, unzipping Harry’s trousers with a sound that seemed far too loud in the quiet between them. His hand slid down, palm warm even through the fabric, brushing over Harry’s cock where it strained beneath his boxers.

Harry sucked in a breath, his body jolting slightly at the touch.

The man cupped him through the thin material, fingers spreading, applying just enough pressure to make Harry twitch.

And then—heat.

The man leaned in, his lips finding the side of Harry’s throat, soft and teasing. He sucked gently, leaving behind little hickeys, each one sparking beneath Harry’s skin like lit matches.

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, a moan slipping past his lips before he could stop it.

It wasn’t just the sensation—it was the build. The way the man knew exactly how to touch him, how to drag it out, how to let the tension stretch so tight Harry thought he might snap.

“You’re doing really good,” the man murmured into his ear, voice rough with want but still impossibly steady.
“Just moan for me, yeah? With that delicate voice of yours, Curly.”

Harry whimpered at the sound of it—at the command wrapped in comfort.
He was shaking.

And then, the lips at his neck disappeared. Cool air rushed over damp skin, and Harry’s eyes blinked open—

—and immediately locked onto a sight that made Harry nearly faint.

The man had dropped to his knees, hands steady on Harry’s hips, blue eyes gazing up at him with something raw and hungry and devastatingly calm.

He waited, just for a second.

Harry nodded again, this time more desperately.

The man’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Harry’s boxers and tugged them down just enough to free him.

Harry’s cock was flushed, heavy, already slick at the tip. He felt exposed, so exposed—vulnerable and wanting and almost dizzy from it.

And then—

Warmth.

Lips wrapped around the head of his cock, soft and wet and hot, and Harry gasped.

His hips jerked forward instinctively, a choked moan catching in his throat.

The man took him in slowly, mouth stretching around him, tongue teasing beneath the sensitive underside before pulling back slightly, then sinking again with maddening control.

Harry gripped the edge of the wall behind him, trying to stay grounded, but the feeling—the heat, the pull, the pressure—was too much.

He moaned, again and again, breath falling apart in short, desperate bursts.

He forced his eyes open. He had to see.

The man was looking up at him, eyes locked with his, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowed with every slow pull.

Harry reached out, fingers trembling as he slid them into that soft, brown hair. He didn’t push, just held on—needed something to anchor him, something real to keep him from floating away.

And it was too much.

He could feel it—tightening low in his stomach, pleasure building fast, too fast.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, voice breaking.

The man didn’t stop. His hand wrapped around what his mouth couldn’t take, stroking in rhythm with every bob of his head.

Harry’s legs shook. His breath hitched. His stomach clenched.

And then he fell.

His orgasm hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. His whole body trembled, hips stuttering forward as heat exploded through him.

He came hard, moaning through it, hand tightening in the other’s hair as he spilled into his mouth, completely undone.

It was fast—embarrassingly fast.
But he didn’t care.
He couldn’t.

The world blurred at the edges, light and sound dimming until all that was left was the sound of his own pulse and the weightless, breathless aftermath.

His body slumped slightly, legs weak, heart hammering like it had just tried to outrun something.

And the only thought left in his head was:
I can’t believe that just happened.

His limbs felt weak, the adrenaline fading just as fast as it had surged through him.

And then—

A wave of nausea hit.
Sharp. Sudden. Relentless.

His stomach twisted, the whiskey turning against him in an instant.

A second ago, he had felt alive—lit up, wanted, touched in a way he hadn’t let himself imagine.
Now he felt like he might throw up right here, right in front of the man who’d just been on his knees for him.

His eyes cracked open, the club lights spinning like they were mocking him.

The alcohol hit hard, like a wave crashing down without warning.

“Hey,” the man said gently, voice lower now. His tone had changed—softer, but cautious.

He was still crouched, still close, but not touching. Watching him. Studying.
Concern flickered in his blue eyes, barely visible beneath the shifting lights.

“You alright?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

He fumbled at his boxers and trousers, tugging them back into place with unsteady hands. The zipper stuck once, then gave way with a sharp, metallic sound.

He avoided the other man’s eyes.

“I—bathroom,” he mumbled, the words clumsy in his mouth.

And then he moved.

He got up too fast, shoulders hunched, not looking back.

The other man didn’t follow.

From where he stood, it must have looked like Harry was doing the walk of shame. Like he’d gotten what he came for—and was disappearing now that the fun was over.

Harry could feel it, even without turning around.
That shift.

He wasn’t sure what the man was thinking, but he could guess.

And he couldn’t fix it.
Not now. Not like this.

His stomach lurched as he stumbled away, head spinning, heat prickling under his skin like needles. The nausea hit hard—rising up his throat like panic made physical, like everything he’d pushed down had clawed its way back up.

He shoved past bodies, breath coming too shallow, too fast. The lights blurred. The air was too hot. His skin itched. His hands were shaking.

Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He barely made it to the bathroom.
The door slammed behind him, too loud, too real, and then he was on his knees, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping porcelain like it might anchor him.

And he threw up.

Violently.
Painfully.
The kind of sickness that didn’t feel like alcohol—it felt like everything.

The bathroom tiles were freezing against Harry’s knees, the chill seeping through the fabric of his dark trousers as he retched into the toilet.
His stomach convulsed again, the burn of the liquid clawing its way back up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Groaning, he pressed his forehead against his arm, curls sticking to the damp sheen of sweat on his skin. His chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, his green eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to stop the spinning. But it didn’t work. The world tilted anyway, a dizzying mix of alcohol swirling in his head.

His body felt wrecked.
His chest still tight.

And somehow, it wasn’t the drinking or the shame that was haunting him—it was him. The one who had touched him like he deserved to be wanted.

Harry’s throat tightened. He tried to breathe through it, to focus on something physical, but all he could feel was the echo of lips on his skin and the tremble still in his hands.

He shifted slightly and let his gaze drift.
It landed on the wall beside the toilet, scratched and cracked and littered with half-faded ink.

And then he saw it.

Right there on the wall beside the toilet, in thick, fresh black marker, someone had scrawled a line across the pale tile.

he is beauty
and we are world class
escape the inevitable
fade into light
soak up the empathy
'cause i'm with you tonight
– LT

The handwriting was messy, like it had been written in a rush—like someone needed to get it out before they chickened out or sobered up.

Harry stared at it, momentarily forgetting the world. The poem hit something deep—personal—in a way he didn’t understand, not fully. But he felt it.

Like it had been waiting for him.

Just honest.

He sat back, letting the words settle in the haze around him, burned into the wall and into his head.

And for one tiny second, he didn’t feel completely alone.

Then—

“Pull yourself together, Styles.”

Harry forced his eyes open and found Nick standing in the doorway, his expression a tangled mix of anger and concern. Nick was thirty now, but something about him still read younger—maybe it was the spark in his eyes, the way he carried himself with that signature blend of sass and authority only he could pull off.
Tonight, though, the spark was gone. Replaced by something harder.
Frustration lined every inch of his face. His dark hair, usually styled to perfection, was slightly mussed, and his sharp jaw was clenched tight.

Harry groaned again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nick, I—”

“Don’t Nick me” He cut him off, his voice sharper than usual. He stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a quiet, final-sounding click.
“Do you even realize what you’ve just done?”

Harry blinked up at him, still trying to assemble thoughts through the pounding in his skull. His stomach churned. He swallowed hard, the taste of whiskey still thick on his tongue.
“What are you talking about?”

Nick let out a short, humorless laugh.
“What am I talking about?” He threw up his hands, frustration radiating off him like heat.
“I’m talking about you acting like a bloody idiot. You think you can sneak off with some guy and no one’s going to notice? News flash, mate—you’re Harry Styles in a club full of phones and people dying for a story.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. His shoulders tensed.
But when he met Nick’s gaze, the defensive response that rose up in his throat never made it out.
“Why do you care?” he asked instead, his voice hoarse, laced with defiance.

Nick exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand down his face, then met Harry’s eyes with a look that was equal parts exasperation and something closer to worry.
“Because it’s my job to care, Harry,” he bit out. “You’re not just you anymore. You’re Harry Styles—Formula 1’s golden boy. The charming, clean-cut heartthrob that sponsors want and fans adore. And guess what? That image doesn’t come with a disclaimer for drunken hookups in the back of a dingy club.”

The words stung more than Harry expected them to.
He swallowed again, blinking as the reality of it started to settle in—what it meant if someone had seen. Or worse—if someone had filmed it.

He flinched, his green eyes flashing with a cocktail of anger and shame.
“I didn’t ask for this, Nick,” he muttered, voice low but charged. “I didn’t ask to be your ‘golden boy.’ You made me that. I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Nick sighed, the weight of it pulling his shoulders down slightly. His frustration gave way to something softer—closer to pity.
He crouched, just enough to meet Harry’s eye.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t. But this is the reality we’re in. You think I like giving you this kind of lecture? You think I want to be the bad guy?”

Harry didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to the floor.
The weight of it all—Nick’s words, the pressure from his father, the image he was supposed to protect—pressed down on him like a vice.

“You can’t afford to screw this up, Harry,” Nick continued, his voice firm but not unkind.
“I get it. You’re young. You want to live a little. But this…” He gestured vaguely toward the door, where the low pulse of the club still throbbed just beneath the silence. “This isn’t how you do it. If you’re going to break the rules, fine. But for God’s sake, don’t get caught. And don’t forget what’s at stake here.”

His career.
His father’s approval.
The carefully polished image that had been built around him, piece by piece, like an intricate house of cards.

Nick straightened up again, brushing his palms against his thighs. His jaw was still tight.
“Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”

When Nick reached out to help him up, Harry hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. His legs felt unsteady, the room still spinning slightly.

As they made their way through the club, Harry’s eyes flicked toward the far side of the room—
and there he was.

The man he’d just been with.
Still standing there.

His piercing blue eyes found Harry’s instantly, gaze unreadable. Was it disappointment? Anger? Something else entirely?

Harry looked away, his chest tightening.
Nick’s arm rested loosely around his waist as they moved toward the exit.
To anyone watching, it probably looked like something else.
Like Harry was leaving with him.
Like whatever had happened between him and that stranger had meant nothing at all.

And then it hit him—he hadn’t even asked his name.

The realization landed like a stone in his stomach.
He had kissed him. Let him touch him. Let himself fall apart in his hands—
and he didn’t even know his name.

Maybe that was for the best.
Just another part of the night he could pretend hadn’t happened.

Because forgetting was easier.
Wasn’t it?

At the exit, Nick’s grip loosened just enough for Harry to pull himself free.
His fingers brushed a whiskey bottle on the bar. Without thinking, he grabbed it, slamming a hundred-pound note onto the counter without looking up.

Nick raised an eyebrow, shook his head.
“Well, that’s probably the best idea you’ve had all night,” he muttered, watching Harry clutch the bottle like it was holding him together. “Might as well get properly wasted now.”

His voice was dry, caught somewhere between amusement and resignation.

Harry didn’t reply. He trailed a step behind him, tension thick between them.

By the time they reached the car, the night already felt far away—
just a blur of music, bad decisions, and half-remembered touches.

Harry leaned his head against the window, watching the city lights streak past.
He wished he could press rewind.
Or better yet—erase it all.

-

The next morning, the light came in too bright, too sharp, slipping through the blinds and landing directly across Harry’s face. He stirred beneath the covers, his body heavy with exhaustion he couldn’t sleep off. His eyes stayed closed, lashes pressed tight to his cheekbones as if that alone might hold the memory at bay. But it didn’t.

His head throbbed—not the sharp kind of pain, but a deep, pulsing ache that sat behind his eyes and at the base of his skull. Dull and insistent, like it wasn’t just from the alcohol but from everything else, too.

He lay still for a while, cocooned in the sweat-damp sheets, hoodie bunched around his waist, the hem of it twisted like a reminder that nothing had been gentle. His jeans were somewhere on the floor, turned partially inside out like he’d ripped them off without thought. One of his rings had fallen off during the night—it lay glinting on the pillow beside him, half-buried in the mess of his curls.

His mouth was dry, the taste of whiskey still clinging to his tongue, stale and sharp. He reached for the water bottle on the floor beside his bed and drank what little was left, grimacing at the flatness of it. It didn’t help.

His hands felt clammy. His arms ached. His chest was tight.

And it wasn’t just the hangover.

His body felt hollow in that strange, detached way—like he was still floating somewhere just behind it, like the version of him lying here now was just the aftermath of something he couldn’t take back.

Flashes of the night came and went in uneven bursts—
the club lights bleeding over skin,
the pressure of hands at his waist,
the taste of someone else’s mouth on his.
Those unbelievable blue eyes.
That smirk.
That laugh that had landed somewhere low in Harry’s stomach and stayed there, buzzing, even now.

He hadn’t even asked his name.

The realization landed again, heavier now than it had been when he stumbled out of the club—worse in the clarity of morning.

He had kissed him, let himself fall apart against him, had touched and been touched in a way that had felt too intimate for a stranger.

And yet he had no idea who he was.

Maybe that was for the better.

Harry sat up slowly, bracing his elbows on his knees. The floor was cold beneath his feet. His fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, white-knuckled, as if that small grip could keep him from unraveling all over again.

He felt like he’d failed.
Not at something specific— but at being what they needed him to be.

His father.
Nick.
The media.
The fans.

The version of himself he was meant to protect, to polish, to hold up like a trophy every time the spotlight hit.

Harry Styles.
Golden boy.
Effortless charm.
Everyone’s favorite fiction.

He let out a slow breath, trying to steady the sick twist in his stomach.

He felt like something was wrong.
And maybe it had always been wrong.

He had always been wrong.

It just sat there, beneath his skin, heavy and constant. A low hum of wrongness, like there was a piece of him that had never slotted in the way it was supposed to.

And last night?
Last night had scraped too close to it.
Had pulled something forward he couldn’t push back down.

And that was the problem.

Because now he was here—morning light spilling across the room like something cruel—and he couldn’t un-feel it. Couldn’t un-know how it felt to be seen and wanted without condition, even if just for one night, even if only by someone whose name he didn’t know.

His thoughts drifted, involuntarily, to the bathroom wall.
To the ink on the tile.
To the words someone had left behind.

escape the inevitable
fade into light
soak up the empathy
'cause i'm with you tonight

The phrase hovered in his mind, quiet and cruel, curling around the ache in his chest like a question he didn’t know how to answer.

He didn’t know who wrote it.
Didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

He just knew it stayed with him.

Chapter Text

LOUIS' POV

‘Fuckin' hell!’ Louis shouted, his voice echoing off the tiled walls of the small bathroom as he flushed the toilet.

Of course, his phone had to start ringing at the most inconvenient time. And, because fate clearly had it out for him, it was in the bloody kitchen.

Barefoot and half-dressed, Louis tore through the hallway of their modest but cluttered house, a mix of childhood nostalgia and pure chaos. The wooden floorboards creaked under his hurried steps, his socked feet sliding slightly as he rounded the corner past the narrow staircase. The coat rack by the door loomed ahead—far too close for comfort.

“Oi, fuck!” he hissed as his toe collided mercilessly with solid wood. Hopping on one foot, he grasped at the wobbling coat rack, barely steadying it before it could topple over and take half the hallway with it. He mcursed under his breath before limping toward the kitchen.

When he finally burst into the kitchen, his frustration skyrocketed. Lottie, his younger sister, was perched on the counter like some sort of mischievous goblin, completely unbothered. Cross-legged, she leisurely flipped through the morning paper as if she hadn’t a single care in the world. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of toast that had clearly been forgotten in the toaster. The tiny kitchen was a disaster—crumbs everywhere, a half-eaten biscuit abandoned beside an open jar of Nutella, and way too many mugs sitting in the sink, no one bothered to wash them. Typical.

The phone vibrated furiously on the countertop just a few inches away from her, but she didn’t even flinch. Louis grunted in annoyance, throwing his hands in the air.

“Are you serious, Lottie? It’s RIGHT THERE!”

Without looking up, she shrugged one shoulder, her voice bored and unimpressed. “It’s just Niall.”

Just Niall.

Louis groaned.

Niall Horan was his best mate, a perpetually cheerful Irishman whose laid-back attitude could usually diffuse any tension. 

But today, Niall wasn’t the comforting friend Louis relied on – right now, he was more of a pain in the ass. He had already called Louis three times, his own nervous energy bleeding into every conversation, making Louis’ own stress levels skyrocket.

“Argh, What is it?" Louis answered the call.

"No, Nothin‘ yet, but I might probably die from a heart attack before, when you keep callin‘ me all the fuckin‘ time, mate."

– "Yes of bloody course I’ll tell ya as soon as I know anything, now hang up, and don’t call me again!"

He slammed the mobile phone back down on the kitchen counter. His sister Lottie, who looked up from her newspaper with an exaggeratedly bored expression, raised an eyebrow.

"Lou, seriously. You must stop staring at your mobile phone every second. They'll call when they call. You're only driving yourself - and especially me - crazy."

"As if you have any bloody idea what that's like." Louis began to pace nervously around the small kitchen. "They decide today, Lottie. Today! This isn't just any fuckin’ call. This is fuckin’ McLaren."

"Yeahh... and I'm Lottie, nice to meet ya" she said dryly, and pushed herself further across the counter with a flourish so that she was sitting directly in his path. "You'd better think about what you're going to say when they actually call. “Um…Hello, Um…I'm Louis and I haven't slept for days because I have a heart attack every time I hear a phone call” doesn't sound very professional."

"Lottie, please..." Louis mumbled, staring out the window.

"What? I'm just trying to help." She grinned at him, half mockingly, half encouragingly. She pulled one leg towards her so that her heel tapped lightly against the base cabinet. "I don't understand why you're so nervous. You're a bloody IndyCar champion, Lou. If McLaren won't take you, then it’s their loss!"

"This is Formula One, Lottie"’ Louis said sharply, finally turning to face her. "Formula. FUCKIN One. This isn't just any bloody series."

Lottie rolled her eyes, dramatically flopping backward onto the counter. "Oh no. Here we go again. Let me guess: “Formula One is a different beast, a place where only the best survive, blah blah blah.” She lifted her head just enough to smirk at him. "You really need some new material."

Louis huffed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. "It's not the same! IndyCar is big, sure, but this... It's a different league! I mean, who moves from IndyCar to Formula 1 anyway? Jacques Villeneuve maybe, ages ago. But nowadays? They only take these bloody kids from Formula 2."

IndyCar and Formula One were both elite motorsport categories, yes, but the differences between them were stark. The cars at IndyCar, though powerful, were spec designs, meaning teams had less room for technological innovation. Formula One, on the other hand, was the global stage, with cutting-edge technology and engineering pushing the boundaries of speed and precision. Each team designed its own car, and the competition wasn’t just between drivers—it was a relentless battle of innovation, strategy, and skill.

"You're still a "kid" too, in case you've forgotten." She leaned back and lowered herself almost provocatively onto the counter. "What are you, 25? You can't even complain about back pain without it being embarrassing."

Louis rolled his eyes, and as if he only now realized, he barked "Oi, how often did I tell you not to sit on the kitchen counter?!? – Get off!"

"Make me!" she snapped back, grinning like she had already won.

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Oh, you are gonna regret that."

In one swift motion, he lunged forward, grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her off the counter as she shrieked in protest.

"Put me down, you absolute dickhead!" Lottie laughed, kicking at his shin as she struggled against his grip.

"Nah, I think I’ll just carry you around like a sack of potatoes for a bit," Louis mused, swinging her lightly from side to side.

"LOUIS!" she howled, smacking his shoulder until he finally set her down.

"So you're going to be such a terrible diva all day today, then?" she stated, shaking her head as she straightened her hoodie.

Louis smirked, puffing out his chest dramatically. "Excuse you, Lottie. I am always a terrible diva."

"Fair point," she admitted, before kicking his shin lightly. "But if you don’t stop stressing, I swear I’ll start reading my newspaper out loud in a dramatic voice to annoy you."

"You wouldn’t dare."

Lottie picked up the paper and cleared her throat exaggeratedly. "And in today's news, an extremely tense Louis Tomlinson is making everyone in his household suffer—"

"Oh for fuck’s sake, I hate you," Louis muttered, though he couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips.

"She’s not wrong, though," came a soft voice from the doorway. Louis turned to see Felicite—Fizzy, as they all called her—leaning casually against the doorframe. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled with a quiet mischief, the kind that always made Louis suspicious. At 19, Fizzy had mastered the art of appearing serene while secretly orchestrating chaos behind the scenes. She carried a mug of coffee—probably stolen from Lottie—and looked at him like she wasn’t about to stir trouble.

"Brilliant," Louis muttered, narrowing his eyes at her. "What’s this then? A family intervention? Come to gang up on me in my moment of suffering?"

Fizzy smirked, the corners of her lips twitching as she stepped into the kitchen. "Not torment, Lou. Just here for moral support... and to enjoy the show." She lifted the mug in her hands and took a slow sip, wrinkling her nose. "Ugh, who left this out? This is disgusting."

She made a face and set the mug down with a dramatic shudder, wiping her tongue against the sleeve of her hoodie. "Tastes like regret and bad decisions. Is this yours, Lottie?"

"Excuse you," Lottie scoffed, snatching the mug and taking a sip herself. She immediately grimaced. "Alright, fair point. That’s vile." She dumped the rest into the sink.

Louis, despite himself, huffed out a laugh, the tension in his chest easing ever so slightly.

"You know, Lou" Fizzy said, her tone soft and reassuring as she turned back to him, "You worked so hard for this and you are the smartest person I know, when it comes to all this mathematic-things and engineering, all that kind of stuff - to be honest it would be their loss, if they don’t take you. So just... breathe, yeah?’’

"See Lou?" Lottie chimed in. "Even though it’s not the best compliment, since Fizzy doesn’t know any other qualified engineer."

"Oh, piss off," Louis muttered, though his lips twitched upward despite himself.

"We’re just saying," Fizzy continued, ignoring their banter. "You’re a bloody IndyCar champ. McLaren would be lucky to have you. Honestly, they should send a fruit basket, or at least a new sportscar."

"Not so sure about that," Louis grunted in defeat, his voice softening, though the nerves still gnawed at him.

He glanced at the phone again, the screen dark and silent for now.

Fizzy’s quiet confidence reminded him of their mum—a thought that tugged at his heartstrings in the moment. She always had that same way of reassuring him, of making him feel capable even when he doubted himself.

"Right," Fizzy said, "I’ll leave you to your tragic pre-rejection meltdown. Try not to hurt yourself - again."

She shot him a final look before disappearing into the hallway, dramatically whispering, "May the odds be ever in your favor," just to be annoying. Louis rolled his eyes, but his nerves only tightened in her absence.

The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, the warmth of his sisters’ teasing replaced by the stark weight of anticipation. He turned to Lottie, half-expecting her to throw out another sarcastic remark, but she was quiet too, watching him with something closer to real concern.

"Lottie, do you understand, what—"

He froze mid-sentence as his phone buzzed against the counter, the vibration rattling through the silent room like a thunderclap. His breath caught. His palms were suddenly clammy, and a tight knot formed in his stomach. He rubbed his hands against his jeans, but it didn’t stop the shaking. This was ridiculous. He had faced split-second decisions at over 200 miles per hour, and risked everything going wheel-to-wheel with the best, and yet a simple phone call had his chest tightening like a vice.

Louis' heart pounded as an unknown number flashed across the screen.

Lottie inhaled sharply, her teasing edge gone. "That’s it," she whispered, staring at the mobile phone as though it might explode.

For one irrational moment, he considered letting it ring. If he didn’t answer, they couldn’t say no. If he didn’t answer, the possibility of it still being a yes remained intact.

"Come on," Lottie said, quieter this time, but with unwavering certainty. "They’d be mad not to take you."

His fingers curled around the phone. He swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs as his thumb hovered over the green button.

A second passed.

Then another.

His heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he answered the call.

"This is- ah, this is Louis Tomlinson speaking?!" His voice came out rough, uneven, and breathless.

"Louis, this is Andrea Stella, team principal of McLaren, but I'm sure you remember" The voice on the other end of the line was calm, professional, and yet Louis could hear a hint of something else in it. Enthusiasm?

Maybe it was just his imagination.

"We've made a decision."

 *

* 

* 

 *

* 

* 

* 

“Fuckin’ hell” - Louis’s voice was a whispery murmur, as if he feared that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile reality he now held.

“I made it.”

The mobile phone felt welded to his palm, its weight a strange anchor to the surreal moment. The house had fallen eerily silent. Even the hum of the fridge seemed muted, as though the room itself was holding its breath.

His gaze wandered the kitchen, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he truly took it in, as if seeing it through fresh eyes.

This wasn’t just a kitchen—it was the heart of their house, a place where life had unfolded in messy, beautiful chaos. Every corner held a story, every surface a memory.

The fridge was a living scrapbook, its surface layered with mismatched magnets from random holidays, crude childhood drawings that had somehow never been taken down, and fading notes in their mum’s handwriting—some grocery lists, others little reminders like ‘Lottie, stop leaving your shoes in the hallway’ and ‘Louis, eat something before you go training.’ He could still picture her standing there, pen in hand, writing out what felt now like evidence of her love.

And the pictures—so many of them—scattered across the wall like a mosaic of their lives. Everyone framed differently. They weren’t just decoration; they were proof of everything they were as a family.

The pale cream cupboards bore the faded fingerprints of countless meals shared, hands pressed against them during deep kitchen conversations, and a small sticker Daisy had stubbornly refused to remove—one of a cartoon sun with a wonky smile, something so simple yet now a permanent fixture of their home.

The table was littered with the remnants of today's breakfast—half-empty cereal bowls, toast crusts, and a tipped-over juice carton that no one had bothered to clean up. A pile of unopened mail leaned precariously against a jar of mismatched cutlery.

Yet amidst the domestic disarray, among the echoes of a life that had shaped him, Louis’s world had narrowed to the words he’d just heard: “McLaren HQ… Formula 1.”

Lottie stood frozen next to him, her wide eyes a mirror of his disbelief. Her blonde hair, often pulled into a messy ponytail, now fell loosely around her shoulders. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that might have been Louis’s at some point, and her face was a portrait of stunned admiration. For once, the younger sister seemed at a loss for words.

“Louis?” Her voice was soft but sharp, slicing through the haze that clouded his mind. “You made it?”

He nodded slowly, his throat too tight to form words. His heart pounded so violently that it felt like a protest against the delayed realization of his dream. Without thinking, he sank into one of the worn kitchen chairs, the wood creaking under his weight. The room swayed slightly, or maybe it was just him—the adrenaline, the disbelief, the sheer enormity of what had just happened.

Lottie stepped closer, her expression shifting to something softer. "Bloody hell, Lou," she murmured, crouching down to meet his eye level. "You’re a Formula 1 driver."

Then, just as quickly as the awe had settled, her expression shifted into something far more familiar—a teasing smirk creeping onto her lips. "Does that mean I have to start calling you 'Sir Louis' now? Maybe bow when you enter the room?"

Louis let out a breathy laugh, the shock still wrapping around him like a thick fog. "Damn right, peasant. You better start addressing me properly. Sir Tomlinson, in fact."

Lottie snorted, leaning back on her heels. "Please. The only thing knightly about you is the way you shove biscuits in your mouth like a medieval barbarian."

Louis groaned, rubbing his face with his hands, but he was smiling now. "Listen, I just became a fucking Formula 1 driver. Can I have five minutes to bask in it before you start roasting me?"

Lottie grinned. "Absolutely not. That’s my job as your annoying little sister. Keeps you humble."

Before Louis could retaliate, Fizzy’s voice rang from the hallway. "Oi! What’s with all the dramatic gasping in here? Are we celebrating, or did you finally tell Lou that he’s got the fashion sense of a dad on holiday?"

Lottie cackled as Louis groaned, throwing his head back. "Jesus Christ, can I have one minute without you lot reminding me I’m surrounded by gremlins?"

Fizzy strolled in, her arms crossed, but the glint in her eye was unmistakably proud. “So? Are we celebrating already?” she asked with a gentle smile, the kind that always seemed to make the room feel warmer. “Or do I still have time to make some good coffee?”

Lottie beat him to it, beaming. "Our dear Louis has only gone and landed himself a Formula 1 seat."

Fizzy’s eyes widened for half a second before she let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching her chest dramatically. "Oh no, this means we have to hear even more about cars and tire strategies, doesn’t it? The suffering begins!"

Louis rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the growing grin on his face. "You know what? I take it back. I’m leaving you all behind. Moving to Monaco and never looking back."

Lottie nudged his knee with hers. "Oh, shut up. You love us too much."

Louis exhaled, the weight of the moment settling properly now, grounded him. He looked between his sisters—their teasing, their laughter, but also the quiet admiration in their eyes.

Yeah. He did love them too much.

Lotties words hung in the air, and Louis felt a lump rise in his throat, when he looked at a picture of their mum. He thought of the nights he’d sat in this very kitchen, the air filled with worry and grief. The image of his mum’s face flickered in his mind—soft and pale, her smile weak but determined. The memory of the night she’d told him she had cancer felt like a wound that hadn’t fully healed.

He’d been out late at the gym, preparing for another IndyCar race, and came home to find her waiting at this exact kitchen table. She’d tried to sound reassuring, but the fear in her eyes betrayed her. “Louis, love, I need you to listen to me carefully,” she’d said. And as she explained the diagnosis, the words felt like a blow to the chest.

He’d wanted to quit racing then and there. His mum and younger siblings needed him, and he couldn’t leave them to manage on their own. But she wouldn’t hear of it.

“You have a gift,” she’d said one night, her voice weak but insistent as he sat by her bedside. “You were born to do this, Lou. I’m not gonna let you, stop chasing your dreams, just because I’m a little ill.” She added with a small smile.

Her words had stayed with him, echoing in his mind every time things got hard—and this last year had been nothing but hardship.

The weeks following her diagnosis had been a nightmare. Louis remembered coming home late from a long day of testing and finding her trying to hide how much pain she was in, Daisy and Phoebe standing awkwardly by her side, too young to fully grasp what was happening but old enough to be scared. Lottie had tried her best to manage everything, taking charge with a maturity beyond her years. But it had been Louis who stepped into the role of caretaker, even when it felt like his world was crumbling around him.

Fizzy, though quieter, had been a source of unexpected warmth during those days. She’d often sit at the table while Louis went through bills, sketchpad in hand, drawing designs that she claimed were for “the future.” Her dreamy optimism had been a small light in the overwhelming darkness, offering moments of respite when he felt buried under the weight of responsibility. She’d doodle dresses and patterns, sometimes leaning over to show him a piece with a hopeful smile. “What do you think? Too much glitter?” she’d ask, and he’d chuckle despite himself. “There’s never such thing as too much glitter!”

There were nights he barely slept, sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by bills he didn’t know how to pay, phone calls to doctors, school forms for his siblings—all while trying to keep his racing career alive. Every time he felt like giving up, he’d look at his siblings—at Daisy’s hopeful smile, Phoebe’s nervous fidgeting, and Fizzy’s quiet determination—and remind himself that he had to keep going.

But it wasn’t just the weight of responsibility that had pressed down on him. His relationship with Eleanor, his girlfriend, had unraveled under the strain. They had started out strong, at least that’s what he thought, but the late nights, the constant travel, and Louis’ inability to be fully present had taken their toll. She had tried to understand, he supposed. But as things got worse with his mum, and Louis spent more and more time trying to hold everything together, she’d grown distant. The breakup hadn’t been a dramatic blowout, just a quiet conversation that ended with her saying, “I just don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He could still picture the day Elenor left. She’d been kind, even understanding to a point, but in the end, she couldn’t stay. “Louis, you’re brilliant,” she’d said with tears in her eyes. “But you’re not here. You’re doing everything for everyone else—your siblings, your career—but there’s no room for us.”

He hadn’t argued. How could he? She wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t made room for her, hadn’t been able to give her what she needed. And when she walked out the door, he’d felt something break, but not as much as he’d thought it would. His focus had already shifted—to his family, to his mum’s words, to the quiet, relentless drive that had carried him through every hardship, pulling him back every time he felt like drifting away.

“I know it’s hard,” she’d told him one night, her voice barely a whisper as he sat beside her bed. “But you’re stronger than you think. And you’re not doing this for me—you’re doing it for you. For the life you deserve. You’re gonna get there, Lou. Promise me—no matter what—you’ll follow this dream. Promise me you’ll reach for the stars.” And he promised, even when she was gone, he kept going – for his mum. Cause he promised her, he would do this. One life for the two of us!

The memories collided with the present, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

“Louis!” Phoebe’s excited squeal jolted him back to reality. She darted into the kitchen, her dark hair flying as she practically tackled him with a hug. Daisy wasn’t far behind, her face alight with curiosity and awe.

“Is it true?” Daisy asked, her voice trembling with excitement. “Are you now going to be on TV? Like, driving with Harry Styles and stuff?”

Louis laughed shakily, the sound more of a release than an expression of humor. “Yeah, Dais. Like Harry Styles and stuff.”

Phoebe bounced on her toes. “Can we come to a race? Can we sit in the fancy seats?”

Lottie chuckled, ruffling Phoebe’s hair. “Let him breathe, Pheebs. He just found out.”

“The kitchen looks like a bomb went off,” Louis muttered still in shock, his eyes scanning the cluttered surfaces. He’d never been the neatest, but the mess seemed symbolic of the chaos his life had been. Yet, for the first time, it felt like he could win again in life.

Phoebe spun around, her excitement redirecting. “Fizzy, Louis is gonna be on TV! And we’re all coming to the races!”

“Of course we are,” Fizzy said, her voice soft and reassuring. She walked over to Louis and lightly touched his arm. “I’m so proud of you! Lou, you really did it!”

Louis glanced at her, the sincerity in her words calming some of the storm inside him. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

Lottie’s hand rested lightly on his other shoulder, grounding him further. “Mum would’ve been so proud of you,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with emotion. “She always knew you’d get here.”

The words hit him with the force of a tidal wave. He swallowed hard, his eyes stinging as he thought of his mum’s unwavering belief in him. Her absence was a void that could never be filled, but her love and her words had carried him to this moment.

“Thanks, Lotts,” he murmured, his voice rough. He glanced around the room, at the faces of his siblings who had been through so much with him. Fizzy’s serene smile, Lottie’s strength, and the twins’ bubbling energy surrounding him. “Thanks for everything.”

The kitchen erupted into a flurry of movement and noise as the twins started planning their imaginary Formula 1 wardrobes, Phoebe insisting on "something sparkly" while Daisy argued for "sleek and cool." Lottie teased them both, trying to restore some semblance of order to the chaos.

Fizzy joined in, her face lighting up as she leaned closer to the twins. "Oh, sparkly and sleek could work," she said, her voice tinged with excitement. "We could do silver and gold accents—glam but still sporty. I’ve always wanted to try designing something like that!"

The twins’ eyes widened. "Really? You’d design for us?" Phoebe asked, practically bouncing on the spot.

"Of course!" Fizzy replied with a dreamy smile, already lost in thought. "I could sketch some ideas later. Maybe we could make it a proper project."

Louis sat back, letting the whirlwind of their energy wash over him. The noise didn’t feel like a His gaze wandered the kitchen, and the pictures—so many of them—scattered across the wall, making it feel more like a timeline of their lives than mere decoration.

Among them were the defining moments of his journey. His first karting race at age seven, grinning with a missing front tooth, his mum crouching beside him, adjusting his helmet. A trophy, almost too big for him to hold, clutched in tiny hands as his mum stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, beaming with pride. Then, later, shots from his first major win—his teenage self on the podium, champagne spraying, his mum cheering from the crowd, always there, always watching. And then IndyCar. The jump, the risk, the dream she had refused to let him give up on. Photos of him in the cockpit, in the pit lane, holding another trophy but always looking, instinctively, to find her in the stands.

But it wasn’t just him. Scattered in between were snapshots of his entire family—his sisters in matching Christmas pajamas, Fizzy posing dramatically with a sketchbook in hand, Lottie pulling faces at the camera, Daisy and Phoebe grinning with ice cream smeared all over their faces. His mum holding them all close in different stages of their lives, always at the heart of it.

There was one picture he lingered on—a rare shot of all of them together, their mum in the center, arms wrapped around them, laughing. The kind of laugh that came from deep within, the kind he hadn’t heard in years. Looking at it now, it was almost as if he could hear her voice blending in with the hum of the kitchen, surrounding him like a familiar embrace.

Even now, as he stood in this house—their house—it was like he could hear her voice in the quiet hum of the kitchen. Reassuring. Encouraging.

"You’re gonna get there, Lou."

And now, somehow, he had.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The first thing Harry registered was the pounding headache—a rhythmic, insistent drumbeat against his skull. His mouth was dry, tasting of stale whiskey and regret. The sunlight sliced through the half-drawn blinds, far too bright for his liking. With a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut before slowly prying them open, taking in his surroundings.

Liam’s apartment looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Empty bottles and half-eaten takeaway containers littered the coffee table. A stray high heel perched precariously atop a stack of video game cases, as if its owner had abandoned it in a rush. Someone had scrawled a crude drawing on the dark-painted wall in what looked suspiciously like permanent marker. A masterpiece of drunken creativity.

Harry was sprawled across Liam’s oversized leather couch, tangled in a blanket that reeked of cigarettes and beer. The cool fabric stuck to his bare skin, and it was only when he tried to sit up that he realized he was only in his underwear. His shirt and trousers were nowhere in sight. Fantastic.

Dragging a hand through his messy curls, he swung his legs off the couch and winced as his feet met the cold wooden floor. He stumbled forward, stepping over a pair of panties that most definitely weren’t his—someone had clearly had a more eventful night than him. A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.

Last night had been fun. That much he knew. But the details? Blurry at best.

The dark-haired boy—Jeff? Jack?—his name escaped him, and honestly, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had been a good kisser. The memory of their heated make-out session in the kitchen flashed through Harry’s mind, bringing a smirk to his lips. No strings, no expectations—just the kind of reckless indulgence that made him feel alive, if only for a few stolen hours.

Liam’s apartment, a bachelor’s haven with its deep-toned furniture and oversized flat-screen, had been the perfect setting for their antics. What had started as a quiet night between two mates catching up—playing video games, swapping stories—had quickly spiraled into something else entirely.

Liam had talked about Kate, the new girl in his life. Harry had been sceptical at first, but there was no denying the glint in Liam’s eyes when he spoke about her. Despite everything, despite the changes, Harry was happy for him. Liam was one of the few people who knew him beyond the persona, beyond the carefully curated image he was forced to maintain. He was kind, loving, and understanding, and he anchored Harry in a world of chaos.

But there was something off about Liam lately. He was more withdrawn, more lost in thought, his usual easy-going nature fraying at the edges. Harry had noticed the heavier drinking, the nights stretching longer, the hangovers hitting harder. He had his suspicions, but how could he confront Liam when he was no better? When he, too, had been drinking more, chasing a fleeting sense of rebellion against a life that felt too scripted?

The night had spiraled quickly. One minute it had been the two of them, and the next, the apartment was filled with people. A small gathering had turned into a full-blown party. Harry hadn’t minded. He liked the chaos, the noise, the anonymity that came with blending into the crowd. He had lost track of how many drinks he’d had, of how many faces had passed him by.

Now, though, standing amidst the wreckage, his head pounding in protest, it felt less like freedom and more like a cruel joke.

His search for his clothes continued. As he turned into the hallway, he spotted his trousers crumpled near the kitchen door. He picked them up, shaking off a few stray feathers from what had once been a pillow—apparently, someone had taken a drunken fight too far. With practiced ease, he slid into the soft fabric, the waistband sitting comfortably low on his hips. He hadn’t bothered to fasten the button or zip. There was no rush.

Just as he turned toward the bathroom, his phone buzzed violently against the wooden kitchentable. He groaned, rubbing at his temple before picking it up. The screen displayed one word that made his stomach drop: Tay.

“Yeah?” he croaked, voice rough with the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

“Harry, where are you?” Taylor’s voice was crisp, clipped with irritation. “You’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes.”

“What meeting?” he asked, completely lost.

“The one you’re already late for,” Taylor shot back, her irritation barely contained. “THE meeting with Nick. Now come on, get moving.”

Harry froze, glancing at the clock on the wall. Panic set in, the cold rush of realization cutting through the haze in his brain. The annual meeting with his PR team. The one that would dictate every move, every appearance, and every carefully calculated word he would utter for the next season. And he wouldn’t be able to make it in time for sure.

“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his face with both hands as if that would somehow erase the exhaustion clinging to him.

Kicking into action, he navigated his way toward Liam’s bathroom, the scent of cheap cologne and stale smoke clinging to the air. The mess was impressive—bottles lining the counter, toothpaste smeared on the sink, a damp towel slung haphazardly over the shower door. It looked like a crime scene, only the crime was poor life choices and an excess of alcohol.

He yanked open the medicine cabinet, shuffling through an assortment of grooming products before his fingers finally closed around an ibuprofen blister pack, buried beneath a tangle of hair gel and a forgotten razor. He popped two into his mouth and swallowed them dry before grabbing the mouthwash and swishing it around desperately to rid himself of the stale alcohol taste.

His gaze flickered toward the bathtub, where his crumpled shirt lay, half-soaked and wrinkled. A sharp exhale escaped his lips. Just great. He pulled it out and shook it violently, trying to salvage what little dignity he had left. The fabric clung damply to his fingers, but there was no time to find something better.

Shirt slung over his shoulder, he made his way toward Liam’s bedroom. The place was a disaster zone, piles of clothes, and a gym bag suspiciously stacked on top of each other in chaotic harmony. Seriously, that wasn’t from last night, Harry thought. In the center of it all, Liam was sprawled across his bed, face down, dead to the world, snoring softly.

“Liam,” Harry called, his voice hoarse but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “Wake up. I need a ride.”

Liam groaned in protest, pulling a pillow over his head like a shield against responsibility. “Five more minutes,” he muttered, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

“No, now,” Harry insisted, marching over and giving Liam’s shoulder a firm nudge. “I’m already late, and Nick’s going to kill me.”

Another groan, this time accompanied by a sluggish roll onto his back. Liam blinked up at him, his hair sticking up in wild directions like a bird’s nest. “You’re a pain in my arse, you know that?”

Harry smirked, leaning down to snatch the car keys from the bedside table before tossing them onto Liam’s chest. “Yeah, yeah. Now get up. You owe me a ride.”

Liam groaned in protest, pressing the keys against his forehead as if that would somehow grant him another minute of peace. “I don’t owe you shit, mate,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. “You’re the one who decided to get wasted last night.”

Harry scoffed, stepping back to shove his arms into the sleeves of his still-damp shirt. “Didn’t hear you complaining when I poured you that last drink,” he shot back, buttoning the top few buttons before giving up on the rest. “Now come on. Move your arse.”

With another dramatic sigh, Liam swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged himself upright. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes as he stood and stretched. “This is why people say you’re high maintenance.”

“Jealous?” Harry quipped, already heading toward the door.

Liam grumbled something unintelligible under his breath but followed him out nonetheless.

---------------------------------------------------

Fourty minutes later, Harry pushed through the heavy glass doors of Mercedes HQ, the unforgiving brightness of midday slicing into his already pounding skull. The cool blast of air conditioning was a relief, but it did little to steady him as he trudged down the pristine, high-tech halls toward the meeting room. The sharp scent of fresh coffee mixed with the faint, sterile note of expensive office furniture, a jarring contrast to the stale beer and cigarette smoke that clung to him like an accusation. Each step felt like dragging lead, and he could already hear Nick's voice in his head, sharp and irritated.

As soon as he stepped into the boardroom, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Nick's expression was already a thundercloud, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, eyes narrowing like he was debating whether to start yelling or let Harry dig his own grave first. The room itself was sleek and modern—floor-to-ceiling glass panels flooding the space with natural light, though none of it softened the icy tension radiating from Nick. Around the expansive conference table, the PR team sat in silence, their bodies stiff, their gazes darting between their notes and anything that wasn’t Harry. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

“Finally decided to grace us with your presence, Styles?” Nick’s voice cut through the room like a whip, sharp and unforgiving. His irritation wasn’t just restrained—it was coiled, barely held back, waiting for an excuse to snap.

Harry took his time, deliberately adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, a slow, languid movement designed to infuriate. His lips curled into a lazy smirk, the kind that always got under Nick’s skin. "Wouldn’t want to make it too easy for you, Nick," he drawled, voice smooth, dripping with calculated nonchalance.

Nick exhaled sharply through his nose, a slow, controlled breath that barely masked his growing impatience. His jaw twitched—a telltale sign that Harry had hit his mark—but he didn’t take the bait. Not yet. Instead, his fingers curled against the stack of documents in front of him, knuckles whitening as if he was physically restraining himself. With an abrupt wave of his hand, he motioned to the screen. “Alright, now that our star driver has decided to join us, let’s just get this over with." The PR team nearly sagged in relief.

Nick started the powerpoint presentatition and as the discussion shifted to media strategy and sponsorship deals, Harry’s mind drifted. He was way to waisted for this meeting. His gaze wandered to the window, where his own reflection stared back at him—familiar, yet not quite the same. There was something different in the way he carried himself now, something sharper at the edges. The softness he once had, the openness, had been traded for something else. His hair, shorter than it had been a year ago—once falling past his shoulders in unruly curls before he’d finally cut it, a decision that had sparked a media frenzy - framed his face in a way that made his features look more defined, more intentional. His jawline was prominent now, no longer hidden beneath youthful roundness, and his green eyes—once bright with something unguarded - still the subject of headlines—no longer held that same naivety. Instead, there was a quiet mistrust in them, a guardedness that hadn’t always been there.

It wasn’t just time that had changed him. It was the pressure, the expectations, the unrelenting need to maintain a carefully curated image. Somewhere along the way, pieces of himself had been shaved down, smoothed over, reshaped to fit what the world wanted from him. And yet, as he stared at his own reflection, he wondered if he had ever really had a say in who he was becoming.

His fingers toyed with the hem of his open Gucci shirt, the colourful abstract print vibrant against the pale column of his throat. The fabric still carried the damp weight of his haphazard morning routine, but even in disarray, it looked deliberate. His light pink trousers, crisp white sneakers—every piece of him was a statement, a balance of effortless and curated rebellion. He knew he looked good. He always did. But something in his reflection made his stomach twist.

“Focus, Styles.”

Nick’s voice sliced through the room, bringing Harry crashing back to reality. He turned slowly, his smirk still in place, but his posture betraying his exhaustion.

“We’re here to finalize the season’s media strategy, not to recover from your hangover,” Nick continued, his tone unwavering.

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, but his slouch spoke volumes. His head lolled slightly to the side, feigning interest while his fingers absently traced patterns on the edge of the table. The PR team exchanged cautious glances, each person silently relieved that they weren’t the focus of Nick’s wrath. The atmosphere in the room was suffocating, an odd mix of corporate sterility and thinly veiled tension.

Nick’s voice droned on, listing branding initiatives and sponsor expectations in the same clipped, matter-of-fact tone he always used. Every syllable felt like nails on a chalkboard. Harry’s eyelids felt heavy, the combination of exhaustion and sheer boredom settling over him like a thick fog. He barely registered the string of marketing jargon—something about social media engagement strategies and global brand alignment. It was the same recycled spiel every year, tailored only slightly to fit the latest crop of sponsors. He stifled a yawn, blinking sluggishly as he let his gaze drift, trying to find anything interesting to escape the monotony.

“Harry,” Taylor’s voice was soft, pulling his attention back from the abyss of boredom. She sat beside him, one eyebrow arched in amusement as she handed him a bottle of water. "Drink this before Nick combusts."

Harry accepted it with a small, grateful smile, twisting the cap off with deliberate slowness. Taylor was good at this—knowing exactly when to pull him back without suffocating him. Her presence was like a steady anchor in the relentless storm of his life. She had an effortless elegance, the kind that made heads turn without even trying. Golden-brown waves framed her face perfectly, and there was never a strand out of place, as if she were born for the spotlight. Her almond-shaped eyes, sharp and observant, sparkled with quiet amusement, a silent reminder that she was always a step ahead of the game.

Dressed in a sleek black jumpsuit that fit her like a glove, she exuded confidence with an ease Harry envied. The fabric hugged her form in all the right places, the slight cinch at the waist giving way to long, fluid lines that made her look effortlessly put together. Her heels, tall but practical, clicked softly against the polished floor as she shifted, completely at home even in the controlled chaos of his world. If anyone else had been forced into this PR charade, they might have resented it. But not Taylor. She carried it like armor, like a role she had mastered long before Harry had realized, that he needed her.

Harry had first met Taylor Swift about two years ago, in the aftermath of a night that had momentarily felt like freedom—until it turned into something far more terrifying.

Nick had dragged Harry to some dimly lit club that evening, spinning it as an opportunity to unwind, to let loose, so that he would play the role again they needed him to play.

But then it happened—the moment Harry let himself slip, let himself breathe.

A man, nameless in his memory now, but somehow unforgettable.

The heat of his skin, the press of his body, the way his lips moved against Harry’s with an aching kind of certainty. He had blue eyes—sharp, piercing, grounding him even in the dizzying blur of alcohol and music. It should have meant nothing. Just another night, another stranger. But there had been something different about him, something that made Harry feel safe. And that was the most ridiculous part of all.

But Reality crashed down too fast. He had barely excused himself to the bathroom when Nick found him. The door swung shut behind him, and suddenly Nick was there—his grip firm, his voice low but sharp. "What the fuck do you think you’re doing?". And then Nick was dragging him away, the club spinning around him, his legs unsteady beneath him. He twisted his head desperately, searching the crowd for those blue eyes, but when he found them he saw in them what it looked like to that man. It seemed as if Harry had moved on to the next fling. Maybe it was better that way. When the night air hit like a slap. Cold. Unforgiving. Nick hissed, "Do you even realize what you just did? Jesus, Harry!”

Harry barely heard him. His mind was still back inside, still searching, still clinging to something that had already slipped away. Safe. He had felt safe. How naïve was he to think that even for a second?

Nick’s voice cut through the haze. "You’re not just Harry anymore. You’re Harry Styles, Formula 1’s golden boy. And golden boys don’t get caught making mistakes."

The words stung. Harry swallowed against the lump in his throat, but he didn’t fight it. He let Nick pull him away, let the moment die before it could take root.

By the time Harry woke up alone in his massive king-size bed the next day, he was left only with a pounding headache and the bitter aftertaste of whiskey. He yearned to hold onto whatever he had felt the night before, but expectations weighed heavier than memories.

Nick was livid. Within weeks, he’d cornered Harry for a tense meeting, his voice razor-sharp with barely restrained panic. "You need a buffer, Harry," he’d said, his words clipped, his patience thinner than ever. "Do you even grasp how badly this could have blowed up? You need someone to shield you from questions, from scrutiny. Give people something else to fixate on. It’s about control—yours and mine. So I found you a beard."

Harry had recoiled at the suggestion of a "fake girlfriend." The mere thought of it felt contrived, suffocating. A lie wrapped up in an illusion of damage control. He refused outright, dodging Nick’s calls, ignoring his emails, until the situation reached a boiling point. His father intervened, his words heavy with finality. "You’re in the big leagues now, son. This isn’t just about you. It’s about the team. The sponsors. Your future. Don’t disappoint me."

The weight of expectation settled on Harry’s chest like a stone. Reluctantly, he agreed to meet Taylor. Nick, of course, orchestrated every detail. The first meeting took place in the opulent lobby of a Monaco hotel, sterile and impersonal. Harry, still nursing a hangover, had been cold, disinterested. He barely acknowledged Taylor, brushing off her attempts at small talk, counting down the minutes until he could leave. He’d hoped the press would dismiss the outing as trivial. But his father’s steely reaction to his apathy made it clear—this wasn’t optional.

A few days later, Taylor appeared outside Harry’s hotel, completely unfazed by his earlier indifference. With effortless composure, she suggested grabbing coffee, her steady demeanor a sharp contrast to the turmoil still churning inside Harry. Too exhausted to argue and still reeling from his father’s words, he found himself agreeing.

That coffee meeting shifted something. Taylor wasn’t what he’d expected. There was no pretense, no thinly veiled attempt to manipulate him into compliance. Instead, her dry humor and easy confidence chipped away at his defenses, disarming him in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Over the course of an hour, she made him laugh—really laugh—for the first time in weeks. She shared her own struggles with fame, the compromises she’d made, and how she had learned to balance authenticity with expectation without losing herself in the process.

“I’m not here to control you,” she had said, her voice steady but sincere. “I’m here to make this easier for you. To take some of the pressure off. That’s all.”

Harry left that meeting feeling lighter, the weight on his chest not gone, but momentarily lifted. Taylor became mor than just part of some PR strategy; she was a lifeline. And over time, what started as a reluctant arrangement evolved into something real—a friendship he hadn’t realized he needed. Taylor became one of the few people he could trust implicitly. She never judged, never demanded more than he could give. She understood him in a way that few ever had.

Their public appearances became routine, effortless even. Taylor’s presence acted as a buffer, shielding him from prying eyes and, more importantly, from the endless parade of women who refused to take a hint. Their arrangement worked perfectly—not just for the cameras, but for Harry, too. With Taylor by his side, the world saw exactly what they expected: a carefully controlled image, a headline-friendly romance that kept any real speculation at bay.

But behind closed doors, she was more than just a well-placed distraction. She was his confidante, the one who kept him grounded when the weight of it all threatened to pull him under. And, in a way, she gave him something even more valuable—freedom. The illusion of their relationship meant no one looked too closely, no one questioned where he went after dark or who he spent his time with. It gave him the space to indulge in what he really wanted, in fleeting moments behind locked doors with men whose names he rarely remembered by morning. No expectations, no complications—just release, hidden safely beneath the façade they had built together. She was his confidante, the one who kept him grounded when the weight of it all threatened to pull him under.

Still, even Taylor’s steady presence couldn’t fully shield Harry from Nick’s relentless pressure. As Nick droned on about media strategies and branding opportunities, Harry stole a glance at Taylor, who caught his eye and gave him a small, knowing smile.

“Just smile and nod,” she whispered under her breath, her lips barely moving.

Harry bit back a grin, tilting his water bottle slightly in a silent toast before taking a slow sip. The room was stifling, the air thick with the kind of corporate nonsense he despised. But Taylor was a small mercy in all of it, making the ordeal a fraction more tolerable.

Nick’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation, brisk and commanding. “As I was saying, this season’s dynamics are shaping up to be interesting, and we need to discuss McLaren’s latest strategy.”

Harry exhaled through his nose, slouching further into his seat. McLaren, their strategy—none of it mattered to him at that moment. His mind was elsewhere, flickering between fragments of the night before, half-remembered moments laced with whiskey and regret.

Nick’s sharp voice pulled him back. “Harry, are you listening?”

Harry dragged his gaze up, blinking against the dull pounding in his head. “Of course, Nicky. Something about McLaren needing a miracle?”

Nick rolled his eyes, exasperation flickering across his features. “Not a miracle. A strategy.” He clicked the remote, and the screen at the front of the room lit up with a bold headline: Louis Tomlinson Joins McLaren: The Underdog Story of the Year.

Harry barely had a second to process the name before the accompanying image hit him like a punch to the gut. Louis Tomlinson stood next to an IndyCar trophy, one arm draped over it as if it were nothing more than a casual accessory. A cocky grin stretched across his face, his wild, tousled hair looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed—or a bar fight. His arms, decorated in intricate tattoos, and his wide stance exuded effortless confidence, like he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

But it was his eyes that caught Harry off guard. A piercing, almost electric blue, the kind that made him pause for a beat too long. There was something in them—something sharp, something unbothered, something Harry couldn’t quite grasp. It wasn’t arrogance, not exactly, but an unshakable self-assurance, the kind that made a person impossible to ignore. A quiet defiance, an untamed energy, like he thrived on pushing boundaries just to see who would push back.

Harry hated that it unsettled him. Or maybe, more than anything, he hated that it intrigued him.

He looked scrappy, sharp-edged, like someone who thrived on chaos rather than careful planning. His whole posture screamed defiance, a stark contrast to the clean-cut, meticulously polished image Harry had spent years maintaining. He didn’t look like an F1 driver—not the kind Harry was used to, anyway. He looked reckless, unpredictable. The kind of driver who didn’t follow the rules because he didn’t see the point in them.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Nick announced, his tone edged with something Harry couldn’t quite place. “McLaren’s big gamble. IndyCar champion, fan favourite, and—let’s be honest—their attempt to win over the ‘everyman’ audience.”

Harry narrowed his green eyes at the screen, his lips pressing into a thin line. There was something about Louis that felt too… unfiltered. Too free. His tattoos, his stance, even the way he laughed in the captured image—it all spoke of a person untouched by the weight of expectation, someone who played by his own rules.

The kind of freedom Harry had never known.

“Tomlinson comes from a working-class background in Doncaster,” Nick continued, flipping to another slide filled with carefully curated stats and media clippings. “Big family, grew up with practically nothing, fought his way up the ranks through sheer determination. His mother passed away from cancer last year, so McLaren is leveraging that narrative hard. They’re pushing him as the underdog, the relatable hero. Fans are going to eat it up.”

Harry clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking as he processed it. He could already see the headlines forming. From IndyCar to Formula 1: Louis Tomlinson, the People’s Champion.

“Why do I care?” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s not even on my team.”

Nick smirked, clicking to the next slide with a knowing look. “You care because the media’s going to make sure you do. The underdog versus the reigning champion. The grounded fighter against the polished star. Like it or not, Styles, they’re going to pit you against him. And if you think you can ignore him, think again.”

He clicked again, and a video clip began to play. Harry leaned forward slightly, annoyance and curiosity warring inside him as Louis’s voice filled the room.

In the video, Louis was lounging in a chair, one leg draped casually over the other, his posture exuding the kind of effortless confidence that made Harry’s skin prickle with irritation. He wore a yellow tank top—obnoxiously bright against his tanned skin—seriously, did that boy own anything besides tank tops? It was as if he had declared a personal war against sleeves. The fabric clung to his lean frame, highlighting the sinewy strength of his arms, and Harry found his gaze flicking, against his better judgment, to the way Louis’s tattoos shifted with every animated gesture. It annoyed him more than he cared to admit.

Louis looked far too comfortable, like he belonged in the spotlight, like he thrived under the lens rather than merely enduring it. There was no guardedness, no rehearsed PR polish—just easy charm, like he was speaking to old friends instead of an audience that would analyze his every word. It grated on Harry’s nerves how natural he made it all seem, while Harry had spent years mastering the art of saying the right thing at the right time. Every interview he did was dissected afterward, his PR team picking apart every word, every inflection, making sure he stayed on brand. It was exhausting.

And then there was Louis, leaning back in his chair, grinning as if none of it mattered. As if the world’s opinion wasn’t a weight on his shoulders. That kind of freedom—as infuriating as it was—set Harry’s teeth on edge. Louis acted like he was untouchable. And worse? He might actually be right.

“Formula 1?” Louis said, grinning as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Look, it’s the big leagues, innit? First you drive fast, then you drive smart, and if you manage to annoy a few people along the way… well, that’s just a bonus. Keeps life interesting, doesn’t it?”

Harry felt a muscle in his jaw tick as the room chuckled softly. The audacity. The sheer, unshakable confidence. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

Nick paused the video, turning back to Harry. “See what I mean? He’s charming, likable, and he doesn’t care about stepping on toes. The media loves him.”

Harry slouched back in his chair, his green eyes still locked onto the frozen image of Louis on the screen. His posture was practiced indifference, but the tension in his jaw betrayed something else. “He’s a loudmouth.”

“He’s a threat,” Nick corrected, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Not to your driving, obviously, but to your narrative. You’re the golden boy, Harry. The champion. The guy everyone dreams about. Tomlinson’s got the everyman appeal. He’s relatable. Humble. Fans are going to love him, and if you let that get under your skin, it’s only going to make you look bad. I need you to be prepared for the comparisons. The media loves a rivalry.”

“Rivalry?” Harry echoed, his voice colder than he intended. He tilted his head, still staring at the image on the screen, at Louis’ annoyingly easy smile, at the way he carried himself as if he belonged here without question. “We haven’t even raced yet.”

“Exactly,” Nick replied smoothly. “Let’s keep it that way. No drama.”

Harry didn’t answer, his gaze lingering on the image of Louis as if searching for something—some clue as to why the sight of him rubbed him the wrong way. It wasn’t just irritation. It was something deeper, something Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Louis had that kind of presence that filled a room without effort, that made people want to lean in, to listen. And those blue eyes—too sharp, too knowing—felt like they were looking straight through the screen, straight through him. Like Louis knew something Harry didn’t.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry had the unsettling realization that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t the most interesting person in the room anymore.

And then those blue eyes. They felt familiar somehow, like a whisper of a dream he couldn’t quite remember. Something about them lingered in his mind longer than it should have. But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

Louis Tomlinson was reckless. Arrogant. Probably thought he could waltz into Formula One and play with the big boys. Harry huffed. What did he have to do with this working-class boy?

Taylor, who had been silent for most of the meeting, finally spoke up, her voice calm but thoughtful. “He does seem… bold,” she said carefully, glancing at Harry. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing, right?”

Her words pulled Harry back to the present, cutting through the fog of irritation and uncertainty clouding his thoughts. He glanced at her, grateful for the steadiness she exuded. Taylor had a way of diffusing tension without raising her voice, and right now, it was exactly what he needed.

“Please be careful with him,” she added softly, leaning in slightly so only he could hear. Her tone was warm, but there was a quiet urgency in her words. “Whatever you do, don’t give the media any ammo. They’ll twist anything you say. You know how they are.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll play nice,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor. “Don’t worry.”

But even as the meeting moved on, with Nick launching into the next topic—something about the upcoming PR stunts he and Taylor would have to endure—Harry couldn’t shake the image of Louis from his mind. That cocky grin. The tattoos. The way he carried himself like the world couldn’t touch him. Like he didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

Harry told himself it was just irritation. Just another rookie who thought he could make a splash. Another overconfident underdog who would soon learn how brutal Formula One could be. Whatever it was, Harry convinced himself it didn’t matter. Because Louis Tomlinson was just another driver. And Harry Styles didn’t care.

The meeting finally wrapped up in the early afternoon, Nick dismissing everyone with a curt wave and a clipped reminder of their packed schedules. Harry exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders as he stood, stretching out his legs. The room emptied in a flurry of movement, team members scattering like leaves caught in a sudden gust of wind. He watched them go, noting the way some avoided his gaze, while others gave him polite nods—detached, professional. The atmosphere was always the same after these meetings: tense, calculated, full of unspoken expectations.

Taylor lingered behind, her presence grounding in a way few things were. She caught his eye with a knowing smile, her arms loosely crossed over her chest, studying him as if she already knew what he was thinking.

“Dinner?” she asked, tilting her head toward the door, her tone light yet inviting.

Harry let out a small, genuine smile this time. “Yeah, sure,” he replied, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I could use some air.”

But just as they began to leave, Nick caught Harry by the arm, his expression suddenly warm and approachable.

“Harry, got a minute?” Nick asked, his tone disarmingly friendly. Taylor hesitated, glancing between them, but Harry nodded and gestured for her to go ahead.

Nick guided Harry to the side, lowering his voice, his expression shifting into something almost conspiratorial. “Look, I know I can come off… a bit harsh sometimes,” he began, his words slow and carefully measured, each syllable placed with intent. “But you know I’m in your corner, right? Everything I do, it’s to help you succeed. To protect you.”

There was a slight pause, just enough for the words to settle, just enough for Harry to feel their weight—calculated, precise, the way Nick always spoke when he wanted something.

Harry nodded, though his expression softened with a hint of nostalgia. There was a time when he wouldn’t have hesitated to believe Nick’s words. Nick hadn’t just been his PR manager; he had been one of Harry’s most trusted confidants, almost like an older brother. Back then, Harry had leaned on him for guidance, sharing his fears and ambitions without hesitation. But now? Things had shifted. Their relationship, once effortless, had hit its hurdles.

Harry had grown—not just older, but more self-assured—and with that growth came a newfound willingness to say no. To push back. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Nick in his corner; he still valued their bond, still wanted to believe they were on the same side. But their differing views, Nick’s relentless need for control, and Harry’s refusal to always play along had created an undeniable strain.

Despite that, Harry wanted to trust Nick. But trust wasn’t as simple as it used to be. Nick was always playing the long game, and Harry was no longer sure if he was a player or just another piece on the board.

Yet, part of him clung to the past, to the version of Nick that had once felt like family, like the one person who understood the weight he carried. Maybe that part of him was naive. Or maybe it was just exhausted, too tired to untangle what was real and what was manipulation.

“I know, Nick. It’s just… a lot sometimes,” Harry admitted, his voice quieter now, the edge of frustration slipping through.

“I get it,” Nick said, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. His expression was empathetic, a perfect blend of understanding and authority. “You’ve got so much on your plate, and I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. We have to be a team, Harry. That’s the only way this works.”

Harry hesitated, his faint smile more out of politeness than agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Nick.”

“Good,” Nick said, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze before letting go. “Now go enjoy your dinner. You’ve earned it.”

As Harry walked out of the boardroom, the tension in his chest eased slightly, but not completely. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how friendly Nick appeared, their dynamic had shifted. Nick still acted like the ally he used to be, but Harry couldn’t ignore the quiet push to stay in line.

Chapter Text

Louis POV

Louis leaned back on the sagging sofa, his feet propped up on the low coffee table as the sound of the television filled the room. His face beamed on the screen—or at least a version of him did—looking far more professional in a suit and tie than he ever felt. It was an odd feeling to watch himself. The interview was freshly recorded, the unveiling of his Formula 1 debut barely a few days old. He hadn’t even finished his first full test at McLaren’s HQ, yet the press was already spinning a story about him.

They labeled him as “the underdog,” the grounded one—humble, kind, and refreshingly real. The nice guy from next door who, despite his success in IndyCar, stayed far from the limelight. McLaren’s PR team had clearly worked overtime on this narrative. “Grounded and humble?” he thought with a wry grin. “Bloody hell. Great PR work, lads.”

Next to him on the couch, Lottie was shoving a handful of crisps into her mouth, her peach-colored hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Across from them, Niall sprawled in an armchair, his stocky frame relaxed as he nursed a pint. The living room smelled of takeout and the remnants of a long day, the air thick with the kind of comfort only home could offer.

But as much as Louis enjoyed being home, the events of the last few weeks replayed in his mind like a constant loop.

Since the phone call from McLaren, everything had gone spiraling. Two days later, Louis had stepped into their headquarters, the sheer scale of it had taken his breath away. It wasn’t just a workspace; it was a temple to speed and precision. Clean, sleek lines. Everything in its place. The noise of machinery and the chatter of engineers blended into an organized chaos that felt alive.

After the contracts were signed and the obligatory photos were taken, Louis was ushered into a sleek conference room to meet his new PR manager, Simon.

Simon Fuckin’ Cowell. Louis could already tell that he and Simon weren’t destined to be best mates.

The man was impeccably dressed, as if he’d walked straight off the cover of GQ. His tailored navy suit hugged him perfectly, his crisp white shirt practically glowing under the office lights. Even his graying stubble seemed deliberate, giving him an air of calculated authority. Simon’s steely gaze was sharp enough to cut through glass, and Louis knew this was someone who relished being in control. Louis, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly known for playing by anyone’s rules.

Their first meeting set the tone for what Louis suspected would be an ongoing battle of wills. The room was pristine, too pristine for Louis’ liking, as if any hint of chaos—or personality—had been deliberately erased. Simon’s team had prepared a full presentation about Louis: his personality traits, marketable qualities, potential partnerships, and sponsorships.

Louis had sat through most of it with his arms crossed, his foot tapping impatiently under the table. The slideshow flashed buzzwords like "relatable," "underdog appeal," and "authenticity" across the screen. They talked about branding him as the "everyman," someone who could connect with fans because he was from a working-class background, someone who stood out in a sport dominated by money and privilege.

At first, Louis just smirked, amused by how Simon and his team thought they could dissect his life into neat little bullet points. But then Simon started digging deeper, and Louis’ amusement quickly faded.

“Louis,” Simon said, clasping his hands together as though he were about to deliver a sermon. “Let’s address the... more sensitive aspects of your public image. For example, your past relationships. The media will dig up anything and everything, so we need to get ahead of it.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, already bristling. “What about my relationships?”

“Well,” Simon continued, his tone measured but annoyingly smug, “there was the... unique nature of some of your past involvements with men. While we respect your personal life, it does pose certain challenges when crafting your public image. Sponsors can be—”

Louis blinked, his irritation spiking instantly. His jaw tightened as he leaned forward, voice laced with disbelief. “Where the hell are you even getting that from?”

Simon didn’t flinch, merely tilting his head slightly. “We do our research, Louis.”

Louis’ grip on the edge of the table tightened. The fact that Simon even knew about this—about the occasional hookups, the fleeting nights that had never meant more than a bit of fun—unsettled him. He had never been in a relationship with a man, never put himself in a position where it could become something real. That part of himself had always been private, separate from everything else. Yet somehow, Simon had dug it up.

Louis scoffed, shaking his head. “Well, congratulations, Sherlock. You found out I’ve had a couple of one-night stands. Maybe even something that lasted a little longer—but that’s never been public, and it sure as hell isn’t anyone’s business but mine.” His voice dropped, sharp and unwavering. “I don’t know what your game is, but my sex life is not up for discussion. Not with you, not with sponsors, and certainly not with the media. So kindly piss off with that line of questioning.”

The room fell silent. Simon’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—disapproval? A challenge? Whatever it was, Louis didn’t care.

Simon cleared his throat, clearly trying to maintain control. “We’ll revisit that later,” he said, his tone brisk. “For now, let’s move on.”

But by then, Louis had already tuned out. The meeting dragged on, with Simon’s team droning about media strategies and PR campaigns. Louis kept his mouth shut, but internally, he was screaming. How the fuck is this my life now?

Then Simon clicked to the next slide, and Louis snapped back to attention.

“Louis,” Simon said, his tone oddly pleased. “Let’s talk about Harry Styles.”

The slide displayed a massive picture of Harry’s face—smiling serenely, his green eyes full of confidence. He wore a tailored Gucci suit, the epitome of elegance, and far too many rings for Louis’ liking.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Louis groaned, slumping in his chair. “What about him?” There was something else about Harry that made Louis’ stomach twist, but he wasn’t about to dwell on it now. There was more to Louis’ frustration than just Harry’s status, but that wasn’t something he was ready to unpack right now. Louis had long decided that Harry Styles was arrogant, self-centered, and cared little for the feelings of others. Even the mention of his name irritated Louis to no end—there was no escaping the shadow of Harry Styles, and that fact alone gnawed at him.

Simon adjusted his tie, his demeanor unshakable. “He’s the reigning world champion. The golden boy of Formula 1. And as you surely know, McLaren and Mercedes have a longstanding partnership. Many of our best drivers eventually move to their team. If you two could—”

“Nope,” Louis interrupted, snorting. “Not happening.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, and his gaze turned icy. “Louis, I’m not suggesting you have to be his best friend. But the media loves a good rivalry. If you play this right—”

“I’m not playing anything, mate,” Louis snapped, sitting up straighter. “I’ll race him, yeah? That’s it. I’m not interested in kissing his arse just because he’s everyone’s favorite.”

“Louis,” Simon began, his tone dangerously low.

“No.” Louis cut him off again, his frustration boiling over. “I get it, okay? He’s the posh boy. The trust-fund baby. Everyone loves him. Well, good for him. But I’m not here to be a part of some PR fairytale about us being best mates or bitter rivals. I’m here to drive. That’s it.”

Simon leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his eyes locked onto Louis like a predator sizing up its prey. “You don’t have to like him, Louis. But you will respect the fact that the media controls the narrative. If you refuse to play the game, they’ll write you as the arrogant IndyCar reject who doesn’t belong in Formula 1. Do you want that?”

Louis stared back, unfazed. “Let them. I’ve been underestimated my whole life. I don’t need their approval, and I sure as hell don’t need his.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Simon finally leaned back, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“Very well,” he said, his voice cold, it felt a bit like a threat to Louis. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As Louis left the meeting, slamming the door behind him, he muttered under his breath, “What a fuckin’ prick.”

He wasn’t here to play politics. He wasn’t here to win Simon’s approval—or anyone else’s, for that matter. He was here to race. And if that meant pissing off Simon Cowell and Harry Fuckin’ Styles in the process, even better.

Louis’ bold statement in the PR meeting and his dramatic exit hadn’t gone unnoticed. By the time he met Andrea Stella, McLaren’s team principal, the next day, the man was already chuckling as he walked up to Louis.

“Well, Louis,” Andrea started, a knowing smile playing on his lips, “you didn’t exactly make any friends in that meeting yesterday, did you? But I already knew you and Simon would be an explosive combination.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to take that as a compliment or a warning.

“That’s why I wanted you all along, you know,” Andrea continued, his tone sincere now. “You’re different from the rest of the drivers—not that polished arrogance that comes with a wealthy family. You’ve got grit, Tomlinson. And I like that.”

Louis allowed himself a small smirk.

“But seriously,” Andrea said, his voice dropping to a more serious undertone, “some of the things Simon says... as much as I hate to admit it, he’s got a point now and then. He’s a professional—some might even say the best in the business. Or, as Simon himself would say, ‘That’s what Simon says.’”

Louis barked a laugh at the cheesy line, the tension from the previous day momentarily dissipating.

“Bloody hell, Stella,” Louis replied, shaking his head with a grin. “Didn’t think you had dad jokes in your arsenal.”

Andrea clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll find I’m full of surprises, Tomlinson. Now, come on. Your team’s waiting in the garage.”

The garage was a whirlwind of activity when they arrived. Mechanics and engineers bustled around, fine-tuning every detail of the cars under the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of oil, rubber, and adrenaline filled the air.

Louis’ eyes immediately landed on Olli, who was standing by the car, wiping his grease-streaked hands on a rag. At 27, Olli was one of the youngest engineers on the team, but his reputation preceded him. He had a sharp mind, a quicker wit, and a cheeky grin that made him look like the kind of guy who could charm his way out of any pub brawl.

His hair was perpetually messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed and immediately dived headfirst under a car. His T-shirt was smudged with oil, and he had a twinkle in his eye that matched Louis’ energy perfectly.

As Louis stepped into the garage, Olli called out without even looking up from the car, “Oi, Tomlinson! Heard you already started a fight yesterday.”

Louis smirked, walking closer. “If you think that was my first fight, mate, you don’t know me at all.”

Olli grinned, dropping the rag and turning to face him. “Well, it’s good to know you’re keeping things interesting. Maybe Simon’s just upset because you didn’t compliment his suit. He’s very sensitive about that, you know.”

The rest of the team burst out laughing, and Louis couldn’t help but join in. “What, you think I should’ve kissed his arse? Maybe I’ll send him flowers to make up for it.”

“Or a mirror,” Olli added with a mock-serious expression. “Man loves to look at himself.”

Louis clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a cheeky little shit, aren’t you? I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

The laughter that followed felt genuine, and Louis couldn’t help but feel like he was starting to find his place here. This was a good start.

In the corner of the garage, Louis noticed Zayn, his new teammate. Zayn Malik was the complete opposite of Louis—quiet, reserved, and deliberate in everything he did. While Louis thrived on chaos and banter, Zayn seemed to exist in his own bubble of calm.

Zayn leaned casually against his car, arms crossed, his dark eyes observing everything with quiet intensity. He wasn’t standoffish, but he didn’t insert himself into the conversation either. Instead, he offered Louis a small smirk, as if to say, I’m watching you, mate.

And then there were the test drives. Bloody hell, the test drives.

Louis had strutted onto the track with the kind of confidence that came from years of dominating the IndyCar series. But the moment he slid behind the wheel of the McLaren, reality hit him like a freight train.

This wasn’t IndyCar. Everything about the car was sharper—faster, more sensitive, less forgiving. His first laps were a disaster. He misjudged corners, overcompensated on straights, and wrestled with the car as it skidded and slid beneath him.

His frustration mounted with every mistake. By the third lap, he was swearing loudly into the radio.

“Take it easy, Tommo,” Olli’s voice crackled through the earpiece, calm and steady. “This ain’t a sprint, yeah? You’re driving it like it’s a bloody go-kart. Relax. Feel the car.”

Louis gritted his teeth but nodded, forcing himself to breathe and ease off the aggression. Olli’s voice came again, this time with a hint of mischief. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t crash it. This ain’t IndyCar, mate. We don’t have the budget for your tantrums.”

“Oi, watch it!” Louis shot back, but there was a grin tugging at his lips now.

By the end of the week, things started to click. He was shaving seconds off his lap times, finally finding the rhythm of the car. It wasn’t perfect—Louis didn’t like being humbled, but he knew he was improving.

Olli met him in the pit after his last session, handing him a beer with a grin. “Not bad, Tommo. Might even start calling you a proper F1 driver soon.”

“Cheers, mate,” Louis replied, leaning against the car. “And maybe I’ll start calling you an engineer instead of a bloody comedian.”

Olli smirked. “Careful, Tommo. I’m still in charge of your brakes.”

Louis full-heartedly laughed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Maybe I should think about kissing your arse instead of Simon’s.”

--

Louis smiled as he thought about the past few weeks; for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was finally regaining some control over his life, when suddenly a pillow hit him in his face. Niall cackled, ‘Watch it mate,’ Louis sighed but focused on the tele again.

“Look at him. „Lottie pointed at the screen with a crisp in her hand and raised her eyebrows. ‘Our little superstar. Looks like someone made him put on that suit.’

“Maybe because that's fuckin’ exactly what happened,” Louis replied dryly. “I wanted to come in jeans, but the PR team said I had to “look respectable.”

“Respectable?” Niall laughed so loudly he nearly spilled his pint. “You look like you're about to advertise a life insurance policy.”

“Oi, shut up, Nialler.” Louis threw a pillow at him, which his friend fended off snickering.

“Come on, Lou.” Lottie leant back on the sofa, her legs tucked under her. “You look good, even by your standards. Maybe you should-“

 “He should look serious more often’ Niall interrupted, still grinning. “Good idea, Lottie. Maybe he could get an insurance company to sponsor him then, people will think he actually knows what he's doing.”

“You two are impossible.” Louis shook his head, though he couldn't help a small smile. “At least if you two took turns, it would be more bearable.”

“Oh, Lou.” Lottie patted him on the arm. “We're here to keep you grounded. You know, so the fame doesn't go to your head.”

“Exactly,” Niall agreed, his index finger raised. “If it wasn't for us, you'd soon think you were the next Lewis Hamilton.”

“Or Harry Styles,” Lottie added, and she and Niall burst out laughing at the same time.

Louis sighed and ran his fingers through his hair as he stared at the screen where he was answering the presenter's question about why he had decided to switch from IndyCar to Formula 1. The PR-Team had given him a brief overview of what to say – as if it was his first interview. He had memorized it, but now it sounded strangely distant. It had been his dream, and now that he had achieved it, he wasn't sure he was ready for what was to come. He was nervous as hell.

“Oh, wait a minute.” Lottie's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “They asked Harry Styles about you, Lou – now this should be fun”

Louis snorted softly, but before he could say anything in reply, the presenter of the interview on the TV cut into the scene.

“And now to Harry Styles, the reigning world champion for Mercedes. We asked him what he thought of the decision to appoint Louis Tomlinson as the new driver at McLaren.”

“For fucks sake” Louis snorted, closing his eyes and leaning his head back on the sofa  “I don’t want to hear what that rich kid has to say about me”

“Well don’t be ridiculous we all want that! Bloody hell - Harry Styles knows who you are” Niall literally jumped out of his seat and leaned forward.

Louis wasn’t one to let his new rivals get under his skin—he was all too familiar with the small (and sometimes bigger) battles with drivers from other IndyCar teams. But this was Formula One, and it felt completely different. The insecurity about his new position gnawed at him. Despite working tirelessly to get here, he still felt like the underdog—like maybe he didn’t truly deserve it, and he certainly didn’t want to hear what Harry Fuckin’ Styles had to say about it

On the screen, the young champion appeared. The trust-fund-baby, as Louis used to call him, annoyed the hell out of him. This boy never had to fight for his place in Formula One, since his father was the famous fucking Desmond Styles – as rich and famous an entrepreneur as one could get.

Harry’s green eyes stared directly into the camera confidently, almost like a challenge to anyone who dared to disagree with him. They were of a special green, somehow always seeming to dominate the fucking conversation, even when he said nothing. His curly, dark hair fell carefree into his face, as if he put no effort into it, but still looked like he’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. – How fuckin ridiculous, right?

It wasn’t like it got any better with his large smile, his expression a perfect blend of arrogance and smugness. Louis rolled his eyes internally. "He looks like a frog," he muttered, only to get the usual response from his sister: "Harry Styles is just too hot!" 
And Niall that wanker snorted in agreement — well, whatever!

Harry sat casually in a fine leather armchair, his perfectly fitting Gucci Suite was immaculate, as if he had just pulled it out of the box. But it wasn’t just the suit that drew attention. It was the rings sparkling in the spotlight. A collection of bold pieces adorning his fingers, as if he wanted to show everyone how much he could afford without even caring. He is such a show-off, Louis thought annoyed

“Tomlinson?” he began with his dark, raspy voice, and even his tone dripped with mockery. “Oh, that's the IndyCar guy, isn’t it? Yeah, I've heard of him. Quite nice what he's doing over there, I guess. But...”

He paused and shrugged his shoulders with an arrogance that was palpable even through the television. “This isn't IndyCar. It's about precision, strategy, the pressure of going up against the best drivers in the world.”

Harry leaned forward as if to make sure everyone in the audience heard every word. “Look, I get it, McLaren’s desperate. They need someone to bring them some attention. An ex-IndyCar champion comes here and thinks he can challenge us? It's certainly a good story for the media. But seriously?” Harry’s green eyes suddenly stared directly into the camera, as if he knew Louis was watching “I hope he enjoys being overtaken. He won't see much more of this.” He lets out a soft laugh that was almost a cough.

"Wow," Lottie said, staring at the now-black TV screen since Louis had turned it off with a quick, dismissive press of the remote. "That was... nice."

Louis snorted, leaning back into the couch with an exaggerated stretch, his arms behind his head. "Don’t care. He can talk all he wants. Won’t change a thing."

"Come on, Lou!" Niall laughed loudly, raising his glass. "Harry Styles! The champion! He knows your name. That’s gotta mean something, right?"

Louis shrugged, grabbing a crisp from the bowl on the table. "Means nothing to me, mate. I’m here to drive, not to impress some posh boy in a Gucci suit."

But as Louis spoke, there was an undeniable nervousness buzzing under the surface. The memory of two years ago crept into his mind, uninvited. It had been a night out with his mates, Niall included, in a crowded club. The music was loud, the drinks flowed easily, and then… there he was. This beautiful boy, staring directly at him.

Louis had been caught off guard by the sheer presence of the boy. Those piercing green eyes had locked onto his from across the room, and it felt like everything around them had faded into a blur. The long brown curls, soft and perfect, the mischievous smirk, and the way his lips curved when he smiled. Louis’ heart had raced. It wasn’t just attraction; it was something electric.

They’d ended up talking and then… well, making out heavily in a dark corner of the club. It had been good, better than good. Louis had gone further than he usually did, he gave that boy a fuckin blowjob - he would have never done that with anyone but there had been a strange, undeniable connection, it felt right at that time. For a moment, he’d let himself believe it might be something more.

But then Edward, as the boy had introduced himself, had excused himself to go to the loo. Louis had waited, his heart thumping in his chest, anticipation brewing. Until he saw Edward leaving the bar with someone else, as though the moments they’d shared had meant absolutely nothing. It hadn’t been love—Louis wasn’t naïve—but it had still stung, deeply. This boy had been nothing more than a selfish arsehole, Louis had decided.

And then, as if to rub salt in the wound, Edward turned out to be Harry Fuckin’ Styles, exploding onto the scene as the youngest Formula 1 world champion in decades. His face was everywhere—magazines, TV, billboards. The boy Louis had kissed in a club was now the golden boy of Formula 1, the epitome of success and arrogance. To hear a comment from him now, two years later, felt like a cruel twist of fate.

Niall leaned forward, grinning.

"But he thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he? All that talk about overtaking you. Imagine the look on his face when you leave him in the dust." Niall always had his head in the clouds, Louis thought affectionately. He loved the guy, but Niall had never been good at picking up on subtleties. He hadn’t even recognized who Louis had been snogging two years ago in that club—not that Louis had realized at the time either. When Edward, or Harry as it turned out, had left the bar with someone else, Louis had been in a foul mood for weeks. How was Niall supposed to figure it out now, after all this time? That thought made Louis’ lips curl slightly, a mix of exasperation and amusement tugging at him.

"Good for him," Louis said lightly, popping the crisp into his mouth. "Let him think whatever he wants. His opinion’s got about as much value as this soggy crisp I’m eating."

Lottie rolled her eyes and tossed another crisp at him, hitting him square in the chest. "Well, at least he remembered your name. That’s something, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, right. Add that to my CV," Louis said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. "‘Louis Tomlinson—IndyCar champ, F1 rookie, officially recognized by Harry bloody Styles.’ I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that."

Niall burst out laughing, almost spilling his pint. "You’ve got a point there, mate. Who gives a toss what he thinks? You’ll prove it on the track anyway."

Louis smirked, his blue eyes glinting with quiet confidence. "Exactly. I don’t need his approval. All that matters is how I drive. The rest is just noise."

Lottie grinned, tucking her legs under her. "Good. That’s the spirit. Just don’t let his annoyingly beautiful face distract you when you’re overtaking him."

"Beautiful face?" Louis laughed, shaking his head. Those sharp green eyes, the effortless way his curls fell into his face, and that soft, almost bashful laugh—it all annoyed the absolute shit out of him. "Trust me, when the day comes, I’ll enjoy watching that smug expression fade in my rearview mirror."

Niall raised his glass again, grinning broadly. "Cheers to that, Tommo."

Louis reached for another crisp, casually flicking the remote back onto the coffee table. "Let him say what he wants. I’ve got bigger things to focus on."

But as much as he played it cool, Louis couldn’t ignore the nervous energy buzzing beneath the surface. He wasn’t there yet—not by a long shot. The gap between a rookie and a reigning world champion was a chasm he’d need time and grit to bridge. Harry Styles wasn’t just the golden boy; he was the boy to beat, and Louis knew that, for now, the idea of overtaking him was still a dream.

Still, he wasn’t the type to shy away from a challenge. He’d been underestimated his whole life—brushed aside as just another working-class kid with a pipe dream. He’d proved everyone wrong once, and he’d do it again.

Louis snorted, leaning back against the sofa. He couldn’t afford to think about Styles or anyone else. His focus had to be on himself—on getting better, sharper, faster.

One day, he thought, he’d be ready. And when that day came, Harry Fuckin’ Styles would have no choice but to see him as an equal.

But until then, Louis Tomlinson had a lot to learn. And he was ready to put in the work.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The crisp spring air wrapped itself around Harry Styles as he strolled alongside his older sister, Gemma, down Bond Street, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming flowers and freshly brewed coffee from nearby cafés. The famous London shopping avenue was alive with energy, its wide pavements bustling with stylish shoppers and tourists. Window displays glimmered with new designer collections, each store flaunting its unique elegance with mannequins draped in the latest haute couture. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with faint traces of luxury perfumes wafting out of boutiques, completing the atmosphere of indulgence. Harry tugged his coat tighter against a soft breeze, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He wasn’t thrilled about this outing, but Gemma had insisted, and he found it hard to say no to her. Despite her quiet demeanor, she had an unshakable influence over him, a calming presence that helped him sort through the chaos in his head.

"So," Gemma began, breaking the comfortable silence as her boots clicked softly against the stone pavement. She looked up at Harry with an amused glint in her eye, her caramel-brown hair tucked neatly under a beige beret. "How’s the circus?"

Harry chuckled dryly. "The circus? Oh, you mean the ‘Harry Styles, Golden Boy of Formula 1’ show? It’s delightful," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Between Nick pushing Taylor and me onto every red carpet and Dad calling me daily with his pearls of wisdom, it’s just...perfect."

Gemma’s soft laugh warmed the chill in the air. "Dad’s just being...well, Dad. He probably thinks he’s helping."

"Helping?" Harry scoffed, kicking at a loose pebble on the pavement. "He calls me at seven in the bloody morning to lecture me about how to stand for photos. Who even does that?"

"A man who’s spent his entire life micromanaging his own image," Gemma replied, raising a brow. "I’m not saying he’s right, but he means well in his own...complicated way. You know that better than anyone."

Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. She was right, as usual. Desmond Styles had built an empire with his unrelenting drive and perfectionism, and it bled into every corner of his life, including his relationships with his children.

"He’s on you more because he worries," Gemma added gently. "You being...you. It’s not an easy path in a sport like Formula 1."

Harry’s gaze flicked to her, his green eyes narrowing slightly. "You mean because I’m gay?"

Gemma stopped walking, her hand lightly resting on his arm. "Yes, Harry. It’s hard enough for anyone in F1, but being who you are? I know you’re strong, but sometimes I wonder if you’re ready for everything that might come with it. The world’s changing, sure, but not fast enough."

Harry shrugged off her concern with a wry smile. "I’m fine, Gem. I’ve got thick skin."

"Do you?" she asked softly, tilting her head. "Because I’ve been hearing things. About you and Liam. About the late nights and the drinking. When was the last time you slept properly?"

Harry hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the rings on his fingers. "I’m sleeping fine. And Liam’s just...he’s fun to be around. He takes the edge off, you know?"

Gemma frowned slightly but her tone softened. "I know Liam…I like him. He’s a good guy, Harry. He wants everyone to be happy—you can see it in how he acts. But the two of you together? You’re trouble. You don’t know when to stop, and I’m not sure if it’s doing either of you any good. Lately, I’ve noticed the tabloids starting to pick up on it. Mostly gossip rags for now, but if you’re not careful, it’s going to get worse."" She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It’s just... I want you to have someone who grounds you. Someone who’s really there for you. Do you have that? Is there someone?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by her question. For a moment, an image flashed in his mind—a pair of piercing blue eyes, sharp and intense, filled with a fire that both intimidated and fascinated him. But then his thoughts wandered further: countless faces, countless nights spent out with people who saw him only as Harry Styles, the racing star, and never as just Harry. Always on edge, always wary, he couldn’t help but question whether anyone truly wanted him for who he was. And maybe, just maybe, it was easier that way—because even when there was no chemistry, no spark, at least he could walk away unscathed. But there were moments, late at night when the noise of the world faded, that he wondered if he was even capable of real, romantic love. Was something broken in him, or was it just the armor he’d built around himself to survive the spotlight? Shaking the thought away almost immediately, he sighed. "No," he said lightly, though his voice faltered. "There’s no one."

Gemma studied him, her expression tinged with concern. "Harry...you deserve to have someone real. Not just for show or to make Nick happy. Someone who actually sees you for you. I see the way you put yourself out there—going on dates, meeting people—but it’s like you’re always holding part of yourself back. You’re scared they won’t want Harry the person, just Harry the driver, the public figure. And maybe you’re right, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. If you find someone who’s willing to see you, really see you, then you have to let them in. Promise me you’ll at least try?"

Harry forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Alright, alright. I’ll keep my eyes open."

Gemma gave him a small, knowing smile. "Good. That’s all I ask."

As they continued walking, a voice interrupted their stroll. "Oh my god, Harry Styles!" a young woman exclaimed, practically bouncing as she approached. She clutched her phone tightly, her excitement impossible to miss.

Harry straightened instinctively, the mask slipping effortlessly into place. His charming smile appeared, warm and dazzling. "Hi there," he greeted smoothly, his voice as disarming as ever. "What’s your name?"

"Emily," she managed to stammer, holding out her phone. "Can I...can I get a picture?"

"Of course," Harry replied, stepping beside her. Noticing her petite frame—she couldn’t have been taller than 1.60 meters—Harry leaned down, bending slightly so they could fit perfectly into the frame. "Alright, Emily, say cheese," he said with a soft chuckle, winking playfully as the camera clicked.

After the snap, she beamed. "Thank you so much! You’re amazing."

"My pleasure," Harry said, his tone warm and flirtatious as he gave her another quick wink. Emily’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink before she skipped off, clutching her phone like a treasure.

Gemma, watching the entire exchange, crossed her arms and gave him a bemused look. "And that," she said pointedly as they resumed walking, "is exactly what I meant earlier."

"What?" Harry asked, glancing at her with a mixture of confusion and defensiveness.

"That," Gemma said, gesturing in the direction the fan had gone. "Who was that just now? The charming Womanizer act? Was that even you? Or just the Golden Boy routine?"

Harry frowned slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It’s just...what people expect," he muttered.

Gemma sighed. "I know why you do it, Harry, but you can’t lose yourself in it. You need to figure out where the act ends and you begin." She shook her head gently as they stopped in front of the Givenchy store. "It’s exhausting just watching you sometimes."

Harry didn’t reply, instead turning toward the boutique’s entrance. "Let’s just go in here, yeah?" he said flatly.

Gemma’s expression softened, her eyes flicking to his tense shoulders. "Oh!  I’ve been dying to see their new collection."

Louis POV

The Givenchy boutique was quiet, its minimalist decor exuding effortless luxury. Sleek black shelves displayed carefully curated collections, the lighting casting a soft glow over the fabrics. The interior was a haven of understated luxury, the air perfumed with subtle floral notes. Large mirrors reflected the perfectly arranged racks of designer clothes, their sharp cuts and luxurious materials a stark contrast to Louis' relaxed style - he didn't care about expensive brands, but that had to change - according to Simon.

He had arranged the deal with Givenchy, and now Louis and Zayn had been in the store for more than an hour, being fitted and styled by thes team. The boutique wasn’t just about suits—Louis was getting an entire wardrobe tailored to his style, which, thankfully, included pieces that suited his natural preferences. Stylish, but comfortable. He wasn’t someone who wanted to be restricted by stiff blazers all the time.

At first, Louis had his doubts about Zayn. In interviews, he had always seemed reserved, distant even—like someone who had no interest in forming personal connections. Louis wasn’t sure they’d get along at all. But now, after spending over an hour together, he realized how wrong he had been. Zayn wasn’t cold; he was just careful. He chose his words with precision, speaking only when he had something meaningful to say. And, most of all, he wasn’t someone who gave his time freely to just anyone—he wanted to be sure the people around him were worth it.

Louis found himself appreciating that. The more they talked, the more he felt like they could actually become friends. Real friends. He hadn’t expected that.

Most of the time, they were left alone. At the beginning, sales assistants hovered around them, eager to help, but Louis had quickly and politely set his boundaries. With a cheeky grin, he had said, "I can pick my clothes myself, thanks. Even my mum wouldn’t be picking them out for me anymore if she were still around." His tone was light, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "But if you could bring me that suit from the window display, that’d be great. The rest, I’ll handle." The staff had taken the hint and backed off, leaving Louis and Zayn to wander freely. The lack of interruptions allowed their conversations to take a more personal turn.

Between outfit changes, they found themselves talking about their families—Zayn spoke fondly of his sisters, and Louis, to his own surprise, realized how much he missed his own.

"So, IndyCar’s really that different?" Zayn asked, adjusting the cuff of his tailored jacket as he examined himself in the mirror.

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Mate, it’s a whole different world. In IndyCar, no one cared what I did outside of racing. The press wasn’t following me around, trying to twist every little thing into some scandal. I could just... be. But here? I haven’t even raced my first race yet, and suddenly everyone’s got an opinion."

Zayn nodded knowingly. "Yeah, Formula 1 thrives on narratives. You’re not just a driver here, you’re a brand, a story for people to pick apart. You feel it yet?"

Louis exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, I feel it. And I don’t like it much. I get why it’s the way it is, but it’s exhausting. I just want to focus on the racing."

Zayn shot him a small, understanding smile. "It gets easier. But you have to be smart about it. The moment you stop controlling your own story, someone else will do it for you."

He hesitated, then glanced at Louis again, this time with a more serious expression. "By the way, what exactly happened between you and Simon? What set all of this off?"

Louis exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the weight of the question. "I wish I knew," he admitted. "Man, i don't know - Simon and I just don't get along very well, i think he can't take someone who is not his little puppet he can play with."

Harry's POV
Harry groaned but followed Gemma into the gleaming boutique. Black-clad staff moved gracefully through the space, their smiles professional but warm as they greeted him. The faint sound of classical music played softly in the background, blending seamlessly with the hushed murmurs of other shoppers. Gemma disappeared into the racks of clothing almost immediately, leaving Harry to linger by a display table stacked with glossy coffee table books. He toyed with the pearl necklace around his neck, his gaze catching his own reflection in a nearby mirror.

He studied himself for a moment—the tailored green jacket, the striped shirt underneath, the way his femininity subtly defied the expectations of someone in his world. His green eyes, framed by dark lashes, seemed to hold an uncertainty that betrayed the confident persona he presented. His soft, pink lips curved naturally, giving his face a delicate balance of strength and vulnerability. He wondered, not for the first time, why no one had outright questioned his sexuality. It was something so intrinsically part of him, reflected in the way he carried himself and the quiet confidence in his femininity, yet the world seemed determined to see only the version of Harry Styles that fit its expectations. Maybe it was easier for them to ignore it altogether, but it left Harry feeling like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong space. Maybe the world only saw what it wanted to see, and Harry Styles, Golden Boy, wasn’t meant to be gay.

Bored, Harry drifted aimlessly through the racks, his hands brushing against the soft fabrics but his mind elsewhere. A sales assistant approached with a warm smile, her voice gentle as she asked, "May I show you something in particular?"

Harry returned the smile politely but shook his head. "No, thanks. Just waiting for my sister."

She nodded understandingly and stepped away, leaving Harry to his own devices. He pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly through his messages, barely registering the screen. The boutique’s elegant atmosphere seemed to lull him into a haze, the soft classical music blending with the muffled hum of voices.

Then, a voice cut through the fog, distinct and sharp. It pulled Harry out of his thoughts, making him glance up instinctively. He recognized that voice. It pulled at him, magnetic and irresistible, like a moth drawn to a flame. Looking toward the fitting area, he caught a glimpse of two figures. His heart skipped a beat as recognition dawned. Louis Tomlinson stood there, talking animatedly with Zayn Malik.

Louis, dressed in a distressed denim jacket over a simple white T-shirt, exuded a nonchalant coolness. His hair was an artful mess of brown waves, the kind of effortlessly tousled look that only seemed natural on someone like him. Tattoos snaked up his arms, peeking out from under the rolled sleeves of his jacket, each one telling a story Harry could only guess at. He stood there with a wide-legged stance, radiating an ease as though he could take on the entire world without a second thought. His piercing blue eyes sparkled with both intensity and mischief as he gestured emphatically with his hands, exuding a confident lightness that was impossible to ignore.

"...look, mate, I’m not apologizing for who I am," Louis said, his voice carrying an edge of defiance. "I’ve always lived my life on my own terms, and I’m not about to change that. Why does Simon always have a problem with how I do things, he can shove it, how did he even find out? I think this is what annoys me the most you know." Louis paused for a moment, looking around. "I’ve never actually been in a real relationship with a man," Louis admitted, his voice quieter than before. "Flirting, sure. Sometimes something casual, a few one-night stands, maybe even something that lasted a little longer. But a proper relationship? Never really worked out."

Zayn nodded slowly, letting Louis take his time.

"Back in IndyCar, it was never an issue," Louis continued, running a hand through his hair. "No one cared. No press speculation, no PR headaches. And now, suddenly, Simon knows?" He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I don’t even know where he got that from. And honestly? Isn't it just my business?"

Zayn sighed, crossing his arms as he studied Louis. "Formula 1 is different, Lou," he said evenly. "If there’s even a whiff of a story, and the media decide they want to take you down, they’ll do it. A relationship with a man, in a sport with a predominantly male and often conservative fanbase? That’s all the ammunition they’d need."

Louis furrowed his brow, shaking his head. "I don’t even have anyone right now, that is important, apart from my sisters," he muttered. "so why should I start worrying about it now?" He let out a slow breath before meeting Zayn’s eyes. "I promised my mum I’d always be myself, no matter what. So if someday I do have a relationship with a man, or if it even looks like I do, then I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it."

Zayn exhaled slowly, his gaze serious as he studied Louis for a long moment. "Lou, you need to listen to me. You have to be careful—really careful. Simon isn’t someone you want to get on the wrong side of. He’s powerful, and he knows how to manipulate situations to his advantage. If you give him even the smallest reason, he’ll twist things in ways you can’t even imagine. You don’t want to make it harder on yourself, than this sport already is.”

Louis frowned, his jaw tightening. "I get it, Zayn, but I can’t live my life afraid of what he might do."

Zayn shook his head. "It’s not about fear, it’s about being smart. I’ve seen bigger names than you get crushed because they underestimated the machine that runs this sport. Simon controls narratives, Louis. If he wants to make your life miserable, he will. Just..." He hesitated before continuing, his voice quieter. "Just don’t give him a reason. Be yourself, but don’t hand him the ammunition to use it against you." Zayn glanced at Louis with a hint of worry.

Louis' lips parted as though to speak, but he paused as a sales assistant approached. She cast an approving eye over Zayn’s suit, adjusting the fabric at the shoulders before murmuring something about finding the perfect belt to match. Zayn nodded politely, exchanging a few words with her as she stepped away. Returning his attention to Louis, his caramel eyes flicked back with quiet intensity.

Zayn sighed, shaking his head as he adjusted his cufflinks. "I get it, man. I do. But this is a game, and if you don’t play it right, they’ll make you regret it. Just...don’t give them anything. You need to understand, Louis, that this isn’t IndyCar. You can’t just brush this off and hope it goes away. Simon has his ways, and trust me, you don’t want to be on the receiving end of his bad side. He can turn things against you faster than you realize."

Louis furrowed his brow, his earlier confidence giving way to something more pensive. His fingers tapped idly against his forearm as he considered Zayn’s words, and for the first time in their conversation, he looked uncertain. "I get what you’re saying, Zayn, I really do. But what am I supposed to do? Pretend I’m someone I’m not? Hide who I am just because it might make things harder for me?"

Zayn exhaled, his eyes filled with concern. "I’m not saying hide, Lou. I’m saying be careful. Play it smart. There’s a difference between being true to yourself and making yourself an easy target. And right now? You’re making yourself an easy target."

Harry, still watching from a distance, found himself begrudgingly agreeing with Zayn. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, Louis was setting himself up for a fall. He was naïve if he thought he could waltz into Formula 1 and act like the rules didn’t apply to him. This sport wasn’t kind, and Louis was going to learn that the hard way. Harry had no doubt about it. Louis could talk all he wanted about staying true to himself, but at the end of the day, the reality of Formula 1 would catch up with him. It always did.

Louis let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening as he furrowed his brow. But why should I start worrying about this now?” His fingers drummed against his arm, irritation creeping into his voice. "Simon needs to back off. He’s acting like there’s some scandal brewing when there’s nothing. No one in F1, or anywhere else for that matter, has any reason to think I’m bi or gay. So why can’t he just let it go?"

Zayn studied him carefully, but Louis wasn’t done. "I get it, okay? I know F1 is different. But I also know that I can’t live my life constantly looking over my shoulder just because people might assume something. If I ever do end up in a relationship with a guy or the media is about to speculate, then fine, we can talk about it, but until then, I refuse to let Simon—or anyone else—dictate how I live."

Zayn sighed, his expression still heavy with concern, but he nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But just...keep your head down when you need to, yeah?"

At that moment, the same young sales assistant from earlier approached Louis with a sleek dark suit in hand. She handed Zayn the matching belt she had fetched, then turned her attention to Louis, smiling warmly—almost flirtatiously. Tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder, she said, "Let me show you to the fitting room," her gaze lingering on Louis for a moment longer than necessary. Harry frowned slightly, finding her demeanor less professional than what he expected from a Givenchy employee. When Louis responded with a playful, "Cheers, love," paired with a flirtatious smirk, tossing her an easy wink, Harry’s frown deepened. The way she tossed her hair back and giggled at his words felt out of place in such a polished setting.

Harry couldn’t help but feel a small, nagging irritation—though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

Louis, however, seemed unfazed. Instead of following her to the fitting area, he casually shrugged out of the givenchy jacket he was wearing right there next to Zayn. Unbothered by the attention, he handed the jacket to the assistant and, without hesitation, pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing the full expanse of ink across his arms and chest. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, turning slightly before nodding in approval. "I’ll take it like this," he said casually to the sales assistant, flashing a small smirk. "No need for extra fuss, I know what I like." Harry scoffed internally. Did this guy have some kind of problem? This was the third time he’d seen Louis Tomlinson, and every time, he was either shirtless or in a tank top. Did he have some kind of allergy against fabrics? Even in a boutique like Givenchy, Louis acted like it was no big deal. Harry rolled his eyes, though his throat felt dry as his gaze lingered against his will. He hated admitting it, but Louis looked undeniably good—his defined, athletic torso and the tattoos sprawled across his skin had an almost forbidden allure. The words "It is what it is" etched boldly across his chest, combined with the dagger on his arm, the compass pointing who knew where, and even a tic-tac-toe game inked among the chaos, all seemed to tell a story Harry couldn’t decipher. Louis stood there, unabashedly confident, radiating an ease that both irritated and captivated Harry. That kind of self-assurance—it made Harry’s skin prickle with annoyance. Who had the right to be that comfortable in their own skin?

The sales assistant stepped forward, fussing with the suit as Louis slipped into the trousers. She adjusted the waistband and hem, her attention lingering on Louis a little too long, her smile warm and almost coy. Tossing her hair back, she murmured about the fit, her eyes flicking up to meet Louis’ in the mirror. Louis responded with a polite, "Thanks, love," his tone casual, but the flirtatious edge in his smirk was unmistakable. Harry felt an unexpected irritation rise in his chest. The assistant’s demeanor struck him as unprofessional for a Givenchy boutique, but what bothered him more was his own reaction. He couldn’t understand why it grated on him so much. Louis, meanwhile, stood still, completely at ease in his skin, unbothered by the attention. The way he carried himself sent a pang of something unnameable through Harry.

"You’ve got guts," Zayn said quietly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His gaze flicked to Louis’s reflection in the mirror, then away again. When the sales assistant had left, Zayn’s expression shifted into something more direct. "Doesn’t it get on your nerves, though? The way she was flirting with you?"

Louis shrugged, brushing a hand through his hair, his smirk still faintly in place. "Oh, come on Mate, you know how it is, i mean look at you. And to be fair i know i'm good lookin guy,' he laughed' She’s just doing her thing. Doesn’t bother me, and I’m not interested. I’m just being polite." His tone was light but definitive.

Zayn tilted his head, studying Louis for a moment. "Fair enough," he said, though his voice carried a note of hesitation. He shifted slightly, glancing at Louis’s tattoos before returning to the earlier topic. "Speaking of people who don’t know when to back off... What are you going to do about Simon and the PR stuff?"

Louis’s expression darkened, and the smirk that had been so present moments ago wavered slightly. He glanced around, his blue eyes scanning the boutique as if checking whether anyone had overheard their conversation. When he was sure no one was paying attention, he exhaled sharply, his voice dropping to a lower, more uncertain tone. "I don’t even know what to do about Simon, Zayn," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right now, I just... I don’t want to do anything. There’s nothing happening, no reason for anyone to even think I’m bi or gay. So why is he making this a thing?"

Zayn studied him carefully, concern still etched on his face. Louis’ fingers twitched at his sides, his frustration barely masked by the casual stance he tried to maintain. For all his confidence, there was something hesitant in the way he spoke, like he was still trying to convince himself that ignoring it would make it go away.

From his spot nearby, Harry watched the interaction closely. And despite Louis’ defiance, Harry could swear he caught the briefest flicker of worry on his face. Maybe Louis wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted everyone to believe. Maybe, deep down, he knew Zayn was right.

Louis sighed, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "I don’t want to talk about this anymore," he muttered, turning away slightly, as if to physically distance himself from the topic. "It’s not like it changes anything." Louis replied, pulling on the suit jacket. The tailored black Givenchy piece hugged his frame with precision, the subtle pin closure at the waist adding a modern edge to the classic silhouette. The bold cut accentuated his lean, athletic build, while the minimalist design brought out his natural confidence. He turned this way and that in front of the mirror, his fingers brushing through his messy hair as he examined the fit, the soft fabric moving effortlessly with him. The jacket’s sleek lines contrasted perfectly with the casual chaos of his tattoos peeking out from underneath. "What do you think?"

"Perfect," Zayn said with a small smirk, nodding approvingly. "Even Simon would approve. You pull it off like it was made for you."

Harry’s phone vibrated in his hands, startling him, and slipped from his grasp and clattered loudly against a metal clothing rack. The sharp sound cut through the quiet boutique, drawing the attention of Zayn and Louis.

Louis POV

The loud, metallic clang shattered the moment. Louis and Zayn both turned abruptly, their gazes snapping toward the source of the noise.

Harry stood there, his look was something Louis couldn’t quite wrap his head around. He was wearing a striped shirt under a sage green jacket adorned with embroidered details—something Louis wouldn’t have picked himself but somehow suited him. His brown corduroy trousers flared slightly at the bottom, hugging his legs in a way that was almost irritatingly stylish. Paired with black Vans and that ever-present pearl necklace, he looked like a blend of old-school charm and modern eccentricity. His hair was its usual mess of waves, and His wide, startled green eyes framed by long lashes darted between them, his lips slightly parted in an almost guilty expression.

He was looking as if he'd been caught red-handed.

Louis felt irritation flare in his chest. Had the fucker been listening in? He narrowed his eyes, studying Harry, taking in the familiar yet changed figure in front of him. The striped shirt, the pearl necklace, the tousled curls—it was the same Harry Styles, and yet, something was different. He looked older, sharper. Taller, even? Had he always been that tall? It was irritating how much space he took up. And that mouth—pfft—Louis couldn't help but think he looked like a damn frog.

A nosy, overly polished, rule-abiding frog who was far too interested in things that weren’t his business.

How much had he heard? Should Louis even care? Argh.

Thankfully, Zayn took charge, smoothly stepping forward to greet Harry, exchanging polite pleasantries like old friends. Louis only half-listened as they spoke, too busy assessing the situation. He knew they had history—both had been in Formula 2 together, then moved up the ranks of Formula 1. Back then, they had even hung out more often. Louis knew that much. Still, that didn’t mean he had to like him now.

Then, inevitably, Zayn turned toward him, his caramel gaze expectant. "Louis, this is Harry."

Louis let his expression shift into something more detached, setting his carefully crafted mask into place. He smirked, tilting his head just enough to let his gaze rake over Harry. "What was it? Edward?" he drawled, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Nah, I'm just joking - of course I know who you are."

Harry blinked, his jaw tensing for just a moment before he scoffed. Louis smirk widened he crossed his arms, watching the flicker of confusion cross Harry’s face  "Caught your interview about me—you know, the one where you said McLaren must be desperate to have me as their new driver."

Zayn shifted slightly, sensing the shift in energy, but Louis wasn’t done. He took a casual step forward, leveling Harry with a challenging stare. "So, Harry," he gestured at the Givenchy suit he was trying on, "what do you think? Do I fit the part, or do I still look ‘desperate’?" His voice carried a mocking lilt, daring Harry to respond.

Harry’s cheeks tinged pink, but his posture remained firm. He straightened slightly, as if reminding himself of his media training, but Louis saw the flicker of something else—defiance.

"Well, the suit looks good on you," Harry admitted smoothly, his voice tinged with just enough arrogance. "I suppose we’ll see if you fit when the season starts. Dress-up is one thing; the track’s another."

Louis raised a brow, his smirk sharpening. "Sure," he said lazily. "Guess you’ll get to see if McLaren’s ‘desperation’ pays off. But hey," he added with a grin, "I’m happy to give you a front-row seat to my so-called rookie chaos. Better buckle up, Styles."

Louis' smirk deepened as he took another step forward, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He had him. Harry's words faltered slightly, his confidence wavering. Louis could see it, could feel it. And fuck, that only made his own irritation spike. This arrogant prick who thought the world revolved around him, who had left Louis standing in that club two years ago just to saunter off with someone else.

Harry stepped forward, his smirk returning as he tilted his head slightly. "Hm, what do you think? Should I just bring some popcorn for the disaster, or would a five-course meal be more fitting to watch you fall apart in style?"

Louis' fingers twitched at his sides. He should let it go. He really should. But instead, his mouth acted faster than his brain. Louis tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Oh, you might want to skip the meal altogether, Styles. Wouldn’t want you choking, when I overtake you. Be a shame, really—wasting all that food, not to mention that pretty neck of yours." His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, but beneath it burned something far more dangerous—something raw and untamed.

Harry inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching, and Louis could hear how his breathing had become just a little more erratic.

Zayn cleared his throat, stepping between them. "Alright, you two," he said, his voice now laced with clear irritation, "let’s save the fireworks for the track, yeah?"

Harry’s cheeks tinged pink, but his posture remained firm. He straightened slightly, as if reminding himself of his media training, but Louis saw the flicker of something else—defiance.

"Well, the suit looks good on you," Harry admitted smoothly, his voice tinged with just enough arrogance. "I suppose we’ll see if you fit when the season starts. Dress-up is one thing; the track’s another."

Louis raised a brow, his smirk sharpening. "Sure," he said lazily. "Guess you’ll get to see if McLaren’s ‘desperation’ pays off. But hey," he added with a grin, "I’m happy to give you a front-row seat to my so-called rookie chaos. Better buckle up, Styles."

Louis' smirk deepened as he took another step forward, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He had him. Harry's words faltered slightly, his confidence wavering. Louis could see it, could feel it. And fuck, that only made his own irritation spike. This arrogant prick who thought the world revolved around him, who had left Louis standing in that club two years ago just to saunter off with someone else.

Harry stepped forward, his smirk returning as he tilted his head slightly. "Hm, what do you think? Should I just bring some popcorn for the disaster, or would a five-course meal be more fitting to watch you fall apart in style?"

Louis' fingers twitched at his sides. He should let it go. He really should. But instead, his mouth acted faster than his brain. Louis tilted his head, his smirk widening. "Oh, you might want to skip the meal altogether, Styles. Wouldn’t want you choking, when I overtake you. Be a shame, really—wasting all that food, not to mention that pretty neck of yours." His blue eyes gleamed with amusement, but beneath it burned something far more dangerous—something raw and untamed.

Harry inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching, and Louis could hear how his breathing had become just a little more erratic.

Zayn cleared his throat, stepping between them. "Alright, you two," he said, his voice now laced with clear irritation, "let’s save the fireworks for the track, yeah?"

Louis let out a breath, stepping back as if breaking the spell. Harry’s chest was rising and falling quicker than he’d like to admit, and Louis hated that his own breath was matching the rhythm. He shouldn’t be this affected. Not by him. Not again. Harry's shoulders were tense, his own breath shallow, as if holding himself together through sheer force of will.

Their eyes met one last time. Louis saw something flicker in Harry's green gaze—annoyance, frustration, something else he didn't care to name. But before he could overthink it, Louis exhaled sharply, spinning on his heel toward the mirror, running a hand through his hair as if the conversation hadn’t just rattled him more than it should have. Yet, even with his back turned, he could still feel Harry’s gaze burning into him.

Zayn, ever the peacemaker, smoothly took control of the moment, stepping closer to Harry. "So, what brings you here, mate?" he asked, his voice casual but deliberate, steering the conversation away from the simmering tension.

Before Harry could respond, a new voice chimed in from between the clothing racks. "Is that you, Zayn? I thought I heard your familiar voice."

Before anything else could be said, a woman’s voice cut through the moment. Louis turned his head just as a young woman emerged from between the clothing racks, her movements effortless and filled with an easy confidence. She wore a deep red blouse that complemented her fair complexion, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes—Harry’s eyes—were just as green but sparkled with amusement rather than irritation. A warm smile tugged at her lips as she took in the scene in front of her, her presence radiating familiarity and a natural charm.

Of course. This must be Harry sister. Louis crossed his arms, watching the interaction unfold, but his mind was still stuck on what had just happened. On the way Harry had looked at him. On the anger that had flared between them like an open flame. And, most annoyingly, on the damn fling he had two years ago with harry and he had no business remembering now.

Harrys POV

Gemma’s face lit up as she recognized Zayn. Without hesitation, she strode forward and wrapped him in a warm hug. "It’s been ages! How have you been?"

Zayn smiled, his reserved demeanor softening. "Good to see you too, Gemma. I’m doing alright. What about you?"

Harry watched as his sister and Zayn exchanged pleasantries, his irritation temporarily overshadowed by Gemma’s enthusiasm. She seemed completely unaware of the simmering tension between him and Louis.

"And who’s this?" Gemma asked, her gaze shifting to Louis, her voice brimming with curiosity and warmth.

"Louis Tomlinson," Zayn introduced, gesturing toward him. "New to Formula 1."

Gemma’s face lit up with recognition. "Oh, I’ve heard of you! Finally, someone bringing some fresh energy into the sport," she said enthusiastically. Her eyes flicked to Harry with a knowing glint before she turned back to Louis. "I love your laid-back vibe. Honestly, it’s such a breath of fresh air compared to all the polished PR robots around here."

Louis laughed, the sound warm and unguarded. "Thanks," he said, his tone light but pointed. "Though I’m guessing your brother here doesn’t quite share that sentiment."

Gemma glanced back at Harry, her smile widening. "Oh, don’t mind him," she began with a playful lilt. "Harry’s got this whole Golden Boy act down to an art—thank Nick for that—but trust me, there’s so much more underneath all that polished charm," Gemma said, her tone light but deliberately teasing.

Harry rolled his eyes and gave a tight, almost forced smile. "Well, you’re my sister—you’re obligated to say that," he said, his voice carrying an edge of mock arrogance, though irritation simmered beneath the surface. Why did she always have to share so much? It wasn’t Louis’s business who Harry Styles really was behind the image, and the knowing way Gemma spoke made him feel exposed in a way he didn’t like.

Louis’s smirk deepened, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Is that so? Well, I’ll look forward to seeing that side of him someday. Though, given his charm here, I might need a bloody map to find it," he quipped, his tone light but laced with cheeky defiance.

Gemma let out a laugh, clearly charmed. "It was lovely meeting you, Louis," she said, giving his arm a friendly squeeze. "But I’ve got to drag this one along before he hides in another corner."

Before leaving, Gemma’s gaze flicked back to Zayn and Louis. "By the way," she said brightly, "I’ll be at Silverstone for the next race. I’d love to come by and see you both in action. Maybe I’ll even stop by the McLaren garage."

Louis grinned, leaning casually against a nearby display. His tailored black Givenchy suit jacket, with its subtle pin closure at the waist, fit him perfectly, emphasizing his lean, athletic frame. The bold yet understated design made him look both sharp and effortlessly stylish. "Looking forward to it," he said with a mischievous grin, tilting his head toward Harry. "Don’t let Styles here scare you off."

Gemma laughed, her eyes sparkling as she glanced at her brother. "Oh, please, I’m his older sister—I’ve been dealing with him for years. He doesn’t tell me what to do."

Louis chuckled, his smirk deepening as he turned back to Harry. "Is that right? Well, I’ll take your word for it," he said lightly before adding with a cheeky grin, "though he does have that whole brooding thing going on. Makes you wonder what’s hiding under all that Golden Boy shine." His tone was playful, but the teasing edge was unmistakable.

Gemma burst out laughing, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Trust me, Louis, as i said before there’s a lot more to Harry than he lets on. You just have to dig a little."

Harry stiffened, his irritation growing as he watched the easy camaraderie between his sister and Louis. "Right," he muttered, his voice clipped. "We should go."

Gemma grabbed his arm, still smiling, and began to lead him out of the boutique. As they stepped outside, she glanced at him with a teasing smile. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Harry."

Harry barely registered her words, his mind buzzing as he cast one last glance over his shoulder. Louis was still standing there, watching them leave, his expression unreadable. Or was it? For a fleeting moment, Harry thought he saw something in those sharp blue eyes—a spark of curiosity, maybe even challenge. It unsettled him.

As they stepped back onto Bond Street, the cool spring air hitting his face, Harry straightened his shoulders. "I’m fine," he muttered to Gemma, though the words felt hollow.

"Whatever you say," Gemma replied, her tone amused but laced with concern.

Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. By the time Silverstone came around, everything would be back to normal. Louis Tomlinson couldn’t just stroll into Formula 1 and think he could change everything. It didn’t work like that. He was bossy, arrogant, loud, and far too full of himself. The way he acted as if the entire world should bend to his will grated on Harry’s nerves. His tattoos, his smirks, his effortless charm—it all screamed someone who didn’t take the sport seriously enough. But what irritated Harry even more was the faint pang of something he couldn’t quite name—a feeling he quickly buried under his growing list of reasons to dislike Louis.

He clenched his jaw as he walked beside Gemma, convincing himself that Louis Tomlinson was nothing more than a distraction, someone who would burn out under the pressure of the sport.

And yet, as much as Harry wanted to dismiss him entirely, the image of Louis standing there, defiant and self-assured, lingered in his mind far longer than he cared to admit.

Chapter Text

Louis’ POV

The morning air carried an early warmth, thick and still, the dew clinging to the grass shimmered briefly before surrendering to the sun’s strengthening rays. Silverstone, now being called his new home track by the media, stretched out before him in all its grandeur. The sun hung bright and early in a pale blue sky, its warmth already palpable and hinting at the scorching heat expected later in the day. From the paddock in the distance came the familiar cacophony of a race weekend kicking into gear—the hum of engines, sharp commands from mechanics, and bursts of laughter breaking the tension. Louis lingered, taking it all in.

With a deep breath, Louis slid his headphones over his ears, shutting out the rising clamour of the paddock. His feet pounded against the asphalt path, steady and rhythmic. In his ears, the blaring riffs of his favourite rock playlist drowned out everything else. Only the Poets, Arctic Monkeys, Rolling Stones —perfect. As the unmistakable opening chords of "505" by Arctic Monkeys kicked in, Louis felt his pace quicken instinctively. He’d needed this escape, the clarity that came from pushing his body to its limits. Running wasn’t just a way to stay fit; it was his way of controlling the chaos, of silencing the doubts that crept into his mind.

Today, those doubts screamed louder than usual. The stakes felt higher, the expectations heavier. This wasn’t just another race weekend—it was his Formula 1 debut, and it was happening on his home turf, the stage where he needed to prove he belonged. The enormity of it sat heavy on his chest, but for now, he allowed himself this brief moment of calm before stepping into the chaos. The thought should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like an anvil pressing on his chest. What if he wasn’t good enough? What if the whispers about him being an IndyCar reject turned into roars?

The air grew warmer as he ran, and beads of sweat began to form, coursing over the sharp lines of his collarbone, trailing down his chest, arms, and back in delicate rivulets, painting his exertion across his entire body. He tugged at the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head entirely, balling it up in one hand. The sensation of the cool breeze against his skin was liberating, a reminder of why he loved days like this.

But even the rush of endorphins couldn’t drown out the voice in his head. You’re an underdog, it sneered. McLaren’s desperate gamble. They’ll drop you the second you falter.

Louis shook his head, forcing the thoughts aside as he slowed his pace. The track loomed in the distance, its vastness both daunting and exhilarating. Leaning against a bench to catch his breath, he took out his earbuds and let the sounds of Silverstone seep in. Around him, the early morning serenity was giving way to the growing hum of the paddock. Mechanics were already at work, their voices sharp and purposeful.

For now, this quiet moment was his.

Harry’s POV

The click of cameras greeted Harry Styles as he and Taylor stepped out of their car at the Silverstone paddock. Harry’s cream pinstriped blazer hung loosely over his shoulders, its vintage cut exuding effortless charm, paired with a crisp white tank top and a striking blue scarf knotted at his neck. His gold-rimmed sunglasses caught the sunlight, completing the look with a casual elegance that bordered on defiant. Taylor, on his arm, wore a red gingham dress that cinched perfectly at her waist, the skirt flaring out playfully. Her oversized black sunglasses and bright red lipstick added a touch of old Hollywood glamour, turning heads as they moved. Together, they navigated the chaos with practiced ease.

“Over here, Harry! Taylor, one more shot!”

Harry obliged, turning on the charm that came as naturally as breathing. He knew the game—every smile, every pose was part of the persona he played. But beneath the polished exterior, there was a growing unease. He had been out drinking the night before—again—and while he could present a flawless image outwardly, the truth gnawed at him. Was it getting out of hand? Maybe. But he shoved the thought aside. This weekend was his, and there wasn’t room for self-doubt.

Don’t let them see the cracks, he told himself. Focus on what matters.

The cameras adored him, and so did the fans pressed against the barriers, waving signs and calling his name. Harry’s smile widened as he gave them a wave, their cheers pulling him out of his head. The handmade signs, the chants, and the sheer energy of their enthusiasm reminded him of why he was here. For once, he didn’t let the questions linger. He had to focus on the race, on how he’d bring his car to life on the track. And in this moment, surrounded by their love, it felt almost easy to do just that.

Taylor turned to him with a soft smile, her hand brushing his arm lightly. Leaning in, she kissed him, a calculated gesture for the cameras as Nick had instructed. “You’ve got this, Harry,” she murmured, her voice low and reassuring. “This weekend is yours.” She stepped back, adjusting her sunglasses, and climbed back into the car, heading off to the hotel while Harry lingered for a moment longer.

He straightened his jacket and made his way toward the Mercedes motorhome. Inside, the buzz of the Mercedes team was already in full swing. Today’s first meeting was critical, and as Harry entered, he was greeted by the familiar sight of Lewis Hamilton. The older driver offered a polite nod, which Harry returned. They got along well enough, though the rivalry between them simmered beneath the surface. Lewis had been the team’s champion for years, but Harry had taken his place as World Champion, a shift that had inevitably caused tensions.

Still, Lewis seemed to have made his peace with it—or at least, he didn’t let it show during team meetings. They took their seats as the engineers began outlining the day’s agenda, their voices focused as they discussed strategy and adjustments for the weekend. For now, both drivers pushed aside any lingering rivalry, focusing instead on the challenges Silverstone would bring. The meeting room on the top floor of the sleek Mercedes motorhome offered a panoramic view of the Silverstone track below and the rolling countryside beyond. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Harry could see the sweeping asphalt curves of the circuit alive with the bustle of early practice preparations. Beyond the track, the rolling hills of Northamptonshire stretched far into the distance, patches of farmland and thick hedgerows interrupted only by quaint red-brick farmhouses glinting under the bright morning sun. It was a view that could almost calm the nerves—if not for the weight of the competition looming over them.

“Wind’s going to be a factor,” one engineer noted, pointing to a chart on the screen. “Sustained gusts through turns 9 and 10, so we’ll need to account for that. We’ll also need more data from the test laps later today to confirm our adjustments. The aero package seems solid, but the crosswinds might impact the balance more than expected. Harry, you’ll need to provide feedback on how the car handles under these conditions.”

Harry nodded absently, his gaze drifting to the window. Movement outside caught his eye, and he frowned. Louis Tomlinson. Of course, the rookie was out there, shirtless and running as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Does this guy ever wear a bloody shirt? Harry thought, irritation prickling at his composure. But it wasn’t just the lack of a shirt—it was the way Louis moved. Each stride was powerful, every muscle in his lean frame flexing and stretching with precision, as though he was built for motion. His skin glistened faintly under the early sunlight, catching a golden sheen that only added to his irritatingly effortless appeal. The messy brown hair, damp with sweat, framed his face in a way that almost looked intentional, glowing in the light. Louis carried himself like he belonged everywhere, a careless confidence radiating from him with each step. It was as if the rookie pressure didn’t even touch him, and that ease, that unbothered air, only made Harry’s chest tighten further.

Harry turned back to the meeting, trying to ignore the knot of irritation tightening in his chest. He didn’t have time to dwell on Tomlinson—not when there was so much at stake for his own performance.

Louis’ POV

By the time Louis finished his run, his muscles ached pleasantly, and the adrenaline was still coursing through his veins. He slowed to a jog and eventually stopped near the McLaren motorhome, where the organized chaos of the paddock unfolded around him. The area was alive with team members rushing between motorhomes, engineers discussing last-minute tweaks, and the low hum of generators powering the temporary structures. These sleek, multi-story motorhomes, each bearing the bold branding of their respective teams, stood in neat rows like futuristic monoliths, their mirrored windows reflecting the flurry of activity. Nearby, catering staff wheeled trays of food toward hospitality areas, while team personnel ducked in and out of doors with purpose.

Louis paused by a bench, tossing his damp T-shirt onto it with little care. He began stretching, leaning into each movement to ease the tension in his legs and back. The warm air and the bustle of the paddock faded slightly as he focused on the tightness in his hamstrings, lost in his own thoughts.

When a fresh shirt smacked against his chest, he froze, startled. For a moment, Louis just stared down at the shirt in his hands, confused. He hadn’t even noticed Harry Styles approaching. Blinking, he looked up to find Harry standing there, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack, green eyes blazing with irritation as though Louis had personally offended him by existing.

“Do you have some sort of problem with clothing?” Harry snapped, his messy brown hair falling into his face in disarray.

Louis stared at him, stunned for a beat. What the hell? Who did Harry Styles think he was, lecturing him on his wardrobe choices? This arrogant prat, with his perfectly tailored pinstripe blazer, broad shoulders, and that ridiculously trim waist—the very image of someone who thought the sun rose and set on their whims. Louis felt his irritation spike.

“Excuse me?” he shot back, the words laced with disbelief. But Louis wouldn’t be Louis if he didn’t recover quickly. His lips twisted into a smirk as he held up the shirt with two fingers, as though it were something Harry had contaminated. “Normally, when someone gives me a shirt, they’re the ones naked,” he quipped, his tone cutting and mischievous. He tossed the shirt back onto the bench with deliberate carelessness before stretching his arms overhead in an exaggerated display of indifference. “Didn’t think you’d be so concerned about my wardrobe, love.”

Harry’s jaw tightened; his glare unwavering as if he were seconds away from saying something far harsher. Instead, he muttered, “Just… put something on. It’s a paddock, not a bloody beach,” before turning sharply on his heel and striding off, his frustration radiating with every step.

Louis watched him go, the smirk still lingering on his face. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "What a tosser." With a sigh, he turned on his heel and started toward the McLaren motorhome. What gave Harry Styles the right to act so high and mighty anyway? This arrogant perfectionist, striding off like he owned the paddock. Louis rolled his shoulders, stretching out the last bit of tension in his muscles. He wasn’t going to let Harry’s attitude bother him for long—he had other things to focus on. Reaching the motorhome, he pushed the door open, already mentally planning a quick shower and something to eat before the track walk. Whatever else Harry wanted to throw his way today, Louis decided he’d handle it just fine. 

Harry’s POV

Harry stood in front of the mirror in his hotel room, tugging the collar of a crisp white T-shirt into place, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.  He was stuck with this casual option—a simple white tee tucked into loose gray trousers, Nick was going to be livid when he saw Harry wasn’t wearing the prescribed team gear, and the thought only added to his irritation. Beside him, Taylor reclined lazily on the edge of the bed, her long legs stretched out as she scrolled through her phone. The faint scent of her sunscreen lingered in the air as she prepared for a day at the pool. She looked up, watching him fuss with his shirt, a small smirk playing on her lips.

“You’re fidgeting,” she teased lightly.

Harry shot her an annoyed glance before turning back to the mirror. “It’s not the shirt,” he muttered. “It’s that bloody Tomlinson. Although, if I’m honest, it’s also the shirt. Of course it’s the damn shirt,” Harry muttered as he ripped the T-shirt off in frustration. Tossing it onto the bed, next to Taylor, he rummaged through his suitcase until he found a black polo shirt. It wasn’t the Mercedes team polo, but at least it was black—it might pass without drawing too much attention. He pulled it on quickly, muttering under his breath about how he shouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense before a big day.

Taylor tilted her head, amused, though a flicker of concern crossed her face. “What’s he done now?”

“He’s impossible!” Harry exclaimed, grabbing his watch from the nightstand and fastening it to his wrist with sharp movements. “I caught him running around the paddock shirtless earlier—again! And when I tried to tell him to put something on, he had the audacity to act like I’m the one out of line. Why can’t he just wear a shirt like everyone else? Is that so hard?” Harry grumbled as he turned to his nightstand, picking up one of his rings. He slid it onto his finger with sharp, deliberate movements, the metal cool against his skin. One by one, he grabbed the rest, twisting each ring into place, as if the small act could calm the frustration bubbling in his chest.

Taylor raised an eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and amusement. “So, you’re upset because he wasn’t wearing a shirt?”

“It’s not just that!” Harry snapped, throwing up his hands. “It’s his whole attitude. The smirking, the cockiness—like he thinks he owns the place just because he’s got a good stride and a decent tan. And then he has the audacity to act like I’m the problem for pointing it out. Why can’t he just behave like a normal person?”

Taylor stifled a laugh, though her brows furrowed slightly as she set her phone aside. “A good stride and a decent tan, huh? Sounds more like you are amazed than annoyed - like he’s gotten under your skin.”

“He hasn’t,” Harry shot back, too quickly, his jaw tightening as he turned to face her. “He’s just… irritating. Completely arrogant and insufferable. He drives me mad, Tay.”

Taylor sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, I get that he’s annoying you, but honestly? You need to let this go. The media would love nothing more than to see a fight between you two. You and Louis are the hottest names in Formula One right now. If they catch wind of this, it’ll blow up everywhere.”

Harry clenched his fists at his sides before letting out a long breath. “I know you’re right,” he muttered, though the frustration lingered in his tone. “But he’s so… infuriating. It’s like he does it on purpose.”

Taylor sighed, her tone softening as she stood and grabbed her bag for the pool. “Look, I get it. He’s annoying, sure. But you’ve got to rise above it, Harry. The media’s just waiting to see you two clash. They’d love nothing more than to turn this into some big rivalry between the sport’s two most talked-about drivers.” She paused, giving him a pointed look. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

Harry ignored the jab, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

“Good luck,” she said, watching as he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. “And seriously, just stay out of trouble, you’ve got a big game ahead. And honestly? He probably doesn’t give you half as much thought as you’re giving him. Don’t let him ruin your day.”

Harry paused in the doorway, shaking his head. “He’s not ruining anything.”

But as he made his way to the paddock for the track walk, he couldn’t quite shake the image of Louis’s smirking face from his mind.

Louis’s POV

Louis stood in front of the mirror in his room at the McLaren motorhome, tugging at the hem of his skinny jeans to straighten them before smoothing down the fabric of his McLaren team shirt. He tilted his head, scrutinizing his reflection, his fingers brushing absently through his hair to make it look just messy enough. Satisfied, he gave himself a quick nod, but as his eyes flicked to the bed in the reflection, his gaze snagged on the shirt Harry had thrown at him earlier.

It lay crumpled on the edge of the bed, the bold Mercedes logo catching the light. Louis turned, hesitant, and picked it up. The material was soft under his fingers, clearly expensive. Without thinking, he lifted it to his nose and inhaled. The scent was faint but unmistakable—a mix of an elegant, masculine cologne and something else, something distinctly Harry. It triggered a flash of memories he didn’t expect: the night two years ago. Harry, his long, curly hair falling in soft waves around his face, his shy, lingering glances that seemed so sincere, and the way his lips parted lustfully, wanting more. For a brief moment, Louis had felt special under that gaze, as if Harry’s attention was entirely his. The way Harry’s shy smile had tugged at his lips, the hesitant touch of his hand, and the breathless, heated kiss they’d shared had been enough to make Louis’s heart race. But then the memory soured, unraveling into something far less pleasant. After pulling him in, kissing him like there was no one else in the room, Harry had murmured an excuse and disappeared to the restroom. Louis had waited, lingering by the bar with a strange mix of nervous energy and anticipation, stealing glances toward the hallway.

When Harry finally reappeared, it wasn’t to return to Louis. Instead, he was walking toward the exit, another man at his side. Louis remembered how his stomach had dropped when Harry glanced back at him—a fleeting look, almost indifferent, before disappearing into the night with someone else. The betrayal had been sharp, a sudden twist of the knife that left Louis standing there, feeling like a fool. That night, Harry had seemed innocent, but Louis realized it had all been a facade. People were interchangeable to him, and Louis had been just another fleeting interest. Shaking his head, Louis threw the shirt back on the bed.

Pull yourself together, Tomlinson, he thought.

“He’s just a rival. Nothing more. A cocky, arrogant, infuriating rival.” Saying it out loud did make it a bit more convincing, but it didn’t stop the anger bubbling beneath the surface. The memory of Harry walking out of that club, throwing him that indifferent glance, reignited the sting of betrayal Louis thought he’d buried. His fingers tightened momentarily at his sides, his jaw clenching as a fresh wave of irritation washed over him.

But then, with the anger came an idea—something petty, something that would give him a little satisfaction. A sly grin spread across his face as he realized exactly what he was going to do.

Minutes later, he stepped out of the McLaren motorhome, letting the hum of the paddock activity wash over him. The area was buzzing with life—team members rushing between motorhomes, the faint whir of electric golf carts zipping past, and the occasional clatter of tools from the nearby garages. The paddock felt like its own little world, a maze of sleek, branded motorhomes that gleamed under the midday sun, its warmth casting sharp shadows on the pavement and making the metallic motorhomes shimmer like polished mirrors. Louis adjusted his Ray-Ban sunglasses, their dark lenses shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight. The reflected glare off the polished surfaces was intense, but his shades provided a momentary reprieve as he scanned the bustling scene around him.

Olli and Zayn were already standing near the entrance to the garage, their backs to him as they talked. Louis cupped his hands around his mouth and called out loudly across the paddock, "Oi! You two! Wait up!" His voice echoed over the noise, catching the attention of a few others nearby.

Startled, Olli and Zayn turned around, their expressions quickly shifting from confusion to disbelief as their eyes fell on Louis jogging toward them, with a mysterious folded fabric tucked under his arm, the grin on his face giving away that he was clearly up to something.

Olli’s eyes widened as he took in what Louis was wearing. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”

Zayn crossed his arms, his expression shifting from disbelief to genuine concern. "You’ve got to be kidding me. If Simon sees you in that, he’s going to flip—and not in a good way. Do you even realize how bad it’ll look if a reporter catches you like this? What are you even planning, Louis?" His voice lowered slightly, glancing around as though he half-expected a camera to pop out of nowhere. "Seriously, mate, what are you thinking?"

Louis just grinned wider, clearly unbothered by their reactions. "Relax," he said, adjusting the bundle of fabric tucked under his arm. "I’ve got it all under control."

As they started their track walk, Louis shifted into a more professional tone, gesturing toward the surface of the asphalt. "You feel that?" he asked Olli, stopping briefly to run the toe of his shoe along a faint groove in the track. "It’s grippier than I expected after this morning’s heat."

Olli nodded, crouching to inspect it more closely. "Yeah, but if the temperature spikes again tomorrow, it’ll be a whole different story. Tire wear is going to be tricky, especially through Turns 8 and 9."

Louis adjusted his sunglasses, shielding his eyes as he scanned the horizon. "And the wind," he added. "We’ve got to account for it through the straights. If it shifts like they’re predicting, it’ll play hell with the aero."

Zayn chimed in, his voice thoughtful. "We should look at adjusting the downforce slightly. Less drag for the straights, but we’d need to manage stability in the tighter sections."

Louis nodded. "Makes sense. Let’s run the numbers before tomorrow’s sessions. We’ll need to stay ahead of this if we want a real shot."

The three of them, along with the rest of the crew, continued to dissect the track’s key points, marking areas where strategy could make or break the race. But as they rounded a bend, Louis’s attention shifted. Just a few meters away, within clear earshot of Olli, Zayn, and the rest of the team, he spotted Harry deep in conversation with Lewis Hamilton and a group of Mercedes engineers. With a grin spreading across his face, Louis noted the polo Harry was wearing—casual and far from the formal Mercedes shirt expected. It was almost satisfying to see Harry in something less pristine, as if the roles were reversed for once. But Louis couldn’t let the moment go unnoticed.

Without missing a beat, Louis turned to Olli and Zayn. “I’ll be right back,” he said, handing the bundle of fabric to Olli. “Hold this for me, yeah? Don’t lose it.”

Olli gave him a puzzled look, clutching the bundle. “What are you up to now, Tommo?”

Louis just grinned. "You’ll see," he quipped before jogging off, ignoring Zayn’s exasperated sigh.

The midday sun beat down on the track, making the asphalt shimmer as Louis jogged toward Harry and Lewis. His footsteps echoed faintly as his shoes tapped against the warm surface, his Ray-Ban sunglasses hiding the mischief glinting in his eyes. “Styles!” Louis called out, his voice carrying easily over the chatter of the paddock. "Wait up!"

Harry turned his head, his brows furrowing as his conversation with Lewis trailed off. He looked utterly confused, his green eyes narrowing as they fell on Louis, who was now mere steps away. The sight of the oversized Mercedes polo hanging loosely on Louis’s lean frame seemed to momentarily stun him.

“You missin’ something?” Louis teased, his voice dripping with playful insinuation as he slowed to a stop. He adjusted his sunglasses and gave Harry a look that bordered on flirtatious. "Didn’t think you’d let me borrow it without asking first. Or… did you?"

Harry’s confusion deepened, his lips parting slightly before snapping shut again. "What are you—" he began, but the words seemed to stick in his throat as Louis’s grin widened.

With deliberate slowness, Louis tugged the polo over his head, exposing his tanned and toned torso as the sun glinted off his skin. He held the shirt out toward Harry, the grin never leaving his face. "Thought I’d return this," he said, his tone mock-innocent. "Didn’t want you to think I was keeping it."

Lewis stood silently beside Harry, his lips twitching as though fighting back a laugh, while Harry’s expression twisted into a mix of embarrassment and irritation. His gaze flicked between the shirt and Louis, his jaw tightening. "You—" Harry started sharply, his tone edged with disbelief, but Louis cut him off with a wink.

“Don’t worry,” Louis said breezily, tossing the polo into Harry’s hands. "It’s all yours, Styles." He leaned in slightly, just enough for his voice to drop into a playful drawl. "I know how much it confuses you when you see me without a shirt on. Don’t worry; you’ll get used to it." 

He turned on his heel, gave Harry one last cheeky wink, and jogged back toward his team, ignoring the heat of Harry’s glare boring into his back. Olli’s laughter erupted across the paddock as Louis rejoined them, while Zayn shook his head, muttering under his breath. Louis stopped in front of Olli and snatched the fabric bundle back with a flourish. It was his McLaren polo, which he shook out and pulled over his head in one smooth motion. The familiar fit and team colors grounded him as he adjusted the hem.

Despite everything, Louis couldn’t suppress the satisfaction curling in his chest. Maybe I pushed it a bit, he thought, glancing back toward Harry, but it was worth it.

Harry's POV

Harry sat in the Mercedes motorhome conference room, his jaw clenched as the hum of the air conditioning buzzed overhead. It was the only thing keeping the space cool amidst the palpable tension. The aggression in the room felt almost physical, the kind of heat that made Harry feel like he was on the verge of burning up himself. His jaw was clenched as he stared, his foot tapping aggressively against the floor, the sharp, repetitive rhythm echoing in the tense room. Each tap seemed to punctuate his irritation, as if he could stomp out the suffocating energy simmering inside him. His leg bounced slightly with the movement, the only outlet for the overwhelming frustration that words couldn’t seem to release, at the wall where Nick Grimshaw had just projected a series of incriminating photos:

The first image captured Louis striding confidently toward Harry and Lewis during the track walk, wearing Harry’s oversized Mercedes polo. The iconic logo stood out prominently against the fabric, paired with Louis’s skinny black jeans and Ray-Ban sunglasses that reflected the midday sun. He looked entirely at ease, the picture of someone fully in control despite the boldness of his choice.

The second photo froze the moment Louis began pulling the shirt off over his head, his toned, tattooed torso catching the sunlight in a way that emphasized every defined muscle. The sharp contrast of his ink against his bronzed skin seemed to transform the moment into something almost cinematic, as though Louis had orchestrated it for maximum effect. His expression, slightly blurred in motion, carried an air of smug satisfaction that felt entirely deliberate, adding to the provocative nature of the shot.

The third image was perhaps the most damning. Harry stood holding the shirt, leaning slightly forward as Louis appeared to whisper something in his ear. From this perspective, it could easily be misinterpreted—Louis’s proximity, the angle of Harry’s posture, and the amused, almost knowing expression on Louis’s face gave the illusion of something far more intimate and Harry’s darkened gaze, his green eyes intense and slightly narrowed, could have been read as something other than anger. From the angle of the photo, it appeared almost lustful, adding a layer of complexity to an already damning scene. 

The final photo captured Louis head-on as he jogged shirtless, his back straight and shoulders pulled back, exuding a confidence that seemed to leap off the screen. The sunlight glinted off his bronzed skin, highlighting the sharp definition of his abdominal muscles and the intricate patterns of his tattoos, which added a rebellious edge to his otherwise effortless allure. His hair was tousled, a mix of wind and the motion of pulling off the polo, giving him an artfully disheveled look that only enhanced his magnetic presence. The Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on his nose reflected the track ahead, adding a touch of mystery to his carefree grin. Behind him, Harry and Lewis were blurred and indistinct, their postures frozen in a way that seemed almost secondary to Louis’s undeniable charisma dominating the frame. It was the kind of image that felt electric—a perfect storm of chaos and control. That fucker, how did he do it? Louis looked impossibly good, as if he’d planned every detail of the moment. Who the hell managed to look this flawless in a candid paparazzi shot? The way Louis moved, the confidence in his grin—was it all intentional? Had he orchestrated every detail of this moment to perfection? Harry couldn’t shake the thought, the nagging suspicion that Louis had planned every element down to the last tousled strand of hair.

“What the actual hell was that?” Nick’s voice sliced through the room like a whip, dragging Harry out of his swirling thoughts. Nick jabbed a finger furiously at the projected images on the wall. Before Harry could fully process, his anger bubbled to the surface. “How the hell should I know?” Harry shot back, his voice rising. “Do you think this was my idea? I didn’t tell him to show up wearing my shirt and act like we’re in some bloody drama!”- “Do you even understand how bad this could have been if those photos leaked? Picture the headline: ‘Rival Team Bromance or Scandal?’ A Formula 1 driver prancing around in another team’s polo with their logo front and center? Whispering in your ear like that—God, from this angle, it looks like he’s about to kiss you! And then, to top it off, jogging away half-naked, flashing his tattoos and muscles like he’s on a bloody runway? It would not only be a PR disaster — that's a goddamn circus act waiting to explode!”

Nick paced aggressively, his footsteps echoing in the tense room, his face a storm cloud of fury that threatened to explode at any second. Taylor sat still on the other side of the table from Harry, her arms crossed, her expression caught between concern and a quiet attempt to mediate the escalating chaos.

Harry exhaled sharply, his irritation bubbling to the surface as he tried to steady his breathing, attempting to suppress the heat rising in his chest. “None of this was my idea,” he said, his voice tight. “I have no idea what’s going on in Louis’s head. He’s… insane.”

Nick didn’t let up, waving a hand toward the images. “Insane or not, this… this is unacceptable. I had to pay Ben—yes, Ben—to keep these from leaking. Do you know how much that cost? Harry, you’re lucky it’s Ben. If anyone else had those photos, it would be an explosion! And let’s not forget the elephant in the room—if you weren’t gay, this would barely be a blip. Do you even care about your career?”

“Of course I care!” Harry snapped, standing up. His green eyes blazed with anger. “I didn’t ask for this! What was I supposed to do? Louis just… decided to put on a bloody show! He’s fuckin’ mental!”

Taylor interjected, her voice calm but firm. “Nick, you know Harry wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the team. This is Louis being Louis. Let’s not overreact.”

Nick shot her a sharp look. “Overreact? You think this is overreacting? This… stunt could have destroyed our image. We need damage control, and we need it now. From this moment forward, we have to think three steps ahead. Harry, you and Taylor need to be seen as the golden couple—strong, united, perfect. No cracks, no distractions.”

Harry frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The next race is in the Netherlands. After Silverstone, you’re flying straight to Amsterdam,” Nick said curtly. “And here’s the plan—restaurants, activities, everything. I want photos of you two dining at romantic spots, walking along the canals, maybe a quick visit to the flower market for some colorful shots. Hold hands, laugh, act natural, and for God’s sake, make it believable. I want you to hit every perfect photo opportunity this city has to offer. Sell the image, Harry. And to make sure it’s noticed, I’ll be giving a subtle hint to the paparazzi. They’ll know Harry Styles and Taylor Swift are having a romantic getaway in Amsterdam. That way, we control the story before it controls us.”

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides. “Nick…”

“No,” Nick interrupted, his tone final. “You don’t get it, do you? Your entire career could be on the line because of this bullshit. Now get out, both of you.”

Harry grabbed his bag from the chair beside him, his face a storm of emotions. He stalked out of the room without another word, Taylor close behind him.

Harry ran back to his private trailer in the paddock, weaving through the organized chaos of the team motorhomes with a storm cloud of frustration following him. The hum of activity felt distant as his single focus became reaching the sanctuary of his space. He shoved the door open and slammed it shut behind him, the sound echoing loudly in the confined area. His breathing was shallow, each inhale sharp and filled with boiling anger."Arghh" Harry shouted in frustration.

With a growl, he ran his hands through his tousled hair, tugging at the strands in frustration before turning sharply toward the small seating area. Without thinking, he swept his arm across the coffee table in the corner, sending magazines, a glass, and his keys crashing to the floor. The glass shattered, shards scattering across the carpet as the chaos mirrored the storm in his head.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Harry shouted, pacing furiously back and forth in the narrow space. His bag slipped off his shoulder, and with a sharp curse, he hurled it against the wall. The zipper burst open on impact, spilling its contents — sunglasses, deodorant, laptop, and a crumpled polo shirt — onto the floor.

Taylor ripped the door open, her blue eyes wide with worry as she stepped inside without hesitation. Her blonde curls were slightly disheveled, framing her face as she took in the scene. "Harry," she said firmly, her voice laced with concern. "Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself."

Harry turned to her, his green eyes blazing with frustration, his voice sharp and almost desperate. "What the hell is his fuckin' problem? Why does he have to mess with me like this?"

Taylor moved closer, her blue eyes locking on his, filled with concern. She gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice calm yet firm. "You need to talk to him, Harry. He has to stop. Why is he even doing this? Did something happen between you two? What did you say to him?"

Harry let out a harsh, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he began pacing again. "I don’t know! I called him an IndyCar driver in an interview and said McLaren must be desperate. I might have told him to grow a pair if that pissed him off. Honestly, if that’s enough to send him over the edge, maybe he should actually do it.” His pacing quickened, his hands gesturing wildly as he vented. "And now he’s doing all this bullshit?—what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?"

With an exasperated groan, Harry stopped mid-step and let himself collapse onto the sofa. The cushions sank under his weight as he dropped his head into his hands, his fingers threading through his messy hair. The energy drained out of him in waves, leaving only the exhaustion of his frayed emotions.

Taylor sat down beside him, her arms wrapping around him in a calming embrace, her voice soft and steady. "Hey," she said, her tone soothing despite the chaos in the room. "It’s going to be okay. We’ll handle this," Taylor said softly, her arms tightening around him as if to shield him from the weight of his emotions. She rested her chin lightly on his shoulder, her blonde curls brushing against his cheek, while her blue eyes glimmered with both worry and determination. "Amsterdam will be fine, and this whole mess will blow over. Nothing happened, Harry. Just let it go."

Harry exhaled deeply, her words slowly cutting through the fog of his anger. He nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as her reassurance began to take hold. Taylor pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, offering a small, encouraging smile. "Come on," she added, her tone lightening. "Think about Amsterdam. We’ll have some time to unwind. Maybe we’ll even share a joint or something, hmm?" Her soft laugh broke the tension further. "We’ve got this."

Harry gave a faint, reluctant smile, his breathing steadying. Taylor gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping away, heading toward her own room. The storm in his chest calmed slightly as her presence lingered in the space she’d just left.

Harry sat motionless on the couch for a moment, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, his breaths shallow and uneven as his eyes swept over the chaos he had caused. The shattered glass sparkled on the floor, mingled with the scattered contents of his bag. Finally, with a sharp inhale, he pushed himself to his feet, the motion abrupt and charged with frustration. Each step toward the mess felt heavier, like trudging through the weight of his own emotions.

With a frustrated sigh, he crouched down, his movements jerky and mechanical as he began picking up the items one by one. Sunglasses, deodorant, laptop—all retrieved and placed back in his bag with an almost robotic precision, as though the act of cleaning could purge the lingering tension from his body.

His fingers brushed against the crumpled polo shirt. The fabric, soft and slightly warm, seemed to cling to his touch. He hesitated, his brows furrowing, before lifting it to his face without fully understanding why. The scent hit him immediately—  raw and unmistakably Louis. The smell was infuriatingly familiar, stirring something deep within him. It was a fleeting memory, hovering just out of reach—an echo of warmth and positivity that felt oddly comforting despite the chaos in his chest. The familiarity gnawed at him, elusive yet significant, like the ghost of a moment he couldn't fully grasp but instinctively knew had been good. 

Harry froze, the shirt clutched tightly in his hands as his mind swirled with an onslaught of emotions. Anger, confusion, something unnameable—all of it crashing into him like a wave. He closed his eyes, his grip on the shirt tightening as if holding it might steady him against the chaos threatening to pull him under. But then he exhaled sharply and dropped the shirt onto the table, forcing himself to take a step back.

"Enough," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if to dispel the intrusive thoughts. Louis Tomlinson was making his life hell, but Harry had bigger things to focus on. The race was around the corner, and if he let this nonsense distract him, it could cost him everything. Squaring his shoulders, he turned away from the shirt and moved purposefully toward the door. "It’s time to let this go," he told himself firmly, leaving Louis and the chaos he brought behind—at least for now.

LOUIS POV

After the track walk, Louis had braced himself for the inevitable wrath of Simon Cowell. His bold stunt with the Mercedes polo should have earned him a proper dressing-down, but to his surprise, Simon hadn’t said a word. In fact, it seemed like he hadn’t even caught wind of the incident. Louis’s team, true to their loyalty, had kept quiet, and the silence gave him a boost of confidence in them. It wasn’t often that Louis felt so supported, and the realization settled over him with a mix of relief and gratitude. For once, he could trust that his team had his back.

Still, a small voice in the back of his mind nagged at him, questioning whether his actions had been worth it. The scene played over and over in his head—the anger on Harry’s face, the subtle flicker of confusion and irritation when Louis had handed the shirt back. The mental replay stung more than he cared to admit.

But Harry deserved it, he told himself firmly, brushing the doubt aside. He had to remind himself that it was just a momentary slip, nothing more. He couldn’t let this eat away at him. There were bigger things to focus on, after all.

Friday passed without much fanfare. The practice sessions were smooth, and even the qualifying was solid for Louis. He managed to land seventh on the grid—a respectable position for his debut weekend. Andrea Stella, the team principal, had even seemed satisfied, giving him a rare nod of approval. Zayn Malik, his teammate, had edged him out slightly by qualifying sixth, but Louis didn’t mind. His focus was on the bigger picture.

Of course, he couldn’t ignore that Harry had qualified fourth. Fuckin' Styles, Louis thought with a twinge of irritation. Harry was the reigning champion; starting further back on the grid wasn’t unheard of, but it still raised questions. He’d heard whispers that Harry had botched his flying lap with a minor oversteer. Not my fault, Louis reasoned smugly. Champions weren’t perfect; even they could have off days. Surely, this had nothing to do with Louis himself. Still, a sliver of curiosity nagged at him—what was going on with Styles? Last season, he’d been untouchable, but now? Was he slipping, or was it just one of those days?

Louis didn’t cross paths with Harry again that day, and for that, he was grateful. As the paddock quieted for the night, his thoughts shifted to the next day. His first Formula 1 race. The nerves buzzed faintly beneath his skin, growing louder and sharper the longer he dwelled on it. What if he botched the start? What if he couldn’t hold his position? Every possibility of failure unraveled in his mind like a storm, each "what if" louder than the last.

"God, pull yourself together," he muttered aloud, running a hand through his hair as he paced the small confines of his motorhome. But even as he tried to silence the doubt, it lingered. The weight of expectations—his team’s, the fans’, his own—pressed on him like a boulder. His chest tightened at the thought of facing everyone if something went wrong.

Still, the excitement was there too, fighting for space amidst the anxiety. He sat down on the bed and leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the hum of distant generators filled the silence. His mind flickered between vivid dreams of triumph—crossing the finish line to cheers, champagne spraying, and his name being chanted—and sharp, jarring images of failure. What if he crashed? What if he lost control? The thought of spinning out in front of the cameras, of facing a disappointed team, made his stomach churn.

But even as the nerves clawed at him, a small, bright thought slipped through the cracks. Tomorrow, Lottie, Niall, Fizzy, and the twins would all be there. His family. The image of their excited faces in the stands made him smile despite himself. Lottie’s encouraging words, Niall’s endless jokes, Fizzy’s sarcastic remarks—all of it would remind him why he was doing this. The thought of the twins waving frantically from the grandstands made his chest tighten, but this time with warmth instead of fear.

His mind wandered to his mum. She’d be proud, wouldn’t she? The question lingered, bringing with it a bittersweet comfort. He had worked so hard to get here, and though she wasn’t here to see it, he hoped she’d feel it, wherever she was.

"You’ve come this far, Tomlinson," he whispered, his voice wavering slightly. "Don’t fuck this up."

Finally, he let himself lie back fully, staring up at the ceiling. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. The journey to Formula 1 had been brutal, but he’d made it. That had to count for something. You’ve got this, he thought again, the words now a mantra, half encouragement, half plea. Exhaustion finally began to pull at him, and with a shaky exhale, he closed his eyes, letting the tension ease just enough to slip into restless sleep.

Chapter Text

Louis stood in his trailer on the Silverstone grounds, nervously adjusting the collar of his racing suit as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The suit fit perfectly, hugging his lean frame like a second skin, but it did little to quell the nerves that buzzed in his chest. This was it—his first Formula 1 race. After qualifying seventh, he thought he’d done decently enough. Even Simon couldn’t complain. The press had been surprisingly kind, noting how well he’d performed given McLaren’s limited budget. For a rookie, it wasn’t bad at all.

Still, Louis had expected some fallout from his antics at the track walk. Wearing a Mercedes polo and teasing Harry Styles hadn’t exactly been subtle. But to his relief, his team had kept their mouths shut. Whether it was loyalty or sheer fear of Simon, Louis wasn’t sure. Either way, he owed them for not ratting him out.

His gaze lingered on his reflection as the memory of the incident bubbled to the surface. Guilt flickered briefly in his chest, but he shook it off. He had bigger things to worry about than Harry Styles and a stupid shirt. Today was about proving himself.

A knock at the door broke through his thoughts.

“Come in,” Louis called.

The door swung open, and Zayn strolled in, already in his McLaren racing suit. He plopped onto the couch with a casual ease, draping one arm over the backrest.

“You look ready to puke,” Zayn teased, a sly grin spreading across his face. “First race jitters?”

Louis rolled his eyes, though the nervous energy in his stomach betrayed him. “Maybe. You try debuting in Formula 1 and see how relaxed you are.”

Zayn chuckled. “Fair enough. But hey, good job qualifying. I mean, I’m ahead of you, obviously, but you did alright.” His tone was light, but there was genuine encouragement underneath the teasing.

“Thanks, mate,” Louis said with a small smile, leaning against the edge of the counter.

Zayn’s grin faded slightly as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Alright, but seriously. About that track walk stunt… you’re lucky no one caught pictures of you in that Mercedes polo. Simon would’ve had your head on a spike, and you know it.”

Louis shrugged, trying to mask the flicker of guilt with a casual wave of his hand. “No harm done. My team kept quiet, and it’s not like anyone’s rushing to tell him. It’s fine.”

Zayn frowned, shaking his head. “You’re playing with fire, mate. Simon’s not someone you want to mess with. And honestly, what’s the deal with Harry? You’ve barely spoken with the guy. What’s with all this hostility?”

Louis’s jaw tightened as he folded his arms across his chest, his posture defensive. “I just don’t like him. He’s arrogant and fake, and an absolute prick.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “Really? You know, with the way you talk about him, you’re coming across a little harsh. Don’t you think there might be more to him than what you see on the surface? Look, I’ve known Harry for years. Back when we were twenty or so, he was nothing like what you see now. He was sensitive, friendly, and genuinely kind to everyone around him. This ‘Golden Boy’ act isn’t all him. A lot of it’s Grimshaw, his PR manager. Nick’s been controlling every aspect of Harry’s image for years. It’s all strategy.”

Louis hesitated, his mind flickering back to the memory of the club two years ago. The lies, the way Harry had presented himself—he pushed the thought aside quickly, his expression darkening. “I don’t need a reason. His whole vibe pisses me off. He’s arrogant, selfish, and just… insufferable. End of story.”

Zayn exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly. “Alright, suit yourself. Just don’t let it get in your head too much. We’ve got a race to focus on.”

He stood up, smoothing the creases in his suit as he made his way to the door. Pausing, he glanced back at Louis with a faint smirk. “By the way, your siblings are already here. And some loud Irish bloke too. They’re waiting for you. You should head over and say hi.”

Louis’s nerves melted slightly at the thought of seeing his family. “Thanks, mate,” he said, a genuine smile breaking through.

“Try not to embarrass yourself out there,” Zayn teased before disappearing through the door.

Alone again, Louis looked back at the mirror. His reflection stared back at him, equal parts nervous and determined.

“It doesn’t matter what’s going on with Harry,” he muttered to himself. “Not my problem.”

Stepping out of his trailer, Louis was immediately greeted by the hum of the paddock, a mix of excitement and nervous energy swirling in the air. The sun beat down relentlessly over Silverstone, casting sharp, shimmering waves across the asphalt. The heat rose visibly from the ground, creating a mirage-like effect that seemed to ripple in the distance. The warmth pressed against Louis’ skin, the air was thick and dry, amplifying the already simmering tension within him.

 He hadn’t gone far when he saw Lottie and Fizzy walking toward him, their faces lighting up as soon as they spotted him. Both were dressed casually in jeans and shirts their VIP lanyards swinging around their necks with every step.

Louis grinned, his nerves momentarily forgotten as he opened his arms to them.

“Finally, the cavalry arrives,” he joked, pulling Fizzy into a warm hug first before turning to Lottie, who was already reaching out to embrace him. “You two look ready to take over the paddock. Don’t tell me you’re here to boss me around.”

“More like keep you in check,” Fizzy quipped, her arms briefly wrapping around him before stepping back with a grin. Her lanyard swayed as she moved, catching the sunlight, and Louis couldn’t help but smile at how familiar and comforting their presence felt.

Lottie’s hand rested on his arm, her smile softer but no less genuine. “We just wanted to wish you luck. You’re going to do amazing, Louis. We’re all so proud of you.”

The sincerity in her voice made something in Louis’s chest tighten. His sisters always knew how to ground him, pulling him back to reality with their unwavering support. It was a calm he desperately needed amidst the chaos of the race day.

Louis turned his attention to Fizzy and squinted at her shirt, which seemed just a little too familiar. “Oi, Fizzy, is that my shirt?” he asked, pointing accusingly at the slightly oversized top. His tone was mock-indignant, though a grin tugged at his lips.

Fizzy burst into laughter, the sound light and carefree. “It might be. But come on, Louis, it looks way better on me, doesn’t it?” She posed dramatically, and Lottie giggled at the display.

“Sure, sure,” Louis muttered, rolling his eyes. “Just don’t stretch it out. And seriously, get some sleep next time. You look knackered.”

For a moment, Fizzy’s smile faltered, the light in her eyes dimming ever so slightly. Louis noticed the faint shadows under her eyes and the weariness in her posture. It tugged at his heart in a way he hadn’t expected. He’d been so consumed with Formula 1 that he hadn’t stopped to check in properly with his family. The guilt crept in, uninvited but persistent, and he made a mental note to fix that.

Lottie’s playful nudge snapped him out of his thoughts. “Don’t get all sentimental on us now, Louis. We’re here to cheer you on, not make you cry.”

Louis chuckled, grateful for the distraction. “Fair enough. Where’s Niall and the twins? Don’t tell me he’s already causing trouble.”

Fizzy groaned, crossing her arms dramatically. “Oh, he’s already on the grandstand with the twins, and apparently, he’s using them to charm women. Can you believe that? ‘Responsible best friend of Louis Tomlinson’ my arse.”

Louis let out a long, exaggerated sigh, running a hand down his face. “Of course he is. You two better get back there before he gets us banned from Silverstone. And tell him to behave himself for once.”

“We’ll try,” Lottie replied with a smirk. But before Louis could respond, he noticed both of them glancing past him, their expressions shifting to something more animated and curious.

“What are you two looking at?” Louis asked, confused. He barely had time to process their wide-eyed looks before he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

Turning around, he was greeted by Gemma Styles, her polite smile instantly disarming. She was dressed in a light, floral sundress that flowed gently around her knees, the pale green fabric adorned with soft pink and yellow flowers. The dress had a subtle slit along one side, adding a touch of elegance to her relaxed style. A simple pearl necklace rested at her collarbone, matching the golden hoops in her ears. She carried a woven straw bag over her shoulder, completing the look with an effortless charm that matched the warm summer day. Her presence was calming, almost like a buffer for what came next. Just behind her stood Harry.

Louis’s stomach flipped uncomfortably as he took in the sight. Harry’s racing suit hung loose around his waist, the top half tied in a knot, leaving his torso clad in a fitted tank top that clung to his skin. The fabric accentuated the sharp lines of his abs and chest, their definition made even more striking under the unforgiving midday light. His hair was a windswept mess, as though the breeze had been playing with it deliberately, giving him a rugged, almost cinematic look. Despite the unintentional allure, Harry’s expression undercut any sense of ease—his sharp green eyes were narrowed in irritation, his jaw tight, and his posture carried an undeniable tension that made the air between them feel heavier.

The audacity of it all struck Louis instantly. First the fuss over nothing, throwing a shirt at him and lecturing him to cover up, and now Harry stood there parading around like the sex god himself. The fitted tank top, the windswept hair, the glistening abs under the midday sun—it was as if he were doing it on purpose, flaunting it, daring the world to look. It wasn’t just unfair, it was infuriating, and Louis had half a mind to call him out on it right then and there.

“Morning,” Harry said curtly, his voice clipped, and his tone carrying the weight of barely-contained frustration.

Louis swallowed hard, his earlier excitement fading into something more guarded. He forced a casual tone in return, though his voice felt tight. “Morning.”

Harry's POV

"Jesus, Gemma, can’t you talk to Louis later? I need to focus on the race," Harry grumbled, his voice low but clearly irritated. But before he could stop her, Gemma had already bounded forward, her steps light and full of energy. She tapped Louis on the shoulder and greeted him warmly, leaving Harry standing there with a resigned sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose briefly, muttering under his breath. "Great, just great."

Still, he forced a smile, the kind his PR team had drilled into him—a friendly, polite mask designed for moments exactly like this. After all, Louis’s sisters were right there, and they seemed genuinely thrilled to meet him. Their striking resemblance to Louis—the same bright eyes and cheeky smiles—made it obvious who they were, even if he didn’t know their names yet. His green eyes flicked between Lottie and Fizzy, who both appeared equally eager. Playing the part came naturally to him now, even if it grated on his nerves. He offered them a charming smile and even a wink, knowing it would completely annoy Louis.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Harry said smoothly, his tone polite yet effortlessly charismatic. “What are your names?”

“Lottie,” the older of the two answered, her cheeks flushing slightly as she smiled back.

“And I’m Fizzy,” the younger added, her voice carrying a hint of excitement.

“Lovely to meet you both,” Harry replied, his gaze shifting between them with practiced ease. He extended a hand in greeting, shaking theirs briefly but warmly. His manners were impeccable, the kind of charm that made it easy for people to forget the tension radiating from Louis just behind him.

Louis let out an annoyed huff, crossing his arms as he watched the exchange. Harry, noticing the irritation, took the opportunity to introduce his sister. "This is Gemma, my sister" he said, gesturing with a slight nod toward her. Before he could say more, Gemma rolled her eyes and cut him off. "I can introduce myself, Harry. Thanks," she said lightly, stepping forward with an easy smile.

Lottie, still beaming, took the moment to chime in. "It’s so exciting to meet you, Harry! You’ve always been my favourite driver in Formula 1, can I... uhm, can I get an autograph?" she confessed, her cheeks pink with excitement.

Louis’s brows furrowed deeply, his annoyance now palpable. His lips tightened as he shot a sharp glance toward Lottie. The comment clearly rankled him, and Harry couldn’t help but find the whole situation mildly entertaining. He let out a loud laugh, the kind that turned heads.

But Louis, ever quick with his tongue, muttered a pointed jab, "That was obviously before I joined, wasn’t it?"

Harry tilted his head slightly, still grinning. "Oh, you think so?" he teased, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. "Guess it’s hard to compete when someone’s got a legacy already."

Lottie flushed slightly, her cheeks turning pink as she stammered, "Well, of course, I didn’t mean you, Louis. You’re my brother… you’re not included in that."

Louis groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "oi, watch it" he muttered, his tone laced with annoyance. Lottie flushed even more, trying to backtrack further, but Harry, grinning wider now, thought to himself how this just kept getting better. “Absolutely priceless,” he mused, barely stifling another laugh at Louis's growing frustration. Seeing how far he could push, Harry glanced at Fizzy, who had been standing quietly but watching the exchange intently. "Fizzy, you can have an autograph too, of course," he said smoothly, throwing in an exaggerated wink.

Fizzy’s eyes lit up, her excitement practically radiating from her. "Really? Oh my gosh, thank you!"

Louis groaned audibly this time, his patience finally snapping. "Fuckin' hell, what is this?" he muttered under his breath, throwing his hands up. His glare shifted to Harry, and without missing a beat, he added sharply, "Cut the act, Styles. What, you think you can strut around in that bloody tank top like some kind of sex god, fuckin flirtin with my sisters? What is wrong with you?"

Harry let out a sharp laugh, tilting his head slightly as he countered, "Calm down, that's called being nice and having manners - never heared of that, did you? After seeing you half-naked yeasterday, I thought it was only fair to return the favor—you know, give you a look at what a real hot body actually looks like." He punctuated the remark with a deliberate wink, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable, daring Louis to react further.

Louis didn’t miss a beat, his voice sharp as he snapped, "Ah, come on, posh boy. You’re only here because of your rich family. Not everyone has that fortune handed to them."

Harry snorted, clearly unfazed by the jab. "Do you even know the difference between naked and wearing a shirt, Tomlinson? Or do I need to teach you that as well?" he quipped, the grin on his face widening.

That was the final straw for Louis. "Listen, you little posh boy, from you fuckin' posh family, you think you can mess around with me, do ya?" he began, his voice rising. "You’ve had everything handed to you on a silver platter your entire life. What do you even know about real struggles or normal people’s lives?"

Harry’s smirk faltered slightly, but before he could retort, Gemma stepped in with a loud sigh. "You two are worse than anything I’ve ever seen," she declared, her tone cutting through the tension. Lottie, Fizzy, and even Gemma herself looked between them, their faces filled with a mix of confusion and exasperation.

The tension between them was palpable, and it didn’t escape the notice of Gemma, Lottie, or Fizzy, who exchanged quick, uncertain glances. Their confusion only made Harry more aware of how close he and Louis had edged toward each other during the exchange. He internally scolded himself, realizing how easily Louis could throw him off balance.

Gemma continued, her voice firm. "You should both learn how to behave. Honestly, it’s embarrassing."

Pulling himself back, Harry straightened and took a step away from Louis. He turned toward Gemma and said in a tone that was more composed, "We need to go. Desmond’s waiting for us in the VIP area."

Gemma gave Louis a quick hug and smiled at his sisters. Then, leaning closer to Louis, she whispered, "Harry needs someone to pull him out of his own head. It wouldn’t hurt him one bit, whatever this is between you two." She gave him a quick wink and laughed softly.

Louis blinked, visibly thrown by the comment, his irritation briefly replaced with confusion. But Harry had clearly heard what Gemma said. "Gemma, stop it," he said sharply, rolling his eyes. "I don’t need you as my babysitter, and I definitely don’t need a Tomlinson." He shot Louis a pointed look before turning back to his sister.

Louis smirked sharply. "Yeah, you wouldn’t get me in your wildest dreams," he snapped, flipping Harry off with a casualness that only made the tension heavier.

Harry let out a dry laugh, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, trust me, Tomlinson, you’re not even in my daydreams." His tone carried that playful edge again, daring Louis to fire back.

"Let's go," Gemma said annoyed. "Dad doesn't like to be left waiting."

Gemma turned back to Lottie and Fizzy, she smiled warmly as she said, "It was lovely meeting you both. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon." To Louis, she added with a mischievous grin, "Take care."

As Gemma turned to leave with Harry, Louis stood rooted to the spot. He crossed his arms tightly, his annoyance written all over his face.

"Fantastic Gemma, why couldn't you just leave it." Harry said in annoyance, but Gemma just smiles. As they walked, Harry tried to shake off the lingering frustration. "What a great start to race day," he thought sarcastically. But there was no escape from the endless expectations today. The moment they reached the Motorhome, Harry and Gemma were ushered up to the VIP outdoor area on the roof.

Desmond Styles, ever the businessman, was already deep in conversation with a group of Rolex sponsors. He was dressed impeccably, his tailored navy suit crisp and perfectly pressed, paired with a white shirt and a subtly patterned tie. A gleaming Rolex peeked out from under his cuff as he gestured animatedly, his confident posture and sharp features exuding authority. Harry approached dutifully, his posture perfect and his expression friendly. "Good morning," he said, extending his hand to each of them in turn. His charm was effortless, and within moments, he was deep in polite conversation, asking about the latest developments in their sponsorship and making sure his father’s guests felt valued. The smile stayed on his face, but internally, Harry counted the minutes until he could slip away.

When the opportunity arose, he excused himself and made his way to the far end of the rooftop, where his mother and Gemma stood together. His tension eased slightly as he hugged his mum, her warmth always a source of comfort. She had an elegance about her that matched her warm demeanour. Her dark brown hair framed her face in soft waves, and her kind blue eyes seemed to read right through him. She wore a simple yet stylish emerald-green blouse that brought out her vibrant smile, paired with understated gold earrings that added a touch of sophistication. Her presence was calming, a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the race day around them. When she spoke, her voice carried a reassuring strength that made Harry feel like, no matter how heavy the weight on his shoulders, she could help him bear it.

"How are you feeling, love?" Anne asked gently, her eyes scanning his face with motherly concern.

Harry forced a smile. "I’m fine, Mum. Just race day nerves, you know."

She wasn’t convinced. "You’re doing too much, Harry. You don’t have to do everything your father asks of you. Especially not today."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know, but you know how he is. It’s easier to just go along with it on race days."

Anne’s expression softened, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. "You need to take care of yourself. This pace isn’t sustainable."

Harry exhaled sharply, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "What a fantastic start to the day," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Anne pulled him into another hug, her voice gentle but firm. "I don’t care if you finish first or last today, Harry. I just want you to be happy. That’s all that matters."

Her words struck a chord, and for a moment, Harry felt the weight of everything he carried. He ran a hand over his face, the tension in his jaw evident as he exhaled slowly. "Gosh, the day only started, yet I am already desperate for a drink," Harry thought, his fingers briefly rubbing at his temple. But before the race, there was no way he could indulge that craving, and the thought left a bitter, uncomfortable churn in his stomach. The idea lingered, teasing and unwelcome, but he forced it aside. The race always came first. Shaking his head slightly, he pulled away from his mother’s embrace, offering her a small, reassuring smile before saying softly, "Thanks, Mum. I’ll try to remember that." He kissed her cheek gently and added, "I’ll see you after the race." With that, he excused himself. It was time to head to the paddock and meet with his engineers for the final setup discussions.

Louis' POV

After the confrontation with Harry, Louis found himself trying to shake off the lingering irritation. The way Harry had simply walked off with Gemma, leaving him there, gnawed at him. Now, the whole thing felt embarrassingly uncomfortable. He could feel their eyes on him, questioning and scrutinizing. For a moment, he wished he had handled the situation differently—or at least toned down the heat of their exchange. Lottie and Fizzy stood beside him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and disbelief.

"We know you can be loud and opinionated, but what the hell was that, Louis?" Lottie asked, her tone both curious and exasperated.

Louis exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "It’s nothing. Styles has just been acting like an ass ever since we met. You can’t get along with everyone, right?" he said, his tone defensive.

Lottie raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "He seemed nice enough to me," she remarked. "But fine, whatever. Focus on your race. I heard the crosswinds are going to make things tricky out there." She gestured toward the track, the faint roar of engines in the background adding to the charged atmosphere.

Louis gave a half-hearted shrug. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve got it under control." He glanced between his sisters, a small pang of guilt settling in his chest. They had traveled all this way to support him, and here he was, snapping at them over something as trivial as Harry Styles.

They exchanged hugs, Fizzy giving him an extra squeeze. "You’ve got this," she said softly, her voice steady.

"Thanks," Louis murmured, his mood lightening slightly. "Now go enjoy the race—and keep an eye on Niall. I don’t need him causing trouble."

The sisters laughed, waving him off as they headed toward the VIP area. Louis took a deep breath and began walking toward the garage. As soon as he stepped into the paddock, though, his nerves started to settle. The familiar scent of petrol and the whirring of engines surrounded him, blending with the distant hum of the crowd. It was chaos, but to Louis, it felt like home.

He took a moment to steady himself before heading to his car. The garage buzzed with activity, mechanics shouting over the hum of engines as they moved between cars, tools in hand. The smell of rubber and grease filled the air, blending with the sharp tang of petrol. Zayn stood a few meters away, deep in conversation with Chris, one of the lead mechanics. His arms were crossed as he nodded intently, occasionally pointing toward a diagram on a tablet Chris held.

"Oi, Tommo! Look who’s late for his own big day!" a familiar voice called out. Louis grinned, spotting Olli leaning casually against the McLaren. Olli, the bundle of energy wrapped in grease-streaked hands and a perpetual smirk, calmed Louis nerves a bit.

"Late? I’ve been here for hours, mate," Louis shot back, stopping beside him. "Just wanted to make sure you actually did your job before I got behind the wheel. Besides, I’ve been stuck doing a ton of sponsor crap all morning. Smiling and shaking hands isn’t exactly my idea of pre-race prep."

Olli laughed, slapping Louis on the back. "Thought you might’ve bailed on us."

"Yeah, right. You’d miss me too much," Louis retorted, his grin widening. The banter eased some of the tension that had been building all morning.

"I’ve got an idea for the aero," Louis said, crouching next to the car and pointing to a section of the bodywork. "Crosswinds are supposed to be bad later, yeah? I was thinking we could tweak the rear wing here."

Olli crouched down beside him, studying the spot. "Not bad. We could stiffen it up a bit without messing with the balance. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’ve got good instincts. I’ll sort it."

"Run it by Chris first," Louis suggested, nodding toward Zayn and the other mechanic still deep in discussion. Olli glanced over and gave a quick nod.

"Cheers, mate." Louis stood and patted Olli on the shoulder, feeling a flicker of confidence return. He hoped the adjustment would give him an edge, especially with the unpredictable winds forecasted for the race.

Staring at the car, Louis ran through the calculations in his mind again. Strong crosswinds could wreak havoc on the car’s stability, pushing it off the ideal line or even causing it to lose control. Every adjustment mattered, and he wasn’t about to leave anything to chance. The whir of tools and the clatter of equipment being shifted echoed through the garage, grounding him momentarily.

As the time drew nearer, Louis felt his nerves begin to fade, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. He straightened up, exhaling deeply, as the cacophony around him started to blur into background noise. The pit lane buzzed with activity as the teams prepared for the start. Mechanics darted between cars, their movements precise and rehearsed. Engines roared intermittently, each rumble sending a jolt of adrenaline through him. Cars began rolling out of their garages, each taking a lap or two to warm up the brakes, tires, and engine, as the countdown to the race loomed closer.

Louis climbed into his car, the cockpit instantly cocooning him in its tight confines. His team worked around him, performing final checks on the vehicle. The faint smell of rubber and fuel filled the air as tire warmers were applied to maintain optimal grip. The noise, the heat, the adrenaline—it all felt electric.

As the cars lined up on the grid, Louis could feel the weight of the moment settle over him. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his pulse steady but strong.

Chapter Text

LOUIS POV

The storm over Silverstone was brewing, both in the sky and on the track. Located in North Hampshire, the circuit was bearing the brunt of a weekend's heatwave that had culminated in a storm—mercifully without rain, but rife with violent wind gusts. The fierce turbulence was set to challenge every driver, turning the race into a test of skill, endurance, and sheer willpower.

Louis Tomlinson sat in his McLaren, his gaze fixed on the cars ahead of him. Starting from seventh on the grid as a rookie was an achievement, and he knew it. The hum of the engine beneath him was steady, a constant reminder of the beast he controlled. For a brief moment, his thoughts drifted to his mother. She would have been proud of him, he was sure. She always believed in his ability to rise to the occasion, but the pang of her absence tugged at his chest. He wished she could be there, watching him from the stands, cheering him on like she always used to. The thought brought a mix of comfort and sadness, an ache that sat heavy in his chest. She should have been here to see this moment, his debut in Formula 1, but life had a cruel way of taking her away too soon. Louis exhaled deeply, willing the emotion to settle. "One life for the two of us, Mum," he murmured softly, the words barely audible over the hum of the engine. It was his silent promise to carry her memory with him, to make her proud, even if she wasn’t there to witness it.

Ahead of him, Zayn’s McLaren lined up, and Louis toggled his radio. "Good luck out there, mate," he said, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But don’t get too comfortable up there. I might just overtake you."

Zayn laughed lightly. "You wish, Tommo. Let’s see if you can keep up first, and more importantly, let’s bring these cars home in one piece," Zayn replied, his tone focused but warm.

Olli’s voice crackled through the headset. "Oi Tommo, if you even think about pulling some ridiculous stunt out there, I’ll quarter you myself. The wind is brutal, and it’s going to mess with everyone. Stay on the track and focus on your race."

"Aye Aye, Captain Olli," Louis said, trying not to laugh at the engineer’s bluntness. His voice was calm but determined. This wasn’t just any race; this was his debut. His hands tightened on the wheel as he felt the familiar buzz of adrenaline flooding his system.

The lights above the grid began their countdown. Louis’s breathing slowed, the world outside his cockpit fading into a dull hum. He could feel himself syncing with the car, the machine becoming an extension of his body. The lights blinked off. Green.

He slammed the accelerator, the car surging forward with a roar. The force pressed him back into his seat, but his focus remained absolute. Each corner brought new challenges as the fierce gusts tested the car’s stability. The wind’s chaotic nature turned every straight into a battle, but Louis’s calculations and adjustments paid off. His car felt more stable than most, a testament to the tweaks he’d worked out with the team.

HARRY POV

Harry pushed forward, his grip on the wheel tightening as he settled into the rhythm of the race. The early chaos of the start had begun to settle, but the storm around him was far from over. Verstappen was still close, and he could feel the Red Bull lurking in his mirrors, ready to pounce on any mistake.

"Gap to Verstappen: half a second," Jeff's voice crackled through the radio. "Hamilton is closing in behind him. Keep it steady, mate."

Harry barely nodded, his focus locked on the next series of corners. Becketts and Chapel were fast approaching, and with the wind still gusting, he knew any miscalculation would cost him. He took a deep breath, feeling the car fight against the elements as he pushed through each turn with calculated precision.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of silver. Hamilton was making moves, edging closer to Verstappen. The battle was intensifying, and Harry knew he couldn’t afford to let them get too close. He pressed his foot harder on the throttle, coaxing every ounce of speed from his Mercedes as he powered down Hangar Straight.

"Good pace, Harry. Keep it up. Verstappen is trying to break the tow, but you’re holding firm."

He smirked slightly, his confidence growing as he maintained his lead. The world outside the cockpit faded into white noise—the roar of the crowd, the radio chatter—it all melted away. All that mattered was the car, the track, and the fight ahead.

Harry Styles clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the road ahead. Fourth on the grid wasn’t where he wanted to be. A costly mistake in qualifying had sent him back, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had locked up going into Maggots, the front tires screeching as he miscalculated his braking point, costing him precious tenths. He and Jeff had worked tirelessly to stabilize the car, but it refused to settle. The rear felt loose through high-speed corners, and the gusting wind only worsened the instability. No matter what they tried, it never felt quite right.

But Harry was a damn good driver. Maybe the best. He wasn’t about to let an unsteady car define his race. He had fought through worse. The thrill of the challenge coursed through his veins, mingling with the frustration. He would find a way to control it, to turn this into an advantage. He had no choice. Neither the unpredictable balance of his car nor the constant fights with Des would stop him from winning today.

Fuck you, Des, he thought as he clenched his jaw, pushing away memories of his father. This was his moment, and nothing—not even the ghosts of their arguments—would take it from him.

Jeff, his engineer, crackled through the comms. "Wind is still gusting hard. Don’t get greedy into Turn One."

Harry barely acknowledged the advice. He knew the conditions were brutal, but he wasn’t going to let the wind dictate his race. The unpredictability of it only fueled his determination. He had spent the warm-up laps wrestling the car, feeling its limits, absorbing every twitch and slide. As the lights counted down, he could feel the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders—expectations, frustrations, and the lingering echoes of his fights with Des.

Then, as the lights went out, everything vanished. The tension, the anger, the doubt—gone. All that remained was the raw thrill of speed. As his Mercedes surged forward, he felt it: the one moment where he was truly free. This was what he was born to do. Here, he wasn’t just Harry Styles, the driver with baggage. Here, he was in control, the master of his own fate. It was the only thing he had ever been truly good at, the one place where he was respected for what he could do rather than who he was.

It was the only time he felt like himself. Everywhere else, he was playing a role, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Here, in his Formula 1 car, he was just Harry. It didn’t matter that he liked men, didn’t matter who his father was. Only his skill, his talent, and his hunger to win mattered.

The chaos of the grid unfolded around him, but he stayed focused, weaving through the gaps with razor-sharp precision, his instincts guiding him through the storm ahead.

LOUIS POV

His car shot forward, holding firm against the unpredictable gusts. Verstappen held his lead, with Harry right behind him. The battle between the front runners was intense, but Louis had his own fight, maneuvering past Norris into P6. The chaos of the midfield unfolded in a blur, Leclerc and Hamilton aggressively pushing forward. Louis fought to maintain his position, his hands gripping the wheel tighter as he forced his car through every gap he could find. But something nagged at the back of his mind—where was Zayn? He had been ahead, holding P6 before the lights went out. Louis flicked his eyes to the race display for a split second, scanning for Zayn's number.

'Olli, where's Zayn?' he asked over the radio, his voice sharp with urgency.

'He dropped back at the start, had a poor launch. He's stuck in a fight with Norris and Russell right now,' Olli responded. 'Focus on your own battle, Louis.'

That gave Louis a brief sense of relief, but also disappointment. He had been looking forward to battling Zayn on track. But there was no time to dwell. He had Hamilton breathing down his neck.

Through Copse, he caught sight of Verstappen going wide, giving Harry the inside line. The crowd erupted as Styles took the lead, his silver Mercedes cutting through the air like a blade. Louis barely had time to process it before Hamilton was suddenly right behind him, his silver car filling the mirrors.

Louis knew he couldn't afford to hesitate. Hamilton was a veteran, relentless in his pursuit. The gusts of wind battered his McLaren, making it harder to keep control, but he held firm. As they approached Stowe, Hamilton made his move, darting to the inside. Louis countered immediately, braking later than he should have, feeling the tires struggle to grip the tarmac. They were side by side, inches apart, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

For a moment, everything around him blurred. The roar of the engines, the distant cheers of the crowd, even the wind whipping against his helmet—it all faded into a single thought: keep Hamilton behind.

Over the radio, Olli provided constant updates. "Louis, you’re doing fantastic out there. Smooth lines, great control—keep it up. Honestly, Styles is completely irrelevant right now. Focus on what you’re doing."

"Copy that," Louis replied, a small smirk tugging at his lips. The reassurance helped, weaving through the midfield with precision and confidence. He trusted his strategy and the stability of his car, even as the winds became heavier. He could feel his heart pounding as he gritted his teeth, pushing his McLaren to its absolute limit.

HARRY’s POV

Harry fought relentlessly, knowing that every move had to be precise in these awful conditions. The wind howled across the circuit, unpredictable and fierce, making every braking zone a gamble. His first target: Carlos Sainz. The Ferrari driver was fast, aggressive, and not one to give up a position easily. Harry knew he had to be patient.

Lap after lap, he studied Sainz’s defensive moves, feeling out where the Ferrari was weakest. The wind was unpredictable, gusting hard in fast corners like Copse and Becketts, making it even harder to time an attack. On lap six, he finally saw an opportunity. Sainz struggled under braking into Village, his car momentarily twitching under the pressure of the crosswind. Harry pounced, braking late and squeezing through the inside, his tires barely clinging to the track. The Ferrari fought back, but Harry held his line, forcing Sainz to concede as they powered onto the Wellington Straight.

Next was Charles Leclerc. The Monegasque was renowned for his defensive abilities, and he used every trick in the book to keep Harry behind. Each time Harry thought he had a chance, the Ferrari would weave just enough to disrupt his rhythm. The wind only made it worse, each lap feeling like a battle against both Leclerc and the elements. On lap ten, a powerful gust nearly sent Harry off track at Chapel, forcing him to back off momentarily. But he regrouped, waiting for his moment.

It came on lap twelve. As they exited Becketts, Leclerc caught another brutal gust, sending him slightly off his racing line. Harry didn’t hesitate—he activated DRS, tucked in behind, and used the slipstream to gain momentum. By the time they reached Stowe, he was ahead, braking hard to secure the move.

Now, only one man stood in his way: Max Verstappen. The Dutchman was a fortress, running a near-perfect race, placing his car exactly where it needed to be. Each time Harry tried to gain ground, Verstappen would shift his position just enough to hold him at bay.

For several laps, Harry followed, pushing as hard as he could without overstepping. The turbulence off Verstappen’s rear wing made it feel like fighting through a storm. His hands were tight on the wheel, countersteering against the sudden gusts threatening to unbalance the car. On lap seventeen, he attempted a move into Brooklands, only for Verstappen to slam the door shut.

But Harry was relentless. The pressure was mounting, and Verstappen was forced to defend harder with every lap. On lap twenty, Harry finally got the break he needed. Verstappen braked a fraction too early into Brooklands, just enough hesitation for Harry to dive to the inside. Their tires were millimeters apart as he forced his way through. A final push through Luffield, wrestling with the gusting wind, and he was ahead.

"You're P1!" Jeff shouted in his ear. "Brilliant move, mate! Keep your head down and bring it home."

Harry barely heard him. The race wasn’t over yet. The wind was still a threat, Verstappen wasn’t going anywhere, and he had a championship-caliber fight on his hands. But in this moment, he felt unstoppable. The track was his, the victory within reach.

LOUIS POV

Louis was locked in, his mind and body attuned to every vibration of the car, every shift in the wind. His breathing had steadied, his hands relaxed but firm on the wheel. The world outside the cockpit barely existed—just him, the machine, and the fight ahead. The tires hummed beneath him, gripping the tarmac as he weaved through the turbulent air pockets that threatened to unsettle the car.

Every movement felt instinctive, sharpened by the hours of training, the endless laps, the unrelenting hunger to push beyond his limits. He had no time for doubt, no space for hesitation. His focus narrowed further, tracking the rhythm of the cars ahead, searching for opportunities, anticipating danger before it struck.

Then it happened. A sudden crash ahead snapped Louis's focus. The safety car was already out, its yellow lights flashing against the gray sky as debris scattered across Turn Three.

"Incident at Turn Three! Two cars off! Safety car deployed!" Olli’s voice crackled in his ear, sharp and urgent.

"Got it, Olli," Louis replied, his voice steady despite the tension tightening his chest. His reflexes kicked in instantly as he spotted a large piece of debris on the racing line. With a sharp turn of the wheel, he threaded through the chaos with precision, the back of his car twitching slightly as he avoided the wreckage. Zayn’s McLaren darted past the debris field, narrowly escaping unscathed behind him.

"Nice work, Louis," Olli praised. "Smooth reactions there. Keep that focus and stay behind the safety car delta."

Louis exhaled, adjusting his grip on the wheel. The field had slowed significantly, the cars ahead weaving slightly to keep their tires warm as they trailed the safety car. "Track’s a mess," Louis muttered into the radio, weaving carefully in the gusting wind. "Any updates on the wind?"

"Still gusting hard, especially through Becketts and Chapel," Olli replied. "But your handling looks great so far. You’ve got this."

Louis allowed himself a small nod, even though Olli couldn’t see it. He fell into line behind the pack, the rhythmic hum of the engine grounding him as he passed through the twisted remains of Turn Three. The sight of the wreckage sent a sharp reminder of the stakes, but Louis sharpened his focus.

"This isn’t just about surviving, Olli," Louis said, a hint of steel in his tone. "I’m not here to just make up the numbers."

Harrys POV

Harry had been lucky—he had escaped the chaos unscathed, the crash happening behind him. But luck alone wouldn’t win him the race. A crucial pit stop had cost him valuable positions, dropping him far down the order. The fresh tires gave him an edge, but now he had to fight his way back to the front.

The safety car had slowed the pack, neutralizing any advantage the leaders had built. He was still in the fight, but with only four laps remaining, he had to make every move count. He gritted his teeth, knowing he had a mountain to climb. The restart was coming, and he needed to carve his way forward—fast.

As the green flag waved, he launched forward, using every ounce of grip his fresh tires offered. One by one, he picked off cars, weaving through the midfield like a predator closing in on its prey. Then, just ahead, he spotted the familiar papaya-colored McLaren. Louis.

Of course it had to be him.

"Jeff, tell me where Tomlinson is," he snapped over the radio, already calculating his next move.

"P5, just came out of the pits himself. He’s got fresh tires, same as you. Don’t do anything stupid."

Harry smirked. "No promises."

The chase was on. Louis had the advantage of track position, but Harry had momentum. He lined up behind the McLaren, testing different angles, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But Louis wasn’t making it easy—he defended hard, shutting the door every time Harry thought he saw an opening.

The wind made every move even riskier. One wrong move, and he could lose everything. But Harry didn’t back down. He pressed harder, pushing Louis to the absolute limit, waiting for that one mistake that would give him the upper hand.

Jeff's voice crackled in his ear. "Alright, Harry. This is it. Two laps. Make them count. And don’t do anything stupid. The wind is still brutal, especially through Becketts and Chapel. Stay sharp and don’t push too hard. We need to finish this race in one piece."

Harry ignored the warning. He lined up behind Louis, weaving left and right, searching for a way past. The McLaren was fast, its new tires giving it an edge in traction. Harry lunged at every opportunity, forcing Louis to defend aggressively.

Each attempt was met with resistance. Louis knew exactly where to place his car, making himself a wall Harry couldn’t break through. The frustration burned in his chest, but he refused to let it cloud his judgment. He needed a perfect move. One mistake from Louis, and he would take his shot.

Louis POV

Louis couldn't believe what he was seeing. Harry was pushing like a man possessed, throwing his car into every available gap, no matter how risky. The wind made every move unpredictable, yet Harry acted as if it didn’t exist.

"He's insane," Louis muttered under his breath. "Olli, Styles is trying every trick in the book."

"Hold your line," Olli instructed. "He's desperate, but you’ve got the better position. Don’t let him force you into a mistake."

Louis clenched his jaw. He had raced against aggressive drivers before, but this was something else. Harry was all over his mirrors, taking chances that no one else would. He dove to the inside at Copse, forcing Louis to squeeze him against the limit of the track. Somehow, Styles didn’t lift.

"For God’s sake!" Louis barked. "Does he think he's invincible?"

Harry kept pushing, his silver Mercedes twitching under the force of the wind but never backing off. Lap after lap, he threw everything at Louis, testing every inch of his defense. The McLaren was holding strong, but Harry’s relentless pressure was starting to wear Louis down. The gusts of wind buffeted both cars, making every braking zone a battle for control. Yet, Harry never hesitated, never backed off.

Louis swallowed hard, gripping the wheel tighter as they approached Stowe. He could feel it coming—Harry was going to make a move, and it was going to be reckless.

Harrys POV

Harry tried again and again, but every attempt to overtake Louis was met with unyielding resistance. With only a few laps left, his desperation mixed with rising anger. This shouldn't be happening. Louis, in that underperforming McLaren, had to be beatable. And yet, every move Harry made was countered, every gap he thought he saw was closed before he could exploit it.

The frustration boiled over. He tightened his grip on the wheel, pushing the Mercedes to its absolute limit. Then, with just over a lap remaining, he finally saw his opportunity. Louis had taken a slightly compromised line out of Becketts, leaving the smallest of openings on the outside. Harry didn’t hesitate—he went for it, his foot heavy on the throttle, determined to make the move stick. He edged past, feeling the rush of adrenaline as his front wheels pulled ahead. For a split second, he thought he had it.

But the wind had other plans.

A sudden, brutal gust slammed against the side of his car just as he reached full overlap. His rear tires lost grip for a fraction of a second, twitching violently. The Mercedes shuddered under the force, and before he could fully correct, his back end snapped out, clipping Louis’ front tire.

The impact sent a jolt through his body. The world blurred as his car veered violently off course, skidding sideways. The tires dug into the gravel, sending dust and debris flying as he fought the steering wheel, but it was no use. His Mercedes spun helplessly before coming to a gut-wrenching halt in the run-off area.

For a few seconds, all he could hear was his own rapid breathing and the distant roar of the race continuing without him. His hands trembled as he realized what had just happened. He had lost it.

"Fuck!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the wheel. "What the hell was that?!"

"Harry, focus," Jeff’s voice came through, firm but measured. "The wind caught you. Louis held his line."

"Bullshit!" Harry barked, his pulse still pounding in his ears. "He squeezed me out! He knew exactly what he was doing!"

"Negative, mate. Your car’s done. Shut it off."

Harry's hands clenched into fists as the reality of it hit him. His race was over. All that effort, all that pushing, gone in an instant. His vision blurred with fury as he yanked off his gloves and threw them aside. He wasn’t just angry—he was livid.

He ripped off his helmet, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with unspent adrenaline. His eyes locked onto the track, watching Louis disappear into the distance.

No way. No fucking way.

He unbuckled himself in record time, storming of the track before the marshals could reach him. The gravel crunched under his boots as he marched toward the paddock, his mind set on one thing—finding Louis.

Jeff’s voice was still in his ear. "Harry. Let it go."

Harry ripped out the earpiece. "Not a chance. He’s going to answer for that."

Louis POV

"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL WAS THAT?" Louis roared into the radio, his voice breaking with raw fury.

"Styles lost it in the wind," Olli replied quickly, his tone steady but firm. "His car’s done, Louis. He’s out of the race. But he’s fine. No injuries reported."

Louis’s grip on the wheel tightened, his breathing ragged as he fought to process the information. "Lost it? LOST IT? Oh, brilliant! He’s out? That’s just fantastic, Olli! Serves him right! And me? What about me, huh? My car’s a bloody wreck! He’s trashed my race!" Louis’s voice was a volatile mix of sarcasm, rage, and disbelief, each word cutting like a blade through the comms.

His car limped back onto the track, the steering heavy and unresponsive as he struggled to maintain control. One by one, other cars breezed past him, every lost position pouring gasoline onto the fire of his anger. "Unbelievable!" he spat into the radio. "Harry Styles, the golden boy, can do no wrong, right? Meanwhile, I’m out here with a car that’s barely holding together!"

By the time he crossed the line, Louis was trembling with frustration, his mind racing faster than the laps he had just endured. The humiliation of being overtaken, the wreckage of his race—all of it seethed under his skin, threatening to boil over.

The garage was thick with tension, the aftermath of the race hanging in the air like a storm that refused to pass. Mechanics worked quietly in the background, their movements cautious as if afraid to disturb the volatile atmosphere. Louis tore off his helmet, the visor clattering against the cockpit as he flung it aside. His gloves followed shortly after, skidding across the concrete floor. "What the hell was Styles thinking?" he barked at Olli, his voice sharp enough to cut through the subdued noise of the garage. "Does he think this is some kind of demolition derby?"

Olli stepped forward, his hands raised in a calming gesture. "Louis, let’s keep perspective. The car’s damaged, but we can sort it. Take a breath."

"Perspective?" Louis snapped, his voice rising, pacing the garage like a caged animal. "Tell me how I’m supposed to stay calm when Styles drives like he owns the bloody track. He’s reckless, arrogant, and—"

Before he could finish, the sound of purposeful footsteps cut through the air. The devil himself – Harry fuckin Styles - stormed into the McLaren garage, his green eyes blazing with fury. His wind-tousled hair framed his face, beads of sweat trailing down his temple. The faint scent of his cologne—sharp, clean—preceded him, mingling with the metallic tang of the garage. Zayn, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, straightened immediately, his gaze snapping to the intruder.

"You absolute idiot!" Harry’s voice thundered through the garage, silencing the faint clinking of tools. In three quick strides, he was in front of Louis, grabbing him by the front of his race suit and shoving him against the wall. The impact rattled the nearby tool racks, a wrench clattering to the floor.

"Get your hands off him!" Zayn’s voice rang out, cutting through the charged atmosphere with a commanding edge. His usually calm demeanor was replaced by a protective fierceness, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward, his posture tense. Despite Zayn’s sharp tone, Louis raised a hand, a silent signal to stop his teammate from intervening, his gaze never breaking from Harry’s piercing green eyes. The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as the sheer intensity of the confrontation swallowed everything else.

Harry’s face hovered inches from Louis’s, the air between them charged with an almost unbearable electricity. "You wrecked my race," Harry growled, his voice low and dangerous. His green eyes burned, their intensity making Louis’s chest tighten. The nearness was suffocating, Louis could feel the heat radiating from Harry’s body, the scent of his cologne pulling at memories he had long buried.
Louis didn’t flinch. If anything, his anger surged, matching Harry’s intensity with a fiery defiance. With a sharp shove, he broke Harry’s grip, the force sending Harry stumbling back a step. Without hesitation, Louis reached out, his hand finding the back of Harry’s neck, his fingers tangling briefly in the damp strands of his hair. He yanked Harry closer, their faces mere inches apart. The proximity was electrifying, their breaths mingling in the tense space between them. Louis’s grip on Harry’s neck was firm but not harsh, his sharp gaze locking onto Harry’s piercing green eyes, catching the faint flecks of gold that seemed to shimmer with emotion—anger, frustration, and something he couldn’t name.
"You think this is my fault?" Louis hissed, his voice low and cutting. "You’re the one driving like the wind doesn’t exist. One gust, Styles, and you lost it. And now you’re here, blaming me?"
Harry’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as his jaw clenched tightly. His gaze flickered, betraying a brief moment of vulnerability as it dropped to Louis’s lips before snapping back to his eyes. For a fleeting instant, time seemed to freeze—an undeniable force pulling them closer, their lips nearly meeting in a moment neither dared to comprehend. The silence between them was thick, stretched tight with tension, each heartbeat amplifying the weight of the moment. Louis’s grip on Harry’s neck remained firm, his fingers slightly trembling as his anger mingled with an unspoken tension that felt far too dangerous to acknowledge.

"Back off, Harry," Zayn interjected, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip. He stepped forward, his hand firm on Harry’s shoulder, his posture radiating authority. "This isn’t the time or place, and you bloody well know it."
Harry’s chest heaved, his breaths shallow and fast as his fiery gaze remained locked on Louis. His body was taut, trembling slightly under the weight of his emotions, but he didn’t budge. For a moment, it seemed like Zayn’s intervention wasn’t enough to break the storm brewing between them.

"Enough! Both of you!" Andrea Stella’s voice was sharp, reverberating through the garage like a command that couldn’t be ignored. Olli stepped in, his grip firm on Louis’s arm, pulling him back with just enough force to create distance. "Stand down, Louis," Olli murmured, his tone low but insistent, as if speaking too loudly might reignite the fire.
Andrea grabbed Harry by the arm, his fingers digging in just enough to make his point. "Styles, step back now," he said, his words leaving no room for argument. Harry resisted, his muscles tensing against Andrea’s grip, but after a short moment, he relented, his steps reluctant and heavy. His gaze lingered on Louis, still burning with a mix of fury and something far more complex.

Nick Grimshaw appeared, his frustration evident as he yanked Harry further away, his fingers tightening around Harry’s arm. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Nick barked, his tone tinged with exasperation. "Step away now before you make this worse for everyone."
Harry jerked his arm free but didn’t resist as Nick pulled him toward the exit. His parting words were a venomous snarl, laced with unrelenting heat. "This isn’t over, Tomlinson," he growled, his voice a low promise that lingered in the air even after he was gone.
Louis stood frozen, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. His eyes followed Harry’s retreat, the tension in his own body refusing to dissipate.

Zayn stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if not to disturb the fragile calm settling over the garage. His dark eyes softened with concern as he studied Louis, whose knuckles were still white, gripping the edge of the workbench. "You alright?" Zayn’s voice was low, steady, but laced with a protective edge.

Louis nodded stiffly, though his posture betrayed him. His shoulders were tight, his breaths shallow, and his jaw remained clenched. "Yeah. Fine," he muttered, his voice barely audible. His words felt hollow even as he said them.
The truth was, his mind was far from fine. His thoughts churned like a violent storm, replaying the encounter with Harry in agonizing detail. The fiery look in Harry’s green eyes, the heat of his body so close, the brief but undeniable moment when their anger seemed to blur into something else—it all lingered, refusing to dissipate. Louis squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push it away, but the memory was seared into his mind. Was it anger, unresolved desire, or an unspoken force pulling them together, teetering on the edge of chaos?

Zayn’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "Lou," he said softly, his tone a mixture of caution and care. "You don’t have to pretend with me. That was intense, and I know it’s messing with your head."
Louis let out a shaky breath, releasing his grip on the workbench. "I…" he started, but the words faltered. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Zayn’s gaze. "I just need a minute, alright?"
Zayn nodded, giving him space but staying close enough to offer silent support. The garage felt too quiet now, the tension lingering like an uninvited guest. Louis turned his gaze to the ground, his thoughts still tangled in the storm that Harry Styles had left behind.

Chapter Text

Louis’ POV

The aftermath of Louis’ first Formula 1 race was nothing short of a whirlwind. The media, from major newspapers to online platforms, were buzzing with praise for McLaren’s newest recruit. Despite finishing in 10th place, Louis’ performance was celebrated as a triumph. Articles lauded his calculated maneuvers and resilience, pointing out how well he adapted to the chaotic winds that defined the race.

One headline caught his attention and made him laugh out loud: "Move Over Styles, Tomlinson Is Here To Stay!" The sheer audacity of the statement was absurd but oddly satisfying. Another article dubbed him "The Working-Class Genius," which made Louis cringe. "The Rookie to Watch" and "McLaren’s Brilliant Gamble Pays Off" added to the flood of positive coverage.

But if the praise for Louis was glowing, the backlash against Harry Styles was brutal. The incident in the McLaren garage hadn’t gone unnoticed. Clips of Harry shoving Louis against the wall were shared widely, and the commentary was scathing. The headlines weren’t kind:

"What’s Wrong with Harry Styles?" questioned one, while another scolded, "The Fall of a Champion: Styles’ Outburst Leaves Fans Stunned." Yet another read, "Unsportsmanlike Conduct from the Golden Boy of F1."

For a fleeting moment, Louis felt a pang of guilt. He wasn’t used to seeing someone else take the brunt of the media’s wrath, and there was a small part of him that wondered if the coverage was too harsh. But as quickly as the guilt surfaced, he shoved it away. "He deserved every word of it," Louis thought firmly. Yet, the memory of Harry in the McLaren garage crept back into his mind unbidden—Harry gripping him by the suit, slamming him against the wall, their faces inches apart. Louis could still see those furious green eyes, the raw anger crackling between them, but there was something else—something unspoken in the way Harry’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long. For a split second, Louis had thought… No, he couldn’t have been imagining it. Harry’s eyes had flickered down to his lips. The thought sent a shiver down Louis’s spine, equal parts bewildered and angry.

"What the fuck was that?" Louis muttered to himself, his fists clenching at the memory. Harry Styles was the definition of a red flag—arrogant, infuriating, and utterly reckless. Louis couldn’t fathom why he felt drawn to someone so blatantly wrong for him. He deserved better than this—better than someone who played with fire and didn’t seem to care about the consequences. And yet, the almost-kiss replayed in his mind like a scratched record, impossible to ignore. Had Harry really…? Was it real, or was Louis reading too much into the charged moment? The way Harry’s gaze had flickered to his lips… it wasn’t nothing. Louis shook his head, as though trying to physically dislodge the thought. Either way, the imprint it left was undeniable, a knot of confusion and frustration that refused to loosen.

"He had no one to blame but himself," Louis muttered again, more forcefully this time, as though saying it with conviction would erase the memory altogether. But it lingered, heavy and maddening, refusing to let him go. The push and pull inside him was exhausting. Why couldn’t he just forget Styles? Harry had never been kind to him, not two years ago and certainly not now. He was arrogant, infuriating, and recklessly indifferent to anything that wasn’t about him. Louis had every reason to hate him.

And yet… the memory wouldn’t settle. It wasn’t just the anger or the fight—it was that moment. That charged second when the space between them felt electric. Louis’s mind gnawed on it, trying to convince himself he was imagining things. Did his gaze really drop to my lips? Did I imagine that? Am I reading too much into it? He groaned, the doubt eating away at him. God, how stupid would I be if this was all in my head?

But no matter how he tried to frame it, Louis couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t all in his imagination. And that thought scared him. Because Harry Styles was a major red flag—everything about him screamed trouble, chaos, and heartbreak. Louis knew better than to be drawn to someone so obviously wrong for him. He deserved better. He needed better. But even as he told himself that, the memory of Harry lingered, an unshakable weight pressing down on him.

The storm inside him didn’t dissipate easily. He threw himself into interviews and post-race obligations, smiling for the cameras and deflecting questions about the incident in the garage. But no amount of praise or headlines could drown out the intrusive thought of Harry’s furious, electrified gaze. Louis wanted to blame adrenaline, the heat of the moment, anything—just not himself. And certainly not Harry. He clung to the belief that Harry was the problem. He had to be.

Meanwhile, Olli had wasted no time bragging about Louis’ suggestion to tweak the car’s rear aerodynamics. "All Louis’ idea," Olli had told a journalist during the post-race debrief. The media picked up the story and ran with it, branding Louis "The Genius from the Working Class." The label made Louis roll his eyes. It was far too dramatic, but he couldn’t deny the pride that came with seeing his input validated on track. Still, the spotlight was suffocating at times, its brightness leaving him longing for the quieter pace of home.

After the post-race chaos and press conferences, Louis finally had some days off to spend at home in Doncaster. The modest brick house, with its slightly overgrown garden and a crooked mailbox that had never been fixed, stood as a comforting contrast to the high-octane glamour of Formula 1. Inside, the air smelled faintly of Lottie’s lavender cleaning spray mingling with freshly brewed tea, a scent that was undeniably home.

The house was a blend of controlled chaos and warmth. The kitchen table was perpetually cluttered with half-finished school projects, abandoned books, and Fizzy’s sketchpads. The living room’s mismatched cushions seemed to have a life of their own, forever migrating across the sagging couch. In the hallway, a shoe rack groaned under the weight of an impressive array of sneakers and boots, some clearly too small but kept out of sentiment.

Louis spent his days dropping Fizzy and the twins off at school, where Daisy and Phoebe often squealed with delight when their classmates waved excitedly at their famous brother. One afternoon, as he waited near the school gates, a woman—a polished, confident mum who looked like she belonged more in a corporate office than a playground—sauntered over. She was in her early 30s, her heels clicking softly against the pavement as she approached.

"You must be Louis Tomlinson," she said, her voice warm but carrying a deliberate flirtatious edge. "I’ve heard about you nonstop from my son. He’s absolutely thrilled you’re here. Says he wants to be a driver just like you."

Louis blinked, slightly caught off guard. "Uh, that’s nice," he managed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. The woman smiled, her eyes lingering a little longer than he was comfortable with.

"Maybe you could give him a few tips sometime," she suggested, her tone dripping with suggestion. Louis’ face burned with a mix of embarrassment and confusion.

"Yeah, sure, maybe," he said quickly, glancing at the school gate as the twins finally appeared, bounding toward him and saving him from further conversation. As they walked home, Daisy teased him mercilessly.

"Looks like you’ve got a new fan, Lou," she giggled, while Phoebe added with a wicked grin, "Yeah, maybe you should give her son those tips. Mum’s orders, right?"

Louis groaned, pulling his cap lower over his face. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered, though he couldn’t help but smile at their antics. Despite the occasional chaos, being home was grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed.

In Manchester, Simon had arranged an interview for Louis with Sophie, a journalist from BBC Sports, whose calm professionalism was a welcome change from the usual media frenzy. Of course, Simon wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Like a meticulous babysitter, he hovered nearby, occasionally glancing at his phone but clearly tuned into every word exchanged. Sophie, however, made it easy for Louis to relax. Over steaming cups of coffee at a cozy, understated café, they delved into topics that felt personal yet approachable. They discussed his modest upbringing, his first memories of racing, and the bittersweet experience of balancing his career with the responsibility of caring for his siblings after losing his mum. Sophie’s warm demeanor drew Louis out of his shell, and he found himself opening up, his trademark sass shining through the more they talked.

"So, is there a special woman in your life?" Sophie asked, her grin widening as she leaned slightly forward, clearly intrigued.

Louis leaned back in his chair, smirking, but her directness caught him slightly off guard. "Apart from my sisters - no, not at the moment," he replied, keeping it vague. But Sophie wasn’t about to let the conversation drop so easily.

"And if there were?" she pressed, her tone playful but curious. "What kind of woman would it take to keep up with Louis Tomlinson?"

Louis chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair as he considered her question. "Well," he began, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful, "this person would have to be funny. Someone who can make me laugh even when I’m in a right mood. Loyal, obviously. Sensible when I’m not, which is most of the time." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation. "And maybe a little challenging, you know? Someone who keeps me on my toes. Can’t make it too easy, right?"

Sophie smiled warmly at his response, clearly satisfied with the answer. "Sounds like quite the person. Let me know if you find them—or if they find you."

Louis hesitated for a moment, the playful glint in his eyes softening slightly as he caught her subtle shift in language. It was as if she had left the door open for him to speak freely, to define his own terms. He nodded, his smirk returning but laced with a hint of something deeper. "I’ll keep you posted," he said, his tone light but carrying more weight than he’d intended.

Simon, unsurprisingly, was unimpressed with the interview. He called Louis immediately after, lecturing him about "staying on message." "This isn’t IndyCar," Simon snapped. "You need to present a clean image."

Louis rolled his eyes, biting back a sarcastic reply. He was tired of Simon’s constant micromanaging but knew it wasn’t worth the fight—at least not yet.

Back in Doncaster, the familiar chaos of home wrapped around Louis like a well-worn jacket. The kitchen was its usual mess: books and papers were scattered across the table, remnants of Fizzy’s schoolwork mingling with Daisy and Phoebe’s art supplies. Plates from dinner sat stacked in the sink, still waiting to be cleaned, and the faint smell of Lottie’s attempt at pasta lingered in the air. The soft hum of the television drifted in from the living room, where Lottie sat cross-legged on the couch in her oversized pajamas, her hair tied up messily as she laughed at a rerun of some reality show. A forgotten blanket trailed off the edge of the couch, pooling onto the floor, where Fizzy’s discarded socks lay.

Louis sat at the kitchen table, pencil in hand, helping Fizzy with her math homework. The fluorescent light flickered slightly overhead, casting a warm but imperfect glow. Fizzy seemed unusually tired, her brow furrowed as she stared blankly at the page in front of her.

"You’ll get the hang of it, Fizzy. Math might not be your thing, but you’re clever in so many other ways. Don’t stress too much, alright?" Louis said, his tone warm as he offered her a small smile. He noticed her frown deepening despite his encouragement, and it made him pause. "Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been a bit off the last days."

Fizzy sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "It’s just…" she hesitated, glancing up at Louis before continuing, "the girls at school keep asking me if you’re single. Like, what the hell am I supposed to say to that? You’re my brother! It’s disgusting."

Louis blinked, caught off guard, before laughing softly. "Well, that’s a new one. Don’t worry, Fiz. Just tell them I’m way too busy for all that. And definitely don’t let them get to you. They’re just curious because I’m famous now."

Fizzy scrunched up her nose in distaste. "Famous or not, it’s gross. I’m not talking about my brother like that to anyone."

Louis leaned over, giving her a playful nudge. "Good. Let’s keep it that way. Besides, you’re the only one who gets to see me embarrass myself trying to do school math." Fizzy snorted, breaking into a fit of giggles. "Fine, fine. But I still think you secretly enjoy this stuff. You’re way too smug about how good you are at it."

Louis laughed, ruffling her hair. "Smug? Me? Never. Just naturally brilliant."She chuckled again, shaking her head. "Yeah, and you know I'm very greatful for that."

Their quiet moment was interrupted by hurried footsteps echoing through the hallway. Lottie burst into the room with the exuberance of someone on a mission, dressed in her oversized pajamas, with the blanket wrapped around her, she clutched her tablet high like it was a golden trophy. The faint sounds of a reality show filtered in from the living room.

"Louis, have you seen this?" she exclaimed, her voice teetering on the edge of laughter as she practically shoved the tablet into his face.

Louis recoiled slightly, squinting at the screen. His stomach sank as he recognized the image instantly. It was him – shirtless, in tight black skinny jeans, sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hair tousled by the wind. The photo oozed casual arrogance. He immediately knew where it was from: the day he’d teased Harry on the track walk.

"Oh, brilliant," Louis groaned, rubbing his temples. "Exactly what I need." He glanced back at the screen, where the headline screamed: "Harry’s Off the Market, But F1’s New Star Heats Things Up: Louis Tomlinson Steals the Spotlight!" Beneath it, the photo seemed almost mocking in its perfection, its staged spontaneity.

"Honestly, Lottie, you’ve seen me walk around like this loads of times. The world needs to chill," Louis muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. "And those ladies writing this stuff? They could use a bit of a reality check."

Fizzy snorted, barely holding back her laughter. "The hottest single in F1? Yeah, sure, because Harry’s taken," she teased, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she and Lottie dissolved into giggles.

Louis slumped back in his chair, groaning louder this time. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered, feeling as if the kitchen’s cluttered chaos might somehow swallow him whole. Meanwhile, Lottie and Fizzy continued to laugh, their joy echoing through the room.

Barely ten minutes later, Louis’ phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, dread already pooling in his chest as he saw Simon’s name flashing. Taking a deep breath, he answered, bracing for the tirade he knew was coming.

"Louis, what the hell were you thinking?" Simon’s voice blasted through the receiver like a firehose. ."Do you have any fuckin' idea how bad this makes you look? You’re in fuckin' Formula 1 now, not some fuckin' backwater IndyCar setup. The whole world is watching you—watching me, because I’m the one putting my neck on the line for your career. And you decide to strut around fuckin' shirtless on a track walk? Are you trying to turn this into a shitty reality show?"

Louis could hear Simon pacing, the faint click of shoes against a hard floor. His tone only grew sharper. "You look like a bloody boy band member trying to play racer! Is that what you fuckin' want? To be the butt of every joke in the paddock? You need to fuckin' grow up, Louis. This is Formula 1!"Louis tried not to laugh as he counted how many times Simon had already said "fuck" in this single rant. For someone who prided himself on professionalism, Simon sure had a colorful vocabulary. Louis himself didn’t swear half as much - at least not in one monologue and for a moment, the sheer absurdity of Simon’s tirade was almost amusing

Louis sighed, trying to keep his frustration in check. "Simon, calm down. It’s not like I was streaking. You wanted attention for me, didn’t you? Well, this is what you get—extra heterosexual presence for your precious rookie."

Simon’s voice dropped, laced with icy authority. "Don’t get smart with me. I’ve seen worse. Check your phone; I’m sending you something now."

A notification pinged almost immediately. Louis’ hand felt heavy as he opened the message, dread seeping deeper into his bones. His stomach lurched when the image loaded. It showed him standing uncomfortably close to Harry, who leaned down toward him, their faces mere inches apart. The angle twisted the interaction into something almost tender, almost romantic. The thought sent a wave of panic coursing through Louis.

"Fuck," he whispered under his breath, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. His mind raced. If someone had captured this moment, what else might they have photographed? The entire interaction? Where were the photos of him in the Mercedes polo? Did Simon have those, too? The possibilities made his head spin.

"Louis," Simon’s voice cut through the haze, cold and unforgiving. "You can’t afford this kind of mistake. You’ve had one race. One. Pull yourself together, or you’ll ruin everything."

Louis clenched his jaw, swallowing the retort that bubbled up. He knew Simon was right, even if the man’s delivery grated on every nerve. "Fine," he muttered flatly, before ending the call. He set the phone down, staring at it for a long moment as if it might explode. His mind wandered, weighing the risks of this photo and what it could mean.

If Louis ever fell in love with a man, he thought, he’d fight tooth and nail for that person. He’d be willing to reveal his bisexuality to the world if it came to that, no matter the backlash. But this? This wasn’t worth it. Not a false narrative spun out of a misinterpreted photo and not for Harry Styles, who seemed to invite chaos wherever he went. Louis exhaled sharply, pushing away the thoughts as he tried to ground himself. His family didn’t deserve this mess—not for something so meaningless.

That evening, after tucking the twins into bed, Louis stretched out on the couch. Lottie was nestled beside him, wrapped snugly in a fleece blanket, her eyes glued to the action movie playing on the television. The flickering light from the screen danced across the room, illuminating the cluttered coffee table laden with mugs and a half-empty bowl of popcorn.

As Louis’s phone vibrated softly on his lap, he glanced down absentmindedly, his focus splintered by the action movie booming on the television. But when he saw Eleanor’s name light up the screen, his pulse quickened. He sat up slightly, his heart thudding in a rhythm that surprised him. Why was she texting him now?

Memories rushed back, sharp and unwelcome, of the day she had ended things. It had been in the middle of everything—his mum’s illness, his world crumbling. She’d walked away when he needed her most. And now, after all this time, she was reaching out? Louis stared at the message, his thumb hovering over the notification, his chest tightening with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Eventually, he tapped the message open. Eleanor’s words were short and simple: "Hey Lou, how are u? Wanna hang out some time, it's been a while. - xx El." For a moment, Louis just stared at the screen, her message taunting him. His heart thudded harder as unbidden memories of their breakup swirled in his mind. She had left him during the hardest time of his life, and now here she was, acting as if none of that had happened.

Beside him, Lottie shifted, throwing a playful glance his way. "You’re not even watching, Lou," she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow.

He blinked, forcing a faint smile. "Just thinking, Lotts. Don’t worry about me." But his thoughts were far from calm. When his phone vibrated again, Louis glanced back down at the screen and opened the message.

"Hey Lou, how are u? Wanna hang out some time, it's been a while. - xx El."

His pulse quickened as he read it, her casual tone almost mocking the emotional turmoil it brought back. Memories of their breakup hit him like a slap—how she had walked away when he was at his lowest. Why was she texting now, after all this time? Did she expect him to forget everything?

Lottie nudged him again, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Oh come on, Lou - who’s got your attention?"

"No one important," Louis muttered, his voice nonchalant, though the tension in his chest told a different story. If things with her worked out, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the constant speculation about his private life. It would simplify things. No more whispers or fake headlines. Maybe her timing was a sign.

After a long moment of hesitation, he exhaled deeply and typed back. "If you’re free tomorrow, let’s catch up." He hit send before he could overthink it, feeling the tension settle in his chest like a weight he couldn’t quite shake. That night, Louis tossed and turned, struggling to sleep. Memories of Eleanor and thoughts about their upcoming meeting replayed in his mind like a broken record. By morning, his body felt heavy with the fatigue of restless hours, and yet the day itself was as calm and routine as ever. The house buzzed with the usual quiet chaos of family life, the comforting noise of his siblings going about their day.

Despite the relaxed atmosphere, Louis couldn’t shake the mild nausea that lingered with him, a physical reminder of his unease. At midday, he decided to try cooking lunch for everyone—a well-intentioned but disastrous endeavor. Though Louis was a genius on the track and in dealing with numbers, the kitchen was an entirely different battlefield. He burned the sauce, overcooked the pasta, and somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm, much to Lottie’s amusement. "Stick to racing, Lou," she teased, waving a dish towel at the smoke detector. Louis could only laugh, admitting defeat as his siblings scavenged for snacks to compensate for the failed meal.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, the calm only interrupted by Louis’s occasional drifting thoughts. At one point, he even forgot about Eleanor’s message entirely, until his phone buzzed again with a reminder of their scheduled meeting. With a quiet groan, he made his way to his bedroom, rifling through his wardrobe. He settled on a pair of black skinny jeans and a simple denim shirt, throwing them onto the bed before heading into the bathroom.

Styling his hair in the mirror, Louis caught Fizzy’s reflection behind him, her wide-eyed stare almost comical. "What are you up to?" she asked, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.

"Just heading to the pub," Louis replied casually, avoiding her questioning gaze. He wasn’t ready to bring Eleanor into the conversation—not yet. Fizzy and Lottie had never been fond of her after the way things ended, and Louis couldn’t blame them. "I can’t exactly look like a slob, can I? What if someone recognizes me?"

Fizzy didn’t look convinced, but she shrugged, letting it go. "Fine. Just don’t come back in another headline, alright?"

Louis chuckled, grabbing his phone, wallet, and keys before heading out. The cool evening air greeted him as he started walking toward the pub, the nervous energy in his chest a constant reminder of the night ahead.

He arrived early, leaning against the brick wall outside the pub as he lit a cigarette. The familiar burn settled his nerves, though he knew he should quit. His thoughts were a jumble of unease and anticipation as he took a slow drag, watching the faint glow of the pub lights against the darkening sky. Just as he began to relax, a familiar voice shattered his quiet moment.

"What’s this, mate? All dressed up? You didn’t have to impress me," Niall called out, grinning as he approached with a small group of friends.

Louis groaned inwardly but broke into a grin as Niall came closer, stepping forward to pull the Irish into a quick hug. "I didn’t dress up for you, mate," Louis quipped, clapping Niall on the back. "But what’s your excuse? Still clinging to that old hoodie? Or is that your pub best?"

Niall laughed loudly, gesturing to his well-worn hoodie. "Hey, this is vintage comfort, mate. Unlike you, I don’t need a denim shirt to pull off casual."

Niall’s teasing tone softened as he took a closer look at Louis. "So, who’s got you dressing like this? Is it one of those hot single mums you keep charming? Bet they’re all swooning over you. You and that sweet denim shirt—catnip for mums."

Louis rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Knock it off. I’m meeting El."

The humor drained from Niall’s face as his features hardened. "Eleanor? Seriously? Lou, I was there, remember? She didn’t just ghost you when things got tough. She tore you apart, mate. And now she waltzes back in because you’re the media’s golden boy? You don’t owe her a damn thing, Lou, and you know it."

Niall’s voice was tinged with genuine frustration, his loyalty to Louis evident in every word. "I was there picking up the pieces while she walked away like you didn’t matter.

Louis shrugged, exhaling smoke into the cool evening air. "It’s complicated. Maybe she deserves a second chance."

Niall pulled a face, crossing his arms. "A second chance? Seriously, Lou?"

Louis held his ground, his expression firm. "I have to try, Niall. It’s the only way I’ll know for sure."

Niall sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, mate. Just don’t let her screw you over again."

Before Louis could find an answer, Eleanor stepped into view. She wore a soft floral dress that swayed lightly with her steps, her long brown hair framing her face in loose waves. She looked effortlessly put together, a touch of gloss on her lips catching the light as she offered a small, cautious smile.

Niall’s tone shifted, dripping with sarcastic warmth as he greeted her. "Eleanor. Lovely to see you again. Still keeping your exit strategy handy, or is tonight all about nostalgia?" Without waiting for a response, he clapped Louis on the shoulder. "Well, enjoy your evening, mate. Catch you later," he said, his tone implying more than his words.

The date began awkwardly, their initial conversation punctuated by uncomfortable pauses. Eleanor seemed nervous, her fingers brushing the edge of her glass as she spoke about how things had changed for her recently. But after a couple of beers, the stiffness gave way to something more familiar. By the third round, Louis found himself laughing at one of her stories, the tension in his shoulders easing as the night wore on.

"You know, you’ve always had a way of making me laugh," Eleanor said softly, her smile warm.

Louis leaned back slightly, his expression guarded but softened by the alcohol. "And you’ve always had a way of showing up when I least expect it," he replied, his tone light but tinged with unspoken meaning.

As they parted outside the pub, Eleanor tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his. She leaned in closer, her intent clear. Louis didn’t feel pressured, and as their lips met, his hand instinctively moved to brush against her hair. For a brief moment, he froze, the soft texture startlingly familiar, triggering a flashback—Harry’s tousled hair slipping through his fingers that night two years ago, back when everything had been a whirlwind of confusion and fire.

He blinked, the memory vanishing as quickly as it came, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. The kiss with Eleanor was light, passionless, and devoid of the spark he half-expected. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t right either. It was... okay.

As he pulled back, Eleanor lingered, her gaze holding his for a moment. Her eyes searched for something, perhaps reassurance, but Louis couldn’t bring himself to offer it. "Goodnight, Lou," she said softly, her voice tinged with a hint of hope.

He nodded, his words clipped. "Goodnight, El." Without looking back, he turned and walked away, his thoughts swirling. Her floral dress swayed gently in the breeze behind him, but Louis kept his gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to let himself get tangled in whatever this was.

As he pulled back, Eleanor lingered, her gaze holding his for a moment. Her eyes searched for something, perhaps reassurance, but Louis offered none. "Goodnight, Lou," she said softly, her voice tinged with a hint of hope.

He nodded, his words clipped. "Goodnight, El." Without looking back, he turned and walked away, his thoughts swirling. Her floral dress swayed gently in the breeze behind him, but Louis kept his gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to let himself get tangled in whatever this was.

The next day, a sceptical Niall showed up at Louis’s house. "The cool evening breeze brushed past them as they sat on the worn wooden steps of the veranda, beer bottles clinking lightly with each shift. The distant hum of passing cars filled the quiet air, a comforting backdrop to the unspoken tension between them. For a while, neither of them spoke. Louis appreciated Niall’s patience; he wasn’t one to push, but Louis also knew it was only a matter of time before he’d bring up what was really on his mind. Niall shook his head, while Louis cracked open his beer and took a long sip before setting it down on the step beside him. The cool evening air felt grounding, but he knew what was coming. "Alright, let’s get it out of the way," Louis started, turning to Niall with a faint smirk. "I know you’re dying to ask what the deal with El is."

Niall leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with a raised brow. "What the hell are you doing, Lou? Eleanor? Really?"

Louis exhaled deeply, swirling his beer bottle in his hands. "Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t be thrilled. But maybe—just maybe—she deserves another chance."

Niall’s expression tightened, his voice low but sharp. "She doesn’t, Lou. You know she doesn’t. I was there, remember? When you couldn’t even get out of bed? When your mum was..." He trailed off, shaking his head as his frustration boiled over. "She left you then. Who does that? Who walks away at a time like that?"

Louis looked down, running a hand through his hair. "I know what she did, Niall. But what if this time is different? People change."

"Do they? Or are you just hoping they do because it’s easier than admitting she’s no good for you?" Niall shot back, his tone laced with concern and exasperation. "You deserve better than her. You always have."

Louis sighed, his voice softer now. "Maybe I do deserve better. But right now, it somehow feels easier, mate. Everything else in my life is so complicated, and this? It’s simple."

Niall shook his head, letting out a bitter laugh. "Simple? There’s nothing simple about dragging up the past, Lou. And El? She’s never made anything easy for you."

Louis exhaled, gripping his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. "You’re right," he murmured. "Nothing is easy. Not this."

He hesitated, then turned the screen toward Niall. The infamous photo glowed in the dim light. Harry. Him. A thousand assumptions packed into a single frame. "This is what I can’t deal with right now. The scrutiny, the questions."

Niall frowned, squinting at the image before leaning back. "Mate, Harry’s as straight as they come. He’s in Amsterdam with Taylor right now, playing house. Why let this get to you?"

Louis let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "You think this is about a picture?" His fingers drummed against the table, restless. "This isn't about a fucking headline, Niall."

Something in his voice made Niall’s brows knit together. "Then what’s it about?"

Louis hesitated. He could feel it pressing against his ribs, clawing its way up his throat—the truth he’d buried so deep he almost convinced himself it wasn’t there. Almost.

He inhaled sharply. "Remember that club two years ago? That dirty place in London? The one where I hooked up with some posh boy—Edward?"

Niall's face twisted in thought. "Vaguely. I just remember you being weird about it after. Not like—emotional, but you kept going back to it. I didn’t get why, figured it was just one of those things that stuck in your head." He shrugged. "Why?"

Louis leaned back against the wooden railing of the veranda, the evening air cool against his skin. He let his gaze drift over the quiet neighbourhood, the distant hum of the city barely audible. His fingers tightened around the bottle in his hands, the condensation damp against his palm. The weight of his words pressed on his chest, making it harder to breathe. His knuckles whitened around the glass. "Because a few weeks later, I found out who he really was."

Niall blinked. "What?"

Louis exhaled through his nose, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. "Edward wasn’t just some posh boy. He was Harry. Fuckin' Harry Edward Styles."

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating. Niall’s expression barely shifted, but Louis could see the gears turning, could see him working through the weight of those words.

Finally, Niall spoke, his voice quieter now, laced with something unreadable. "And you never said anything?"

Louis let out a bitter laugh, though there was no amusement behind it. He shook his head, gaze fixed on the empty space beyond the railing. "Why would I? I felt like an idiot, Niall. Like a fucking joke." He exhaled, gripping the bottle tighter, his thumb running absently over the damp label. "And then Eleanor happened, and the whole IndyCar thing took off, and suddenly, I had a script to follow. There was no room to look back and obviously nothing really happened, you know." Louis nodded, his jaw tightening as he stared at the dark liquid in his bottle. "Yeah. And what makes it worse is that he knew exactly what he was doing. He’s arrogant as hell, Niall, always has been. He’s the kind of guy who thinks the world revolves around him, and I don’t trust him one bit."

Niall watched him, silent, like he was weighing his words. The flickering porch light cast shifting shadows over his face, but Louis could still see the concern settling deep in his features.

Niall leaned back slightly, exhaling deeply as he studied Louis. "Lou, I get it. He’s a prick, no argument there. But mate, why does he still have this hold on you? I mean, if he’s as irrelevant to you as you say, why are we sitting here talking about him?"

Louis hesitated, setting the beer bottle down and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes, tapping one loose and lighting it with a flick of his lighter. The first drag settled his nerves just enough to speak. "It’s not him, Niall," Louis said after a moment, the smoke curling around his words. "It’s... everything. It’s the way people will look at my family, the whispers, the headlines. I can’t risk all of that for some stupid tabloid drama. Not for him, not for someone I don’t love, someone who I find completely insufferable. Simon wants me to be the hot, straight guy for the media? Fine. I’ll give them exactly that." he shrugs his shoulders.

Niall frowned, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice softened, but the frustration lingered. "You’re scared they’ll twist it all into something it’s not? Mate, people will always talk. But you can’t keep putting everyone else’s opinions above your own happiness."

Louis took another drag, exhaling slowly. "It’s not just that. I can’t control what they say, but I can’t give them fuel either. It’s my family, Niall. They’ve been through enough. Fizzy’s already getting shit at school because of me. I don’t want that for her, for any of them. They don’t deserve to deal with my mess."

Niall shook his head, running a hand over his face. "Alright, fine. But dragging Eleanor back into your life isn’t the answer either. You know that."

Louis took a long sip of his beer, his thoughts tangled. Eleanor. Fizzy. His siblings. And Harry—Harry who should mean nothing but somehow always managed to creep back into his mind. It wasn’t just the stupid photo or Simon’s incessant demands. It was Harry’s piercing green eyes, sharp as emeralds, that seemed to cut through everything. It was his infuriating arrogance, the way he acted like the world was his stage, always commanding attention without even trying.

Louis shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts. How could someone who annoyed him so much occupy so much space in his mind? He exhaled sharply, focusing back on the drink in his hand, but Harry’s presence lingered like an uninvited guest in his thoughts.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Amsterdam was exactly what his PR team needed: a romantic backdrop, perfect spots for spontaneous paparazzi shots, and enough distractions to at least temporarily shift the narrative away from Silverstone. The summer air was warm, the late afternoon sun casting golden reflections onto the water as bicycles zipped past on the cobbled streets. The scent of fresh waffles and brewing coffee filled the air, mingling with the distant sounds of a street musician playing a soft melody.

Harry walked hand in hand with Taylor across the bridges of the canals, his smile perfectly rehearsed. She looked effortlessly elegant in a yellow floral dress that flowed with each step, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders and catching the light like spun silk. Her heels clicked softly against the cobblestones, adding an air of grace to her every movement. Harry, in contrast, exuded casual sophistication with his cream linen shirt, sleeves loosely rolled up to reveal his bracelets, and a pair of tailored tan trousers that perfectly complemented the warm hues of summer. His sunglasses rested atop his nose, hiding his gaze but adding to his air of untouchable charm.

To the cameras, they were the image of effortless glamour, the perfect couple gliding through the heart of Amsterdam as if they belonged on the pages of a glossy magazine.

At a nearby flower market, they paused to buy tulips. Harry leaned in to press a soft kiss to Taylor’s cheek, her bright laughter ringing out in response. Her bouquet rustled as she turned to hold his hand, their fingers intertwined. To outsiders, they were the perfect picture of romance—so natural, so in love.

But only they knew the truth. "Think they’re eating this up?" Taylor whispered, her lips twitching into a smirk, her voice low enough to be drowned out by the bustling market.

"Oh, absolutely," Harry murmured back, his tone laden with amusement as he gave her hand a playful squeeze. "I bet they’re already drafting wedding headlines."

Taylor tilted her head dramatically, gazing at the tulips as though pondering something deeply meaningful. "Let’s see if we can get them to believe we named the flowers after ourselves. ‘Harry & Taylor’s Love Blooms in Amsterdam.’"

"Tragic enough that it might actually work," Harry replied, voice dripping with mock sincerity. He leaned in closer, brushing a strand of her golden hair back with exaggerated care. "Darling, don’t you think we should start posing near a canal next? Maybe gaze lovingly into the distance?"

Taylor stifled a laugh, her shoulders trembling slightly. She caught herself just in time, resuming her poised demeanor as a photographer snapped another shot. "Honestly," she whispered, giving Harry a sidelong glance, "how are we not in the movies?"

Harry grinned, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. He hated the charade; the whole PR circus left him feeling hollow, exhausted by the constant need to perform, to smile for the cameras, and to project an image of perfection. It felt like every moment under the spotlight chipped away at who he really was. But at least it was with Taylor. That made all the difference. She wasn’t just someone he trusted—she made it tolerable, even amusing. With her, the absurdity of it all became bearable. She could turn the most insufferable scenarios into something they laughed about later, and for that, Harry was grateful. Yet, deep down, the laughter didn’t fully erase the ache, the sense that he was losing himself in the façade.

Taylor was - next to Liam - his best friend, the one person who truly understood the weight of the spotlight. Her quick wit and dry humor turned exaggerated gestures and hand-holding into a private joke. It wasn’t love, not the kind the tabloids gushed about, but it was trust, friendship, and the kind of bond that reminded Harry he wasn’t completely alone. For a moment, he let himself enjoy the illusion, knowing the world saw them as the perfect couple—even if the reality couldn’t be further from it.

'Power Couple Goals,' one tabloid gushed. 'Harry & Taylor: Summer Bliss in Amsterdam' That was the story they were selling. And for a moment, Harry allowed himself to bask in the false narrative, even finding a sliver of comfort in the crafted illusion. The world saw him as composed, successful, adored—but it was all a front, a fleeting escape from the storm raging within him.

Because inside, he was boiling. Beneath the carefully curated smiles and rehearsed glances, his thoughts churned like a storm. Every time he unlocked his phone, his feed was flooded with more headlines about Louis. McLaren’s golden boy. The smart rookie. The fresh new face of Formula 1. The fans adored him. The media praised him. Louis Tomlinson could do no wrong.

Harry’s jaw clenched as he opened yet another article:

"Tomlinson Shines—The Future of F1?"

His stomach twisted as frustration bubbled into something sharper. While he was trudging through meaningless PR appearances, Louis was out there—being brilliant, being celebrated. Interview after interview painted him as the perfect underdog, charming, grounded, and effortlessly talented. The sports media raved about his sharp mind and natural flair. It was infuriating, but beneath the frustration was something else, something Harry wasn’t ready to name.

He took a deep sip of his wine as they sat in a picturesque café. Taylor was talking about one of her upcoming appearances, her voice a steady hum in the background, but he wasn’t listening. His mind had drifted again. Back to Silverstone. Back to the McLaren garage. Back to that moment.

His throat tightened, his fingers gripping the glass a little too hard. Why can’t I stop thinking about him? Louis’s face flashed in his memory—those piercing blue eyes locked onto his, defiant and unyielding. He remembered the heat of the moment, the way adrenaline and fury had blurred everything else. And yet, there had been something else there, hadn’t there? The air had felt charged, like a spark was waiting to ignite. Did I… imagine it? His chest ached at the thought. For a split second, it had felt like…

He pushed the glass away abruptly, but the unease remained, crawling under his skin. The scent of Louis’s cologne still lingered in his memory, fresh and sharp. The way Louis had stood his ground, the way his jaw had tightened in defiance… and for that fleeting moment, their faces had been so close. Too close. Harry’s stomach churned. Did I lean in? Did he? For fuck's sake, Louis Tomlinson was none of his business. He was arrogant, loud, and insufferable—

And yet, this feeling was different. It wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t just anger. It was… something tangled and messy, something that tasted like jealousy but felt like something much more dangerous. And he hated it. He hated the way Louis seemed to haunt his thoughts, the way that one encounter wouldn’t let him go. But more than anything, he hated the small, stubborn part of him that didn’t want it to.

He shook his head sharply, as if the motion alone could banish the thoughts. What was the point of entertaining them anyway? Louis had already made it clear what he thought of Harry—loud and unfiltered disdain. There was no mistaking the contempt in those icy blue eyes. Louis Tomlinson wasn’t just a thorn in Harry’s side; he was a flashing caution light, a disaster waiting to happen Harry knew he couldn’t ignore. They would never, never, never be anything other than rivals. Whatever had happened in the McLaren garage, whatever moment Harry thought he had felt, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. And he wasn’t about to play with fire trying to figure it out.

For fuck's sake, Louis Tomlinson was none of his business. He was arrogant, loud, and insufferable— end of story!

Later that evening, as they entered a bar, Harry finally let go. One bottle of wine became two. Then cocktails. Smoking became inevitable, and soon the sharp tang of marijuana mingled with the haze of alcohol in his senses. Taylor laughed beside him, swept up in the reckless, carefree atmosphere. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly rolled joint, holding it between her fingers before pressing it lightly against his lips. "You need this," she murmured against his ear, her tone light but understanding. "Just let it all go."

And Harry did, first he hesitated before taking a slow drag, the bitter smoke filling his lungs. The heat from the alcohol in his veins mixed with the haze of marijuana, blurring the edges of reality.

The night became a whirlwind of chaos—loud music pounding through the air, neon lights flashing erratically, people dancing on tables, their laughter mixing with the bass that vibrated through the floor. Everything was moving fast, yet somehow, it felt like nothing was really happening. Faces blurred together, drinks kept flowing, and it was all just another weekend, another bar, another desperate attempt to fill the void with something that never quite lasted. At some point, Harry found himself on top of a bar, arms outstretched, laughing as he swayed to the beat, moving with the reckless energy of someone who had lost track of reality. People cheered, clinking glasses, their faces a blur of euphoria and excess. They spilled beer and screamed the chorus of songs he barely remembered. The crowd around him cheered as Taylor joined him, barefoot and laughing, her dress swaying as she twirled. She grabbed his hand, pulling him into an exaggerated dance. They stomped on the bar like it was their stage, their laughter echoing through the small, packed room.

Harry’s shirt clung to his skin, his hair damp from the heat of the night. Was this all just a distraction? Was this something he was taking to feel something—anything? He was faking smiles, faking fun, but was anything real anymore? For a brief moment, he felt free—unshackled from the relentless expectations and the storm inside his head. Taylor leaned in close, shouting over the music, "You’re such a disaster, but you’re my favorite disaster."

He grinned at her, raising his glass. "To disasters!" he shouted, the crowd joining in with raucous cheers. They threw their heads back, laughing as if nothing else in the world mattered.

The music pulsed beneath his skin, a relentless beat that made everything feel electric, weightless. From his vantage point on the bar, the room stretched out in a blur of neon lights and bodies moving in chaotic harmony. Hands reached up toward him, playful shouts urging him to stay, to drink, to dance. He laughed, the warmth of alcohol humming in his veins, the world spinning just enough to feel untouchable.

But then the balance shifted.

It was subtle—a momentary miscalculation, a fraction too much weight on the wrong foot. Instinct kicked in before thought could catch up. His core tightened, knees bending just slightly to absorb the shift, hands steadying against the edge of the counter. No one else seemed to notice, but he felt it—a flicker of instability, a warning sign beneath the high.

Time to get down.

With the ease of someone used to moving fast, to adjusting mid-motion, he placed a firm hand on the bar’s edge and swung one leg over, dropping down smoothly. His boots hit the floor, knees bending instinctively to absorb the impact. A few people clapped his back, cheering as if he’d just landed a perfect dismount. He forced a smirk, playing along, but something was off.

The moment his feet touched solid ground, the dizziness hit harder. A slow, creeping sensation, not like the pleasant haze of alcohol but something sharper, something colder. He exhaled through his nose, adjusting his stance, willing his body to settle.

Then, without a word, he turned and slid into the leather booth in the corner, pressing his fingers to his temple. The coolness against his back should have been grounding, but it wasn’t. His heart was still racing, his breathing uneven. And he knew—this wasn’t just the alcohol.

Something else was cutting through the haze, slicing clean through the fog in his mind.

"I’m just saying, Louis is different. He’s got this raw energy, you know? He doesn’t need to try, doesn’t need to pretend. He just walks into a room, and everyone notices. He’s effortless, and that’s what makes him so fucking special. You can’t teach that, you can’t fake that. Some people are just born with it."

Harry’s grip on his glass tightened, his hazy mind sluggishly catching up to the words. The heat in his chest shifted from drunken warmth to something cold and biting. Not today. Not here.

He turned, his vision swimming, his pulse hammering in his ears. "What did you just say?" His voice came out rough, sharper than he intended, too loud for the cramped bar.

The group of fans hesitated. One of them looked startled, another already had their phone out. Recording. Of course they were recording.

"Uh—nothing, we were just—"

"Just what?” He took an unsteady step forward, the room tilting slightly. His heart pounded against his ribs, an erratic, angry beat. "Do you think you know anything about me? About him?" His voice was raw, thick with something unplaceable. Frustration, exhaustion, something else entirely. "You talk like you understand, like you know us." His head felt hot, his skin prickling. "Shut up about things you don’t understand."

The fans exchanged glances, a mixture of confusion and nervous excitement flashing across their faces. The person filming kept the phone steady. Another headline in the making. Another video that would go viral before the night was over.

Harry let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, I know exactly what you’re thinking. Poor Harry Styles. He’s losing it, right? And Louis—God, isn’t he just perfect?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but beneath it was something raw, something unsettled. "The new golden boy, the rebel with his ice-blue eyes and his stupid fucking smirk, the guy who just waltzes into Formula 1 and suddenly, he’s changing the game. And you love it, don’t you? You love how effortlessly cool he is, how he just—exists."

One of the guys muttered something under his breath, but Harry didn’t care. His hands were shaking, but whether it was from the alcohol or the rage, he couldn’t tell. His vision blurred for a second before he caught the faint glow of a phone screen still recording him.

Something inside him snapped.

With a sudden swing, he knocked the phone straight out of the guy’s hand, sending it clattering to the ground. Gasps rippled through the group, chairs scraping against the floor as they jolted back. "Don’t fucking record me!" he barked, his chest heaving.

“Harry!” Taylor’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. In an instant, she was by his side, her fingers gripping his arm in an iron hold. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Her voice was firm, but her eyes pleaded with him. Not here. Not like this.

Still seething, Harry let her drag him away. Behind them, the group whispered in hushed tones, someone picking up the fallen phone. He could already imagine the damage. Tomorrow, his name would be everywhere again.

Taylor didn’t stop until they were near the bar, pushing him toward the exit. “I swear to God, Harry, you’re making this impossible,” she hissed, plastering a charming smile on her face as she turned back toward the crowd, her voice suddenly sweet as honey. “Sorry, guys! He’s had a little too much tonight. No hard feelings, yeah?”

She winked, tossing in that effortless charm that always seemed to work. A few of them laughed nervously, too starstruck to argue. But Harry could still feel their stares burning into his back as Taylor hauled him toward the door.

Just before stepping out, Harry’s gaze flicked toward the shelves behind the bar. Without thinking, he reached forward, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and tossed a wad of crumpled bills onto the counter. “For the trouble,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, before stumbling into the night.

The air outside was warm and thick, wrapping around him like a suffocating embrace. But it did nothing to clear his head. He took a deep swig from the bottle, the liquid burning down his throat, numbing the ache in his chest. Another sip. Another. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. His thoughts were still there, circling like vultures, tearing at his sanity. Forget. Just fucking forget.

He walked aimlessly, past glowing streetlamps and blurred figures, through narrow alleyways and along the canals where couples whispered and laughed, their lives simple, untouched by the weight crushing his shoulders. He envied them. He hated them.

Another sip. And another. The world around him wobbled, but he kept walking, forcing himself forward even as his legs grew unsteady. He wanted to disappear, to drown himself in the city, to lose himself so completely that he wouldn’t have to think, wouldn’t have to feel. No Louis. No garage. No almost. No headlines. No shame. Just the burning haze of alcohol swallowing everything whole.

His breath came heavier, his limbs heavier still. The whiskey bottle slipped from his fingers, rolling away with a soft clink against the cobblestones. He reached for it, but his body gave out, his legs crumpling beneath him. The world spun. He could hear the distant hum of voices, of laughter, of a city still alive while he was sinking, fading.

The cold stone against his cheek was the last thing he felt before everything went dark.

A sharp, rhythmic beeping pulled Harry from the void. His head felt like it had been split in two, the dull, pounding ache making every movement unbearable. His throat was dry, and the sharp scent of antiseptic filled his nose before he even opened his eyes.

Fluorescent lights flickered above him, too bright, too sterile. The room was cold, the thin hospital sheets rough against his skin. He groaned, attempting to shift, but every muscle in his body protested.

Then he saw her.

Taylor was slumped in a chair beside his bed, her head tilted to the side, arms crossed over her chest. Her blonde hair was messy, strands falling across her face as she slept. She must have been here all night.

"Where—" His voice cracked. "Where am I?"

Taylor stirred beside him, a soft groan escaping her lips as she blinked against the harsh hospital light. Her eyes, hazy with sleep, found his, and in an instant, worry overtook exhaustion. She sat up straighter, stretching her stiff limbs, before brushing a hand through her disheveled hair.

"Jesus, Harry," she muttered, her voice raspy with sleep. "You scared the hell out of me."

Harry swallowed, his throat burning like sandpaper. He wanted to look away, to avoid the expression on her face—one part anger, two parts concern. Instead, he exhaled slowly, blinking up at the ceiling.

Taylor sighed, shaking her head. "Hospital. You blacked out in the middle of the street. Someone called an ambulance."

Harry groaned, closing his eyes. "Fuck."

"Yeah. Fuck," she echoed, softer this time. She wasn’t yelling at him, wasn’t berating him, and that almost made it worse. He could handle anger, but the concern in her voice made his chest feel too tight. "Nick and your dad are going to have a lot to say when they get here."

Harry’s stomach twisted. He knew exactly what was coming—lectures, disappointment, maybe even an intervention if they were feeling dramatic enough. His head pounded, a dull ache behind his eyes, and for a moment, he just let his head sink back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling as if the cracks in the paint held the answers to his mess of a life.

"Harry," Taylor’s voice was softer now, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. "I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but last night— it was bad. You could have gotten seriously hurt. You were—"

"Taylor, where’s my phone?" he cut in, his voice hoarse and dry. He didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when his brain was already on overdrive, piecing together the fragments of the night before. The bar. The fans. The fight. The whiskey. The cold pavement.

She hesitated, and that was never a good sign. "Harry—"

"Taylor, please," he rasped, forcing his gaze to meet hers. His stomach was already twisting into knots. He needed to see it. Needed to know how bad it was.

Taylor let out a slow sigh, before reaching into her bag. She pulled out his phone and held it for a moment, her fingers gripping it tightly, as if she were weighing whether or not to actually give it to him.

"Just… brace yourself," she murmured finally, pressing it into his palm.

His fingers trembled slightly as he unlocked the screen. Immediately, his call log flooded his vision—unanswered calls from Gemma, his mum, Nick, and his dad. The sheer number made his stomach lurch. He swiped away the notifications, his thumb hesitating over the unopened WhatsApp messages, but he wasn’t ready for that yet.

Instead, he tapped on the browser, fingers moving almost on autopilot. He typed in his own name. Harry Styles.

The search results loaded instantly.

“Golden Boy Gone Wild: Has Harry Styles Lost Control?”
“From Champion to Chaos: Styles’ Drunken Outburst Goes Viral”
“Harry Styles’ Public Breakdown—What’s Really Going On?”

His breath caught in his throat as he scrolled, article after article, each headline worse than the last. Attached to them were blurry, shaky clips—him swaying in the bar, knocking a phone out of someone’s hand, Taylor dragging him away while the cameras flashed. Every moment of his downward spiral was now immortalized for the world to dissect.

Before he could even begin to process what he was looking at, the door swung open. The sharp click of dress shoes against the hospital floor sent a fresh wave of dread through him.

Nick

Harry tensed, expecting the usual storm of expletives, the inevitable lecture about responsibility, damage control, and how much worse he had made things for himself. But when he looked up, Nick wasn’t wearing the expression he’d braced himself for. His jaw was tight, sure, but his eyes—there was something softer there. Concern, maybe?

"Morning, sunshine," Nick said dryly, shutting the door behind him. "Or should I say… afternoon? You look like absolute shit."

Harry let his head fall back against the pillows, exhaling through his nose. "Go on, then. Just get it over with."

Nick pulled up a chair and sat down, his beige linen suit somehow managing to look both effortlessly casual and perfectly tailored. The crisp lines of the jacket softened by the dark blue shirt underneath gave him an air of someone who had just walked off the pages of a fashion magazine rather than into a hospital room. He ran a hand over his face, a slight wrinkle creasing his brow.

"Oh, don’t worry. Your dad is the one who’s going to tear you a new one. I figured I’d try the ‘not immediately yelling’ approach first."

Harry blinked at him, confused. "You’re not here to give me the whole ‘you’ve fucked up everything’ speech?"

Nick sighed, leaning forward. "Harry, believe me, I’ve given that speech so many times I could say it in my sleep. But here’s the thing: it’s not my speech that matters anymore. You already know you’ve fucked up. I don’t need to remind you of that."

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. He wished Nick would just yell at him—at least that would be easier to deal with. Instead, Nick’s tone was calm, almost unnervingly so, and that made his chest feel unbearably tight.

"What’s the plan now?" Harry finally croaked, his voice rough and uncertain.

Nick leaned back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, his expression shifting to something unreadable. "The plan, Harry, is that I’m done holding your hand through this circus. I tried the hard-ass manager routine, I tried damage control, but let’s face it—you need to figure out if this is even what you want anymore. I’m just here to clean up the pieces as best as I can. But this?" He gestured vaguely at Harry, the room, the situation. "This is on you now. You have to decide. Do you want to be Harry Styles, Formula 1 Champion, or do you want to be Harry Styles, the drunken, fallen son of Desmond Styles? Because, mate, your life can go either way right now."

Harry stared at him, the words sinking in slowly, his chest tightening further. "And if I don’t know what I want?"

Nick’s lips twitched into something like a tired smile. "Then i'll give you a few days to figure it out. I’ve got a plan, but it’s going to take some effort on your part. And just so we are on the same page - " He reached into his bag, pulling out a folded newspaper. He slid it across the bed to Harry, his movements deliberate. "This is the reality."

Harry picked up the paper hesitantly. On the front page was a side-by-side spread: Louis Tomlinson, smiling confidently, labeled as the "Rookie Sensation Taking F1 by Storm," right next to Harry, a blurry image of him being dragged out of the bar by Taylor, under the headline, "Golden Boy’s Crash and Burn."

Harry’s jaw clenched as he looked up. "Why Louis? Why not Verstappen or LeClerc?"

Nick arched a brow. "Because none of them did what Louis just pulled off. He’s got the media eating out of his hand, he’s won over the fans in a matter of weeks, and people see him as genuine. That’s the kind of magic you can’t buy. And that’s exactly what you need, Harry. Someone who can turn the narrative around without even trying."

Harry frowned deeper, still not fully grasping. "You’re saying I should what? Use Louis? How am I supposed to benefit from the guy who’s my biggest problem right now?"

Nick leaned forward, his grin sharpening. "That’s the beauty of it. You’re not just benefiting from him—you’re aligning with him. If you can’t beat the narrative, join it. Picture this: you and Louis, standing side by side, showing the world there’s no bad blood, no drama. Just two drivers, supporting each other. You don’t even have to like him—you just need to look like you do."

Harry blinked, the pieces slowly clicking together. "You want me to what?"

Nick shook his head firmly, his tone turning sharper. "Oh, this isn’t something I want from you—it’s something you should want for yourself. Listen, Harry, you’re not in the business of playing second fiddle. You’re in the business of survival."

Harry leaned back against the pillows, letting out a low, frustrated groan. "You’re dreaming. Louis isn’t going to go for this. He hates my guts, and the feeling’s mutual."

Nick smirked, leaning back, the glint in his eye almost smug. "Leave Louis to me. I’ve already got a plan. Rolex wanted to sponsor you - that was of course before Amsterdam. But what if I go back to them and suggest they take Louis on too? Imagine the two of you as the faces of their next campaign. Two drivers. Two stories. And together, you salvage your reputation while they expand their brand."

Harry stared at him, incredulous. "You think Louis is going to lie for a paycheck? He’s not the type to play along. He’s too real for this kind of bullshit."

Nick’s smirk deepened, his confidence unwavering. "You’re right. He’s not someone who bends easily. But that’s exactly why people believe in him, Harry. And it’s why you need him on your side."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "Even if you somehow convince him, how am I supposed to sell this? We’re not friends. We’re barely even civil."

Nick gave a casual shrug, but his sharp tone left no room for argument. "Figure it out. You’re smart enough to drive a Formula 1 car, so you’re smart enough to fake being friends with Louis Tomlinson. He’s a ticket to flipping the story in your favor. Do you want to salvage your career, or do you want to keep spiraling? It’s your life. Make a choice." With that, he stood and adjusted his suit jacket. "You’ve got a few days to figure out where you stand. Good luck, mate." He strode toward the door, but paused, looking back over his shoulder. "And Harry? Make the right choice. Because if you don’t, someone else will."

Harry watched as Nick disappeared out the door, leaving him with nothing but the newspaper, a pounding headache, and a gnawing sense of dread. The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of Taylor shifting in her chair.

"He’s not wrong, you know," she said softly, her voice steady but laced with concern. Harry glanced at her, seeing the same mixture of worry and exhaustion he’d noticed earlier. She hadn’t interrupted once while Nick was speaking, and now that it was just the two of them, she seemed hesitant, like she was choosing her words carefully.

"You need to think about what you really want, Harry," she continued. "This—this Formula 1 circus—it’s brutal, and it’s not going to get easier. You’ve got to ask yourself if you can keep doing this and still be yourself. Because right now… you don’t seem like yourself."

Harry’s jaw tightened. He rubbed his temple, the pressure behind his eyes growing unbearable. "And if I’m not racing? Then what am I, Tay? Who the hell am I if I’m not driving?" His voice wavered slightly, the weight of the question hitting harder than he expected.

He had been a driver for as long as he could remember. The roar of an engine, the vibration in his chest as he pushed a car to its limit—those things weren’t just part of his job; they were part of him. The rush, the focus, the sheer necessity of winning—what was he supposed to be without that? He had sacrificed so much for this career, shaped his entire existence around the sport. Without it, was there anything left of him that mattered?

She sighed, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "That’s what scares you, isn’t it? The idea that without racing, you don’t know who you are." Her voice was gentle, but the weight behind her words was undeniable. She let them settle for a moment before continuing. "But, Harry, you’re more than just a driver. You always have been. We all see it—me, Gemma, Liam, your mum. You’re smart, thoughtful, and stubborn as hell when you care about something. You’re one of the most loyal people I know, even when you don’t let people see it. You have this ridiculous sense of style that somehow always works, and don’t even get me started on how you can be the most charming person in the room when you actually try. You make people feel seen, like they matter, like they belong. And let’s not forget—you're ridiculously talented. You can sit at a piano and play like you were born for it, and your voice? You could’ve had an entirely different career if you wanted. But you don’t even see that in yourself anymore, do you? And we’re worried about you, Harry, because right now, you don’t even seem to see yourself. The drinking, the shutting everyone out, the way you carry yourself like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders—it’s not just about racing, is it?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat burning. He wanted to snap back, tell her she was wrong, insist that he had everything under control. But did he? Did he even know what control looked like anymore? Every decision lately felt like a desperate attempt to stay afloat, but the harder he tried, the more the current pulled him under. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly steady, the last time he’d made a choice that didn’t feel like survival.

Taylor exhaled softly, reaching across the bed, her fingers curling around his in a firm but warm grip. "I don’t know what the right decision is for you, Harry. But I do know you can’t keep doing this alone. You need someone by your side. A partner. Someone who’s going to push you when you start spiraling, keep you steady when everything feels like it’s slipping. Someone who sees you, really sees you, and doesn’t let you disappear into this mess. Because doing this alone… it’s breaking you."

Her words settled over him like a weighted blanket, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. He had spent so long convincing himself that racing was his purpose, that without it, he was nothing. But if that were true, why did everything still feel so fucking empty? Why did he still feel like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite grasp?

What was he supposed to do now? He could walk away, turn his back on it all, but then what? Who would he be without the sport that had defined his entire existence? The idea of leaving it behind made his chest tighten. He had worked for this since he was a kid. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every bone-deep exhaustion had been for this dream. Could he really throw that away?

But could he keep going like this? The weight of expectation, the constant scrutiny, the relentless pressure—it was suffocating. He wasn’t sure what scared him more: the idea of losing his career or the terrifying realization that even with it, he still felt lost. That maybe, no matter how many races he won, no matter how much he proved himself, he would never feel whole.

Taylor was right. He had spent so long convincing himself that racing was his identity that he had never truly thought about who he was beyond it. And maybe that was the real problem. Maybe he wasn’t just afraid of losing the sport. Maybe he was afraid of facing himself—truly seeing every part of who he was, stripped of the titles, the trophies, the constant pursuit of proving his worth. Maybe he feared what he’d find beneath it all, the raw and unfiltered truth of who Harry Styles was when the helmet came off and the cameras stopped flashing. And maybe Taylor was right—maybe he wasn’t just afraid of losing racing. Maybe he was afraid of letting someone in. He was twenty-three years old and had never truly had someone by his side. Never woken up next to someone and felt at peace, like he belonged there, without the fear that the person beside him might sell their story to the press the next day.

He had spent so much of his life performing, always aware of the cameras, the headlines, the expectations. Always watching his back. And in doing so, he had built walls so high that even he wasn’t sure how to break them down anymore. Maybe it wasn’t just about racing or the pressure of being Harry Styles, Formula 1’s fallen golden boy. Maybe it was about something much deeper—the fear of facing himself and the realization that he didn’t truly know how to let someone stay. 

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Harry adjusted his sunglasses as he walked Taylor to the private jet at the small, exclusive terminal of Amsterdam Airport. The polished glass walls of the lounge gleamed under the late morning sunlight, offering a direct view of the tarmac. Behind them, sleek cars with tinted windows lined up in a neat row, including the one that had dropped them off just moments ago. The hum of jet engines filled the otherwise serene air, a low and constant reminder of the opulence surrounding them.

She was leaving—back to her world of fashion and press events for her new collection. He was grateful for her presence these past few days. Taylor had grounded him in a way few others could, helping him gain some clarity about what he wanted, even though his thoughts were far from settled. As Harry turned to face her, the distinct sound of another plane's engines pulling up caught his attention.

Taylor’s jet had just arrived, waiting to whisk her away, while, in a stroke of timing that felt almost deliberate, another jet touched down only a few meters away. Its engines hummed softly as it taxied to a halt. The simultaneous arrivals created an unintentional collision of worlds, the exclusivity of the terminal making their close proximity unavoidable. The setting felt surreal, like a carefully orchestrated tableau.

From one jet emerged Liam, Harry’s best mate, descending the steps with an easy grace. His plaid shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the collar, swayed with the breeze, giving him a relaxed yet sharp appearance. His arm rested casually around the waist of a striking blonde woman. She wore an oversized black blazer, paired with a crisp white shirt tucked into a mini-skirt, exuding a mix of sophistication and playfulness. Her knee-high socks and chic sneakers completed the outfit, suggesting she was both stylish and unafraid to make bold choices.

The girls excitement was evident even from a distance. Her bright eyes darted between Harry and Taylor, her smile wide yet a touch nervous. She carried herself with a mix of nerves and delight, clearly aware of the high-profile company she was stepping into but determined to make a good impression.

Liam grinned at him. "Been too long, mate."

Harry clasped his hand, pulling him into a half-hug before stepping back. "Yeah, it has. And who’s this?"

Liam turned to the woman beside him. "This is Kate."

Before Kate could respond, Taylor stepped forward with a warm smile, effortlessly slipping into hostess mode. "Hi, Kate, I’m Taylor. It’s lovely to meet you."

Kate’s eyes widened slightly, clearly recognizing her, but she recovered quickly, offering a handshake. "Oh wow, yeah! Lovely to meet you too. Liam’s told me a lot about you."

Taylor chuckled. "Hopefully, all good things." She shot Liam a teasing look before turning back to Kate. "I hope he’s not being too much of a pain."

Kate laughed, already seeming more at ease. "No, not yet. But we’ll see." She teased, making Liam chuckle.

Almost simultaneously, Louis and Zayn stepped off the other aircraft. Harry’s stomach tightened instinctively. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The last thing he wanted was for Kate—wide-eyed and eager to soak in every moment of this world—to witness whatever awkward, tense, or straight-up hostile interaction was about to unfold. Louis wasn’t exactly known for being subtle, and Harry had no interest in making small talk with an audience.

He turned back to Liam, keeping his tone light. "Hey, why don’t you two head to the car? It’s waiting just over there. I want to say a proper goodbye to Taylor before she leaves. I’ll catch up in a bit."

Liam gave him a slightly questioning look, but didn’t push it. "Alright, mate. Don’t keep us waiting too long."

Kate, still beaming, seemed oblivious to the shift in energy. "Was nice meeting you, Taylor!" she chirped before following Liam toward the sleek, blacked-out vehicle parked at the edge of the terminal.

The contrast between the two McLaren Drivers was striking. Zayn looked effortlessly sharp, his caramel leather jacket catching the sunlight, paired with dark jeans and aviator sunglasses that reflected the sky. He moved with practiced confidence, his presence commanding attention without trying.

Louis, by comparison, exuded an entirely different energy. He shuffled down the steps with the air of someone who couldn’t care less about appearances. The oversized red hoodie he wore had frayed cuffs that hung past his hands, giving him the look of a boy lost in his brother’s clothes. His joggers, equally baggy, swayed with his movements, the fabric bunching slightly at his sneakers. In his hand, a disposable coffee cup looked like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to consciousness. His hair stuck up in soft, messy tufts, the undeniable result of a nap taken mid-flight, only adding to his disheveled charm.

The luxury of the private terminal couldn’t have contrasted more starkly with Louis’s casual, almost rebellious appearance. Yet there was something magnetic about him—something Harry couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the sharp blue eyes that scanned the tarmac, a striking, almost unnatural blue, the kind that could rival the open sky on a clear day. They weren’t sharp like usual, their spark of mischief dulled by sleep, making them seem softer, almost vulnerable in the morning light. Or maybe it was the way Louis’s presence seemed entirely unbothered by the polished surroundings, as though he had no intention of ever fitting into the world he found himself in.

Harry’s gaze lingered longer than it should have, catching the way Louis rubbed at his eye with the cuff of his oversized hoodie, still clearly waking up. The messy tufts of hair sticking out from his head made him look endearingly unkempt, and Harry couldn’t help but think it was almost… sweet. Fuck, Harry thought sharply, tearing his gaze away. no no no fuckin no - sweet was not a word he should be associating with Louis Tomlinson, of all people.

He snapped his attention back to Taylor, as her elbow nudged him lightly.

“Showtime,” she murmured. “If you want any chance of getting Louis on your side, you better get started,” Taylor whispered. "Just be nice. Remember he’s not your enemy—not unless you make him one.””

His stomach twisted at her words, a flicker of panic creeping in. Harry exhaled through his nose, composing himself.

Right. He wasn’t sure why it suddenly felt so important to send the right message, about him not being gay. But the idea of Louis misunderstanding—or worse, seeing through—this charade made his palms damp. Fuck it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to overplay it a little, just to be sure.

He turned to Taylor, the air between them shifting as he leaned in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her lips. Taylor stiffened for half a second before responding, her fingers lightly brushing against his jacket. When they pulled apart, she maintained her flawless smile, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of confusion.

"Harry," she murmured through gritted teeth, her voice low enough not to carry. "That’s not what I meant... be yourself. Be real."

Harry forced a smirk to cover the sinking feeling in his stomach. Be himself? That was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Especially not with Louis standing nearby, looking effortlessly disheveled and far too distracting for his own good. No, this kiss wasn’t for Taylor or Louis—it was for himself, a desperate attempt to draw a line in his own mind. To remind himself that whatever flicker of attraction he might feel toward Louis Tomlinson, it didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.

Then he turned towards Zayn. Harry took a breath and forced a smirk. "Zayn, good to see you."

"You alright, Styles?" Zayn’s sharp eyes flicked to Harry before he extended a polite hand toward Taylor, his lips curling into a small, easy smirk. "Nice seeing you, Tay. You should really stop dodging me."

Taylor laughed, swatting Zayn’s arm playfully. "Me? Dodging you? Please, Z, I’ve been busy building an empire. But tell me, when are you finally going to agree to shoot for my new collection? You know you’d be perfect for it."

Zayn smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Tempting offer. I’ll think about it."

Taylor rolled her eyes, still grinning. "You always say that. One of these days, I’ll make you sign a contract when you’re not paying attention."

Zayn chuckled.

Louis lingered for a moment longer in the background, his arms still tightly crossed, as if physically restraining himself from engaging. His jaw tightened visibly, the muscles clenching and releasing in a steady rhythm that signaled mounting impatience. Harry couldn't tell if it was pure irritation or just exhaustion, but something about Louis' silence felt more loaded than usual. Then, with a dramatic sigh, Louis pulled his phone from his pocket, his gaze dropping to the screen as if whatever conversation was happening around him didn’t concern him in the slightest. His hair was shining golden from the sun, and for a second too long, Harry found himself watching him. Fuck. Stop it, Styles. Harry clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze elsewhere, silencing his own thoughts before they went anywhere dangerous.

Harry ignored Louis’s exaggerated annoyed behaviour and just went for it. "Listen, Louis," Harry began carefully, choosing his words as though they were stepping stones across treacherous water. His green eyes locked with Louis’s sharp blue ones, and for a fleeting moment, the world around them seemed to fade. "I just wanted to say… about what happened in the McLaren garage. That wasn’t cool."

He hesitated, clearing his throat before continuing. "I know I can be… intense. Too focused. Too caught up in the race, in the moment. And that doesn’t excuse what happened. I crossed a line. I let my emotions get the better of me, and I shouldn’t have."

Louis blinked, his lips parting slightly as though he wanted to respond but couldn’t find the words. The sharp retort Harry had braced for never came. Instead, Louis’s expression shifted—a flicker of surprise, a hint of confusion, and maybe even suspicion flitted across his face. For the first time, he seemed genuinely speechless, his usual razor-sharp wit dulled by whatever emotion was rising to the surface.

Harry felt a small grin tug at the corners of his lips, a mix of relief and triumph bubbling up. It felt like a victory—perhaps because it was so rare to catch Louis Tomlinson off guard.

Before Louis could form a response, Harry turned slightly, gesturing toward Taylor. "And this is Taylor, my girlfriend."

Louis’ expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his gaze—just for a fraction of a second—before his jaw tightened ever so slightly. His fingers flexed subtly against his coffee cup, his grip firming as if he needed something solid to anchor himself. "Right."

Harry didn’t allow himself to analyze it. He was too focused on making sure there were no misunderstandings. No blurred lines, no space for speculation. He slid an arm around Taylor’s waist and pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, his grip tightening slightly. Maybe too much. Taylor stiffened, just for a second, her body tensing against his, before quickly recovering. She knew the game, and she played it well—her fingers ghosting over his back in slow, practiced circles, her expression effortlessly affectionate. But Harry caught it—the moment of hesitation, the almost imperceptible way she had tensed before relaxing into the act.

Zayn rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Alright, we get it. Can you two get a room or something?"

Louis scoffed, his voice sharper than necessary as he muttered, "Yeah. Save the show for the cameras."

Something about his tone made Harry’s stomach twist. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way Louis said them, the slight edge that made it impossible to tell if he was irritated or indifferent. His posture remained unreadable, his jaw still set, his grip on his coffee cup unwavering. Was Louis annoyed? Bored? Unbothered? Or was there something else? 

Harry forced a smirk, refusing to acknowledge the strange weight of Louis’ words.

Taylor walked forward, offering Louis a warm, practiced smile as she extended her hand. "Louis, it’s nice to finally meet you. Harry’s mentioned you a few times."

Louis hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking her hand. His grip was firm, but his expression remained unreadable. "Has he now? Can’t imagine he had much nice to say."

Taylor let out a soft laugh, unbothered. "Oh, you’d be surprised. He’s very… passionate about his competition."

Louis arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching into something that might have been amusement. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

She tilted her head slightly, observing him in the way only someone like Taylor could—calculating but disarmingly charming. "I get the feeling you don’t buy into all of this F1 dramatics, do you?"

Louis gave a small shrug, finally releasing her hand. "I only drive the car. Everything else is just noise."

Taylor chuckled at that, giving him a knowing look. "Well, I hope you and Harry manage to make a little less noise and a little more progress this weekend. You two could rule the whole F1 game, believe me."

Louis scoffed, a dry sound that barely passed for amusement. His eyes flicked toward Harry briefly before settling back on Taylor. "Yeah? Well, ruling anything with Styles sounds like a nightmare to me."

Taylor only smiled, tilting her head slightly as if assessing him. "Maybe. Or maybe you two just haven’t figured out how to work together yet."

Louis arched a skeptical brow, gripping his coffee cup a little tighter. "Doubt that’s ever gonna happen."

Satisfied, Taylor stepped back toward Harry, her polite smile unwavering. But Harry could feel the tension settling in the air between him and Louis, thick and unspoken.

"Looking forward to seeing you on the track, mate," Harry added, his voice smooth as he wrapped an arm around Taylor again, this time a little too deliberately.

Louis exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tightening as he let out a quiet scoff. His blue eyes flicked over Harry with something that almost resembled amusement—except it wasn’t amusement at all. It was disbelief, maybe exhaustion.

"What exactly is this, Styles?" He asked flatly, tilting his head slightly. "What game are you playing?"

Harry’s stomach tensed, but he forced his smirk to remain in place. "No game. Just trying to be civil."

Louis lets out a humourless laugh, shaking his head. "Civil? Since when do you give a shit about being civil?" He took a slow sip from his coffee, his expression unreadable. "Is this supposed to make me like you or something? Because I hate to break it to you, but you don’t have a charm setting that works on me."

Harry raised his hands slightly, a faux gesture of innocence. "Look, I know we’ve had our moments, but we don’t have to make this harder than it needs to be. We’re going to be around each other all season. Might as well not waste energy being at each other’s throats."

Louis studied him for a beat too long, as if trying to pick apart Harry’s words and find the real meaning beneath them. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the effort, he scoffed again, shaking his head.

"Whatever you say, Styles," he muttered before turning on his heel. His shoulders were tense, his grip tightening around his coffee cup as he muttered something low to Zayn. Without another word, the two of them strode off toward their waiting car.

Harry watched them leave, forcing himself to stay still, to not react, even as something inside him coiled too tightly. This was exactly what he wanted—clarity, boundaries. Louis knew exactly where he stood, and so did Harry.

So why did it feel like anything but that?

Taylor watched them go before turning back to Harry. Without warning, she swung her fist lightly into his side, making him grunt in surprise. "What the hell was that?" she hissed, narrowing her eyes at him. "We’re supposed to make Louis like you, not make it look like you’re a lovesick teenager trying to prove a point. What exactly were you trying to accomplish?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "I was just—"

"Just what? Marking your territory?" She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Honestly, Harry, you might as well have peed around us in a circle. You do realize the goal is for Louis to trust you, not think you’re some egomaniac who needs to flaunt his girlfriend"

Harry opened his mouth, but Taylor held up a hand. "And don’t even try to tell me this was for the cameras, because there are none here."

She sighed, shaking her head as she studied him. "You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying way too hard to remind everyone - especially Louis - how straight you are."

Harry stiffened, his jaw clenching. "That’s not—"

Taylor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh, come on, Harry. What was that? The arm around me, the dramatic kiss, the whole over-the-top performance? You were making a statement to Louis. And honestly? It was a bit much."

Harry exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I just… I don’t want any misunderstandings."

Taylor let out an exasperated sigh, throwing her hands up. "Misunderstandings? With who, Harry? Louis? The guy who couldn’t care less what’s going on between us?" She scoffed, her frustration clear. "Right. Because Louis was definitely seconds away from misreading the situation and confessing his undying love for you."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Newsflash, genius—he’s not even thinking about you like that. You, on the other hand…" She let the sentence hang, watching as Harry stiffened. "You’re the one making a statement. Not to the press, not to me—to Louis. And if you actually want him to tolerate you, you need to stop acting like you’re trying to convince the entire world—yourself included—that you’re something you’re not."

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You’re not going to crack him with some fake charm and a show, Harry. Louis isn’t that kind of guy. If you want him to trust you, you’re going to have to be real with him. Otherwise, you might as well stop trying now."

Harry looked away, jaw still tight. "I just needed to make things clear. I need him on my side, i know, Tay!"

Taylor studied him for a moment before shaking her head. "Then stop acting like you’re terrified he might actually see you. Louis isn’t an idiot. You’re going to have to do better than that. Look, Louis isn’t someone you just win over with fake smiles and small talk. He sees through people. You’re going to have to actually try if you want to get him on your side."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "I know."

"Do you?" Taylor asked, folding her arms. "Because from where I’m standing, you’re trying way too hard to prove that you are someone you're not. And that, my friend - I can tell you - is not going to work on him."

Taylor studied him, searching his face for something before sighing. The low hum of jet engines vibrated through the air, blending with the distant sound of luggage being loaded and the occasional crackle of an intercom inside the private terminal. The tarmac stretched behind them, sleek and pristine, with the early morning sun casting elongated shadows across the pavement. A few crew members moved methodically near the jet, their voices low and efficient as they prepared for takeoff.

"Alright. Just… try not to do anything stupid this weekend, okay?"

"No promises," he teased lightly, though they both knew there was truth in it.

She smiled, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder. "Call me if you need anything."

With that, she turned and made her way up the steps to the jet. Harry watched as the door closed behind her, sealing off one part of his life as he turned back toward the car where Liam and Kate were waiting.

Louis’ POV

The inside of the car was quiet, save for the soft hum of the engine and the occasional vibration of the wheels against the tarmac as they pulled away from the private terminal. The windows were tinted, shielding them from the outside world, but Louis barely noticed. His fingers drummed against the leather seat impatiently before he huffed, shaking his head.

Louis slumped further into the plush leather seat, shoving his hands into the oversized sleeves of his hoodie as he scowled out the window. "What the fuck is actually wrong with Styles?" he muttered, voice laced with frustration. "One day he’s throwing me against a wall like he’s ready to murder me, and the next, he’s parading his lovesick girlfriend around like I should give a shit. What kind of joke is this?"

Zayn, lounging effortlessly beside him, barely spared him a glance, still scrolling through his phone. "You really let him get under your skin, huh?"

Louis shot him a glare. "That’s not an answer."

Zayn smirked but finally locked his phone, turning his full attention to Louis. "Look, Harry’s not that bad. You just don’t like him because he’s just as much of a hothead as you are. Face it, mate—you two are the same. Stubborn as hell, too competitive for your own good."

Louis let out an unimpressed grunt, arms tightening around himself. "Yeah, well, I don’t see myself throwing people against walls when things don’t go my way."

Zayn raised an eyebrow, stretching his legs out. "No? And what about that IndyCar race last year? When you nearly went for that rookie’s throat after he cut you off?"

Louis tensed, his shoulders stiffening as he sunk further into his hoodie. He glanced away, his fingers fidgeting with the oversized sleeves, trying to suppress the irritation bubbling under his skin. Then, in a quieter voice, almost as if admitting it to himself, he muttered, "At least that was justified… he cut me off."

Zayn turned his head slightly, catching the admission, and let out an amused scoff. "Right. Justified. Because losing your temper and nearly throwing hands is always the logical response?"

Louis exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat, his fingers curling further into the sleeves of his hoodie. He knew Zayn had a point—maybe he did have a short fuse, but still, that was different. "Harry was the one who lost it first," he mumbled, almost to himself. "And then had the audacity to throw me at bloody wall."

Zayns  chuckled, shaking his head. "Look, I'm not saying Harry was right, you know I don't! But you’re just as much of a fighter as he is. The only difference is, Harry’s had the entire world watching his every move since the beginning. You’re new to this. You don’t have the same pressure—yet. But this is F1, mate. And sometimes, I think you don’t fully get that. Sure, they love you now for being the feisty underdog, but don’t be stupid enough to think that won’t change the second you stop being entertaining to them."

Louis scoffed, shifting in his seat but saying nothing.

Zayn leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling. "Just look at Harry. He was the golden boy. Now he’s struggling, and everyone’s waiting to see whether he sinks or swims. Don’t be too hard on him, alright? You might find yourself in the same boat sooner than you think."

Louis opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Instead, he huffed, looking back out of the window, his fingers curling into the oversized fabric of his sleeves. He hated that Zayn wasn’t wrong. He knew what it was like to want to win so badly that it consumed every part of you. He could even understand why Harry snapped the way he did, that kind of pressure did things to a person, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry was an arrogant prick, and he always would be. End of story.

His phone buzzed in his hand. A welcome distraction, or so he thought.

Eleanor.

Louis exhaled, unlocking his phone. A message, attached to a photo.

Eleanor, smiling into the camera, wearing a McLaren shirt. Good luck, Lou. You’ll be fantastic.

His jaw tightened slightly as he stared at the screen. He and Eleanor had gone out again recently. A simple movie date. She had been making an effort—sweet, patient, the way she always had been. And he appreciated it. He really did.

But if he was being honest with himself, his heart wasn’t in it the same way hers seemed to be. A quiet guilt settled in his chest. She was trying—really trying. Making an effort, being supportive, showing up. And what was he doing? Half-assing his way through their time together, nodding along when she spoke, telling himself he was just busy. But was he really? Or was he just unwilling to admit that something was missing?

He stared at the screen for a second longer, hesitating. He wasn’t using her—was he? He had loved her once. That kind of thing could come back, right? Maybe if he just gave it more time, let himself settle into it, things would fall into place again. That was how it worked, wasn’t it?

With a sigh, he locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket. Another thing to deal with later.

For now, he just had to focus on the race ahead.

Zandvoort. As they arrived, the coastal air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of salt and gasoline, a strange mix of nature and machinery that felt oddly comforting. But Louis barely had time to settle, before Simon Cowell requested to speak with him—alone. That never meant anything good. Louis sighed, rolling his shoulders as he pulled off his hoodie, swapping it for a fitted black polo shirt and his joggers for a pair of elegant black chinos before heading to the meeting. If he was going to be forced into another one of Simon’s power plays, he at least wanted to look the part. Louis felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach, and even Zayn, usually composed, looked tense. He clapped Louis on the shoulder before heading off to his training session, leaving him to face whatever Simon had in store.

The meeting room was as cold and calculated as Simon himself—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track, a sleek glass table reflecting the sterile overhead lighting, and minimalist décor that made the space feel more like a boardroom than a place for negotiations. Simon was already seated, fingers steepled, his reflection in the table’s polished surface making him look even more composed. That overly polite smile was stretched across his face, a smile Louis had learned already to distrust. That was never a good sign. Louis knew that smile meant business—his business, specifically, and not in a way that gave him much say in the matter.

"Louis," Simon greeted, his voice smooth as ever, each syllable carefully measured. "Take a seat."

Louis remained standing for a beat longer than necessary, his posture stiff, assessing Simon with wary eyes. He knew better than to trust that friendly tone. It was the same one that had roped him into contracts before, the same one that always came with an angle, with strings attached that only became visible once it was too late to pull away.

Slowly, Louis sank into the chair opposite Simon, arms crossing over his chest in a defiant stance. His jaw tightened, but he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. "Alright, let’s hear it. What’s this about?" His voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the edge in it. Just because Simon was playing nice didn’t mean Louis was going to. He never bowed easily, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

Simon leaned forward slightly, measured and deliberate, his fingers barely making a sound as he slid a pristine folder across the glass. Not a single unnecessary movement, not a single twitch out of place. He was always composed, always controlled, never raising his voice—because he never had to. "Louis, my boy, I have fantastic news for you—news that could change everything." Simon's voice was dripping with excitement, his hands spreading wide as if he were about to hand Louis the world on a silver platter. "Rolex wants you. Not just as another ambassador, not just as a face in the crowd, but as a centerpiece of their next big campaign. This is huge, Louis. Monumental."

Louis blinked, caught off guard. "Rolex? Me?" He let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "That doesn’t make any sense."

Simon’s smile widened, as though he had been expecting this exact reaction. "Oh, but it does, Louis. And that’s exactly why this is such a brilliant opportunity."  Louis frowned as Simon flipped the folder open, revealing sleek marketing slides and prototype images of the watch. "They’re launching a new sports watch, something designed to bridge the gap between exclusivity and accessibility. Eight hundred pounds. It’s meant for the ambitious ones—the ones who aren’t quite at the top yet but see themselves getting there. The young entrepreneurs, the rising stars, the ones who want a taste of luxury before they fully arrive. Rolex wants to tap into that hunger, and Louis, you represent exactly that."

Louis scoffed, pushing the folder away. "Eight hundred quid? That’s ‘accessible’? Fucking hell, Simon, my mum wouldn’t have been able to afford that even if she saved for years."

Simon’s jaw twitched almost imperceptibly, a flicker of irritation crossing his polished exterior before he smoothed it over again. "It’s still a Rolex, Louis. They aren’t in the business of making cheap watches. This is about aspiration, about branding yourself alongside something elite. And for god’s sake, stop swearing. How am I ever going to present you to a sponsor if every other word out of your mouth is ‘fucking’ this and ‘bloody’ that? You sound like you walked straight out of a pub fight."

Louis smirked, knowing full well he was getting under Simon’s skin, and he loved every second of it. There was something deeply satisfying about watching the carefully constructed patience of Simon Cowell fray at the edges. But even as he relished the moment, he couldn’t deny the weight of the situation. This wasn’t some minor sponsorship. This was Rolex.

He exhaled sharply, drumming his fingers against the edge of the table before finally looking up. "Alright, so what’s the catch?"

Simon’s smile returned, sharper now, like the edge of a blade hidden beneath silk. His fingers tapped against the table once, a calculated pause before he spoke again. "Before the Barcelona race, there’s a commercial shoot. Then, in Monaco, Rolex is hosting a gala to launch the campaign, followed by a series of promotional events at key locations."

Louis slightly leaned back in his chair "And?" He exhaled through his nose, flipping the folder open despite himself. There was a sleek campaign outline, projections, and a sponsorship contract waiting for him. It all felt… bigger than he’d expected. And than he saw it - a picture of Harry Styles next to his. He narrowed his eyes. "You must be joking" Louis said to Simon. "What is it with Harry Styles?"

Simon exhaled, as if the next part was something he didn’t want to say outright. "You wouldn’t be doing it alone. The campaign is built around rivalries—intensity, competition. Rolex believes you and Harry Styles are the perfect contrast."

Louis froze. "You’re kidding."

"I’m not."

A slow wave of irritation crawled up Louis’ spine. "Why Styles?"

Simon leaned back, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his suit. "Because you two sell. Because Rolex wants the edge, the tension, the story. The working-class champion versus the golden boy —it’s marketing gold."

Louis let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head before grabbing the folder and tossing it back across the table. "Are you taking the piss? Me and Styles? A whole bloody campaign together? A full shoot and some never-ending promo circus? You must be fucking joking."

Simon remained unfazed, simply smoothing out the folder where it had landed, his movements calm and deliberate. "Louis, I’m advising you to take this offer seriously. Opportunities like this don’t come often. You want to move up in this sport? Get into a bigger team? This is how you do it. You don't want to be a one-season wonder, do you?"

Louis’ jaw clenched. "Oh, fuck off with that. I don’t need Styles to prove myself. I didn’t need him in IndyCar, and I don’t need him now."

Simon sighed, tapping his fingers lightly against the table, like a teacher tired of explaining something obvious. "This isn’t about proving yourself. This is about positioning yourself. Rolex isn’t just selling watches, Louis. They’re selling legacy. And they want you to be a part of it. But they also want contrast. Fire and ice. Old money and new blood. The unbeatable champion and the underdog with everything to prove. The rivalry between you and Styles is the deal."

Louis glared at him. "It’s not a rivalry. It’s just me hating his guts."

Simon chuckled, shaking his head. "That’s what makes it even better. The tension, the fire. That’s what they want. And let’s be honest—you don’t exactly hate the spotlight."

Louis leaned back, exhaling sharply, running a hand through his hair as he tried to process the absurdity of it all. "I need to talk to my family first. Lottie’s handling everything back home, and Fizzy and the twins are at a difficult age. I can’t just disappear for some PR circus."

He shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around it. "Not that it even fucking matters, because there’s no way Styles would ever agree to this."

Simon’s smirk widened, his expression almost triumphant. "Oh, but he already has. His contract is signed."

Louis froze, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. That explained a lot. The fake smiles, the forced friendliness at the airport—Styles had known all along. "You absolute prick," Louis muttered under his breath, more to himself than Simon. That’s why he was suddenly so fucking nice.

Simon’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room seemed to tighten around Louis like a trap slowly springing shut. He stood, moving around the table with slow, deliberate steps, closing the space between them just enough to make a point—without ever being obvious about it. "I’m asking nicely, Louis. But let’s be clear—if you don’t agree, you’ll have to deal with the consequences. And I can promise you, they won’t be pleasant." His voice remained smooth, his words carefully weighted, but there was no mistaking the warning beneath them.

Louis’ fists clenched under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He despised being backed into corners, and Simon fucking knew it. Every damn time, the man found a way to twist things just enough to make it seem like there was a choice—when in reality, there never really was. Louis forced himself to keep his expression neutral, even as his chest tightened with frustration. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up from the chair, his movements stiff with barely restrained anger.

"I’ll think about it."

Simon’s lips curved slightly, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. It never did. "I’m sure you’ll make the right choice, Louis. You always do." His voice was a whisper of silk over iron, soft enough to sound pleasant, but laced with something undeniable—control. A reminder that no matter how much Louis fought, no matter how much he resisted, the decision had already been made for him. He was just here to sign the dotted line.

Louis turned sharply, striding toward the door before he could say something he’d regret. His entire body thrummed with frustration, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He fucking hated this. Hated the control Simon had over his career, hated the way he was being boxed in, maneuvered like a pawn in someone else’s game. He yanked open the door, stepping into the hallway, the cool air doing nothing to settle the heat rising under his skin.

And most of all, he hated the thought of being forced into the same space as Harry fucking Styles, month after month, plastering on a smile while the cameras rolled. How the fuck was this supposed to work? He and Styles couldn’t be in the same room for five minutes without biting each other’s heads off. A whole campaign together? Traveling, filming, smiling like they weren’t one wrong move away from killing each other? It was a disaster waiting to happen. And yet, here he was, being backed into a corner, forced to play along. Like hell was he going to make this easy for them.

Harry's POV

Harry wished Taylor had stayed. He wasn’t ready to be alone with his thoughts, and even less so to be alone with Liam. Not that he didn’t trust Liam—he did, more than everyone else — but Liam had a way of asking questions that forced him to face things he wasn’t ready to deal with. Still, there were things he needed to say, and with Taylor gone, this was his only chance.

Liam seemed genuinely happy with his new girl, which made finding the right moment even harder. It wasn’t until Saturday that Harry managed to pull him away under the pretense of a morning run along the beach. The sun hung warm and golden in the late may sky, casting long shadows on the dunes. The sand was soft and loose beneath their feet, making each step an effort. Harry pushed forward with ease, but Liam—despite being fit—was struggling to keep up, muttering curses under his breath about why they couldn't have just gone for a coffee instead.

Eventually, they slowed, their breath still heavy as they switched to a walk along the shoreline. The waves lapped lazily at the sand, the rhythmic crash of the tide the only sound for a moment. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, tousling their hair and cooling their skin. Harry let the silence stretch between them before finally speaking.

Harry kicked at a stray shell, watching as it tumbled toward the waves. The may sun burned high, reflecting off the rolling surf in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere but down. He sighed heavily. "You know, ever since Amsterdam, Nick’s been pushing this new plan to fix my whole 'damaged image' situation. And apparently, the best way to do that is by using Louis."

Liam frowned, his brown eyes narrowing as he turned to look at Harry properly. "Using him how?"

Harry let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "He wants me to act like we’re on good terms. Play nice. Use Louis’ media charm to make me look good, like standing next to the fucking sweetheart of F1 is going to magically erase every mistake I’ve made." He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his windswept curls. "And to sell the whole story, there’s a new Rolex campaign. They want to push this rivalry—make it look intense but polished. Marketable. And guess what? Louis is part of it."

Liam’s eyebrows shot up. "He agreed to that?"

Harry scoffed. "If he signs the damn contract. Which, let’s be honest, he won’t. He fucking hates me more than I hate him. And even if he does sign, how the hell is that supposed to work? We can barely stand next to each other without it turning into a goddamn spectacle."

Liam wiped sweat from his brow, watching Harry carefully. "And how do you feel about it?"

Harry kicked at the sand again, the tension curling in his chest like an iron grip. "Like I don’t have a fucking choice."

Liam sighed, watching him carefully. "You get along with everyone, H. What is it about him that pisses you off so much?"

Harry clenched his jaw, stopping abruptly in his tracks. The sound of the waves filled the silence between them as he stared out at the endless horizon, the salty breeze whipping at his skin. The weight in his chest only grew heavier. "It’s not just him. It’s how he fucking is. How he walks through this sport like nothing can touch him, like he belongs here without even trying, without having to prove anything. Like he doesn’t give a shit what people think."

Liam remained silent, his brown eyes watching Harry carefully, giving him space to unravel his thoughts.

Harry exhaled sharply. "Do you know how fucking exhausting it is? Hiding, pretending, always watching what you say, what you do? Playing perfect with Taylor, like it’s the most natural thing in the world? Because it’s the only way. The only way to make sure they don’t come for me. And then there’s him." His voice turned bitter, frustration bleeding into every word. "Louis walks through the world like none of that applies to him. Like he doesn’t have to be afraid."

Harry’s fists curled at his sides as the memories clawed at him. "I saw him at Givenchy. Just standing there, talking to Zayn about being bi. Just—saying it. Like it was nothing. Like Simon doesn’t exist. Like the media wouldn’t eat him alive if they wanted to. He didn’t whisper, didn’t look over his shoulder, didn’t care who heard. He just… was."

Harry kicked at the sand, sending it flying. "How the fuck does he do that? How does he just—be?"

Liam sighed, stepping closer. "Harry, you don’t know what’s really going on with him. Maybe he’s lucky no one’s asked him yet. Maybe he hasn’t been forced into answering those questions under a spotlight. It’s different when they’re waiting for you to slip up, waiting to twist your words into something ugly."

Harry shook his head. "Maybe. But he acts like it wouldn’t even matter. Like he’s untouchable. And that pisses me off more than anything."

Liam placed a firm hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. "Harry, everyone deserves to be loved and to be in love. That includes you. And I wish—fuck, I wish you'd believe that. I wish you didn’t have to carry this weight alone, didn’t have to be afraid of all this. You deserve better, H. You deserve to fight for it, too. And there is a way, even if it’s not easy."

Harry swallowed hard, his gaze locked on the endless ocean. The water moved in its own rhythm, uncaring, unwavering, while his mind churned with thoughts he couldn’t quite place. The conversation weighed on him heavier than he wanted to admit, pressing into the spaces he usually ignored.

Liam’s words lingered, but before Harry could let himself sink into them, he exhaled sharply, forcing himself back to the present. He rolled his shoulders, shaking the tension off, or at least trying to. "Anyway, enough about that," he muttered, voice rougher than before. "We should head back."

Liam studied him for a moment, then nodded, falling into step beside him. The wind carried the sound of the waves behind them as they made their way toward the winding path leading off the beach. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed ahead, already dreading what came next. The water was restless, the tide pulling in and out, steady and unbothered, like time itself didn’t care for the chaos in his mind. He wished he could be like that—unshaken, unapologetic, whole. But he wasn’t. And deep down, he feared he never would be.

Louis‘ POV

Louis prepared himself for the race with more intensity than ever. After the disaster of his debut, there was no fucking way he was going to let another race slip through his fingers. Every free moment was spent training, analyzing data, or fine-tuning things with Olli in the garage. When he wasn’t doing that, he was pushing himself through grueling workouts with Zayn. Running laps, sparring in the gym, lifting weights—anything to keep himself sharp, to keep the frustration from boiling over. Zayn was a machine when it came to training, his quiet discipline pushing Louis harder, giving him something to focus on besides the constant pressure of the media, Simon, and now, fucking Styles.

Even after those long training sessions, Louis still found himself restless. He, Zayn, and Olli often ended their nights together, sitting outside the motorhome, beers in hand, letting the cool air settle over them. The three of them had fallen into an easy rhythm, an unspoken alliance of sorts.  The warm glow of overhead lights flickering against the metallic surfaces around them. Louis took a slow drag from his cigarette, letting the nicotine settle his nerves as he nursed a beer in his free hand. The race loomed over him, but something heavier sat on his chest. Louis wasn’t at ease. His mind was too fucking loud, and Zayn, ever observant, noticed.

"Alright, what is it?" he asked, his voice low and calm, but firm.

Louis exhaled a cloud of smoke, tapping the ash off the edge of the bench. "Simon."

Olli groaned. "What now?"

Louis let out a dry chuckle. "He made me an offer I can’t refuse. Proper ‘Godfather’ shit."

Zayn raised an eyebrow. "What kind of offer?"

Louis took another drag before answering. "A Rolex campaign. Sounds good, right? Big money, big exposure. But there’s a catch. A massive, annoying, curly-haired fucking catch."

Olli frowned. "Styles?"

Louis clicked his tongue and pointed at him. "Bingo. Apparently, Rolex wants the rivalry, the whole fire-and-ice dynamic. Wants us to do a commercial together, appearances, the full PR circus."

Olli made a disgusted sound. "Simon’s a fucking piece of shit. He’s just trying to use you. You don’t have to do this, Louis."

Zayn, ever the pragmatist, tilted his head. "What do you think about it?"

Louis sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I think I don’t trust him. I don’t trust Styles. That apology at the airport? Bullshit. He’s up to something, and I don’t know what yet. But spending months glued to his side for some fancy watch campaign? Sounds like fucking torture."

Zayn leaned back, taking a slow sip of his beer. "It also sounds like a golden opportunity."

Louis shot him a glare. "Don’t start."

"I mean it," Zayn continued, unfazed. "Do you know how many doors this could open for you? Rolex doesn’t just sponsor anyone. This could put you on the map in a way nothing else will. What do Lottie and Fizzy think?"

Louis let out another sigh, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. "I FaceTimed them last night. They were absolutely buzzing. Thought it was a brilliant idea. Said I’d be a dumbass to turn it down."

He paused, thinking back to their conversation. "But, I dunno... I feel like I’m letting them down. Lottie’s taking care of everything back home, and Fizzy—she sounded happy for me, but something felt... off. Like she wasn’t telling me everything."

Zayn studied him carefully, his gaze steady. "Louis, your sisters can make their own decisions. They’re smart, and they know what they’re asking of you. If they’re telling you to take this opportunity, maybe they genuinely believe it’s what’s best for you. And for them."

Louis ran a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him. "Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like shit about it. I hate being away from them. I hate that Lottie has to handle everything. And Fizzy... I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining things, but something just didn't feel right with her."

Zayn nodded, taking a slow sip of his beer. "Then ask her again. You know her better than anyone. If something’s wrong, she’ll tell you when she’s ready. But don’t let guilt be the reason you throw this opportunity away."

Louis exhaled a long breath, watching the smoke curl in the air. "Na it's not just that, it's also because I fucking hate being backed into a corner. And I fucking hate that Simon always gets his way. And I don’t trust him, not for a fucking second. I don’t trust Styles either. And if I say yes to this, it’s not just a campaign—it’s months of playing this bullshit PR game with him. Pretending we don’t want to rip each other’s heads off. I don’t know if I can do that."

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling beneath his skin. "And the worst part? I feel like this is going to change everything. More than I might be ready for. More than I can handle right now."

Zayn studied him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke. "Look, I get it. But you’re being stubborn, mate. I know you hate Simon’s manipulations, and I know Styles pisses you off more than anyone else. But are you really going to throw away an opportunity like this just because it’s not on your terms?"

Louis scoffed, flicking ash off his cigarette. "Fuck off for making some kind of sense."

Zayn smirked. "Always, mate."

Olli frowned. "But still, that’s not the point. If you don’t want to do it, fuck it. Simon doesn’t own you."

Louis let out a humorless chuckle. "That’s the thing though, isn’t it? He somehow does. He’s holding this over me like he always does. Acting like it’s an opportunity when it’s just another way to pull my strings."

Zayn tilted his beer slightly. "But is he wrong? About the opportunity, I mean?"

Louis didn’t answer right away. He took a final drag of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the night. "I haven’t made a decision yet. Simon wants an answer after the race."

Zayn nodded. "Then think carefully. Make sure you choose for yourself—not because Simon is forcing your hand."

Louis exhaled, long and slow. He fucking hated this. Hated being backed into a corner. But maybe, just maybe, Zayn and his sisters were right. Maybe letting his grudge against Styles get in the way of something this big would be the real mistake.

He took another slow sip of his beer, rolling the cool bottle between his palms. The night was settling in around them, the distant hum of the paddock quieting as the last engineers packed up for the evening. The glow of the motorhomes cast long shadows, flickering slightly as the breeze moved through the camp. Louis tapped his cigarette against the ashtray beside him, watching the embers fall and scatter like tiny stars against the pavement.

"Alright," he muttered, standing up and stretching, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the conversation. "Enough of this heavy shit. We’ve got a race tomorrow, and I need to at least pretend I’m getting some sleep."

Zayn smirked, taking one last swig of his beer before setting it down. "Yeah, sure you will."

Olli chuckled. "You actually should, mate. Quali went well, let’s not fuck it up now."

Louis scoffed, flicking his cigarette away and stepping on it. "Oi, last time, I didn’t fuck up. Styles did. Poor bloke was so desperate to take me out he forgot the wind existed. Maybe this time he’ll try using his brain before his ego."

Olli snorted. "True, but let’s not tempt fate, yeah? We all know your mouth runs faster than your car sometimes. Wouldn’t want to see you trip over your own ego before the lights even go out."

Louis laughed out loud, "No promises, mate. But if I do end up in the gravel, at least I’ll still have a better finish than Styles did last time."

Zayn shook his head, standing up and stretching. "You two are fucking hopeless. Get some sleep, Louis."

Louis smirked, "Yeah, yeah, dad. I’ll be fine."

Zayn rolled his eyes but gave him a pat on the shoulder before heading off. "Just don’t embarrass me out there tomorrow."

Louis grinned. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and started walking, feeling the weight of the night settle deep in his chest. His thoughts kept circling back to Rolex's sponsorship—no decision had been made, but deep down, he knew the truth. There was no real decision to be made. Simon had already set the board, and sooner or later, Louis would have to play along, whether he liked it or not.

And then there was him.

The thought of being forced into the same space as Harry fucking Styles, month after month, made his blood boil. Smiling for the cameras, acting like they weren’t constantly one wrong word away from snapping at each other—it was fucking ridiculous. How the fuck was this supposed to work? He and Styles couldn’t go five minutes without sniping at each other, and now they were supposed to play best mates for the media? Traveling, filming, laughing like none of it was a carefully crafted PR stunt? It was a disaster waiting to happen.

And yet, here he was, being backed into a corner, forced to swallow his pride and go along with it.

Like hell was he going to make this easy for them.

Harry's POV

Harry woke up on race day, exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs. Staring at the ceiling, he let out a slow breath, his mind already racing through the chaos of the past few days. Between relentless training sessions—reaction drills, coordination exercises, and conditioning work—his schedule had been brutal. But it had paid off. Qualifying had gone perfectly, and he was sitting on pole position. It should have been enough to give him confidence.

But there was always something.

When he wasn’t in the gym, he was buried in meetings with Jeff, his head mechanic, and Lewis Hamilton, fine-tuning the Mercedes setup. Every detail had to be perfect. Every adjustment calculated.

And yet, somehow, Louis fucking Tomlinson had found his way into the conversation.

Jeff had made an offhand comment about McLaren’s performance, mentioning that he’d spoken with Olli—Tomlinson’s engineer—who claimed Louis had been coming up with some damn good ideas. That alone was enough to make Lewis slam his notebook shut with an audible thud, his glare cutting across the room. "What’s the point of talking about fuckin' Tomlinson?" he snapped, his irritation barely contained. "The guy’s just lucky. Nothing more."

Jeff, who had spent years dealing with egotistical drivers, didn’t even flinch. "Maybe. But Olli says he’s got a sharp technical mind. Adjusted his aero setup himself last race. That’s more than just luck."

Lewis let out a sharp, derisive breath, his arms crossing as he leaned forward, his expression hardening. "Yeah? And look where that got him. A tenth-place finish and a fucking headline. Who cares?"

The way he dismissed it so easily made something twist in Harry’s chest. He knew Lewis could be ruthless—he had seen it on the track, heard it in briefings, felt it in their interactions—but there was something particularly nasty in the way he tore down Louis without a second thought.

Harry clenched his jaw, barely thinking before he spoke. "Don’t talk to Jeff like that."

Lewis turned to him, eyebrows raised in mock amusement. "What?"

"You heard me," Harry said, sharper than he’d intended. "Jeff’s just doing his job. You don’t like hearing about Tomlinson? Guess what, me neither. But don’t act like he’s irrelevant when we both know McLaren’s improving."

Lewis scoffed, shaking his head, his eyes narrowing. "You sound awfully interested in defending him. Thought you hated the guy?"

Harry exhaled slowly through his nose. "I just don’t see the point in acting like he’s nothing. That kind of arrogance doesn’t age well."

Lewis leaned back in his chair, studying him with an expression that was part amusement, part challenge. "Yeah? You should know by now, mate—I don’t give a fuck how it ages. I care about winning. And if Tomlinson ever gets in my way, I’ll make sure he regrets it."

Harry didn’t respond, but the tension between them thickened. He knew exactly what Lewis meant—he wouldn’t hesitate to push Louis aside, to ruin him if necessary. Lewis Hamilton played the game one way: by making sure he was the only one left standing.

Harry might not like Louis, but that didn’t sit right with him.

But he wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

And that was just one part of the mess brewing around him. He still had a press conference before the race, and for the first time in a while, he was nervous. Qualifying had gone fantastic—he had pole position—but the press wouldn’t care about that. No, they’d care about Amsterdam. About the headlines, the drunken photos, the fans he’d pissed off. And now, Nick had just dropped another headache on him.

Before the conference, in yet another PR meeting, Nick had pulled him aside. "I spoke with Simon Cowell," he’d said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable. "He told me Louis is still refusing to do the Rolex campaign with you."

Harry had nearly laughed out loud. "He’s what? He’s actually considering turning down Rolex? Does he have any idea how much fucking money he’s throwing away?"

Nick let out a slow sigh, rubbing his temples. "Apparently, he does. But Simon’s still working on him. And let’s be real, Louis doesn’t actually have a choice here. Simon’s going to make sure he agrees, one way or another. If persuasion doesn’t work, there are other ways to get what we need. The kid will fold eventually."

Harry frowned, shifting in his seat. "You really think he’s just going to roll over? Tomlinson’s the most stubborn idiot I’ve ever met."

Nick smirked. "Exactly. Which is why you need to do your part. You can’t just sit around waiting for Simon to twist his arm. The more Louis resists, the more difficult this gets. We need him wanting to do it. And that’s where you come in."

Harry exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "I’ve already tried. He hates me, remember? Doesn’t exactly make for a great fucking friendship."

Nick arched a brow. "Then fix that. Be charming. Act like you actually want to be his mate. Make him comfortable with you. You’re Harry fucking Styles. Use it."

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. "That’s the thing. No matter what I do, he won’t buy it. He sees right through the PR bullshit. If he doesn’t want to do this, there’s nothing I can say that’ll change his mind."

Nick studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Then make him think he wants to. Figure out what matters to him. Get in his head. Show him what he stands to gain."

Harry’s jaw tightened. "You’re saying we manipulate him?"

Nick gave a slow, deliberate smile. "I’m saying, give him a reason to trust you. Give him a good reason. Make him feel like this is his decision. Simon is doing his job—he’s pushing Louis in one direction. Your job is to make sure he doesn’t hate where he’s being pushed."

Harry wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. But deep down, he knew that Nick was right. He needed Louis on his side. And to do that, he needed to play this game better than Tomlinson did. But before he could dwell on it, Nick straightened and checked his watch. "We need to focus on the press conference now," Nick said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You know they’re going to ask about Amsterdam."

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Yeah. What am I supposed to say?"

Nick leaned forward, his voice lowering slightly. "You downplay it. Keep it charming, make it seem like a one-time thing. Say you rarely drink, that you underestimated it. Keep it light. Give them nothing."

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. "And you think they’re just going to eat that up? They’re not idiots, Nick. They know a cover-up when they see one."

Nick’s expression hardened, irritation flickering across his face. "How many times are you going to argue with me, Harry? This isn’t your first fucking press conference. What’s wrong with you? You know the drill—charm them, redirect them, and don’t let them get under your skin. If you start fumbling now, they’ll eat you alive."

Harry clenched his jaw but didn’t respond immediately. He hated this part of the job—the constant pressure to play everything perfectly. But Nick wasn’t letting up. "You’ve done this before. You know how to handle them," he repeated, voice sharp, like he was talking to a rookie instead of a world champion.

Harry clenched his jaw, running a hand through his hair. He hated this part of the job. Hated the way he had to act like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t drowning under the weight of every misstep. But Nick was right. He had no other option.

Nick nodded in satisfaction, glancing at his watch. "Good. And, Harry?"

Harry looked up.

"No fuck-ups."

The press conference, at least, had gone smoother than expected. The questions about Amsterdam had come, just as Nick had predicted, but Harry had kept his expression easy, his smile charming. He had downplayed it perfectly—admitted to a rare indulgence, laughed at himself for underestimating his own limits. He wasn’t sure if the reporters had entirely bought it, but at the very least, they had let him off the hook for now. That was a small victory.

Now, staring at the ceiling, he exhaled, trying to shake off the exhaustion.

With a groan, Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face before stretching out his stiff muscles. His body ached from the past week’s relentless training, but there was no time to dwell on it. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the exhaustion, then stood up, moving toward his duffel bag. Pulling out his race-day gear, he dressed quickly—compression top, fireproofs, then his team-issued polo. Every motion was mechanical, a routine drilled into him over years of racing.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. Today had to go perfectly. No fuck-ups, no mistakes.

Race day. Time to perform. 

Louis' POV

Louis had every reason to be satisfied with the race. He had managed to put his McLaren in P5, and more importantly, during the race, he had displaced Lewis Hamilton from P4. That alone felt like a huge victory. Andrea Stella had been thrilled with his performance, clapping him on the back and reassuring him that they were on the right track. And Louis? He felt it too. Racing came naturally to him, and every session confirmed it—he belonged here.

The race had been brutal, intense from the first lap. The start was chaos, with tires locking up into the first corner and cars jostling for position. Louis had defended aggressively, keeping his ground and executing clean overtakes when the opportunity arose. His biggest moment had come in lap 32 when he saw the opening to pass Hamilton. He had taken it, daringly late on the brakes, his car barely sticking to the track as he made the move stick. That overtake had been pure instinct, pure skill. And fuck, it felt good.

"Alright, Louis, let’s bring it home," Olli’s voice crackled through the radio in the closing laps. "Great work on Hamilton. Just keep it steady, tires are still in good shape."

Louis, sweat dripping down his forehead, focused on his breathing as he maneuvered his McLaren through the final corners. "Copy. Tell me where Verstappen is."

"Too far ahead," Olli admitted. "P3 isn’t happening today, but P4 is yours if you keep this up."

Louis gritted his teeth but pushed forward, making sure there were no mistakes in the final few laps. When the checkered flag dropped, he exhaled deeply, grip loosening on the wheel as he processed it—P4.

"Fucking hell," Louis muttered into the radio, a grin spreading across his face. "Tell Andrea I expect champagne."

Olli laughed. "Mate, if I know Andrea, he’s already got it ready."

Zayn had placed P6, and though he had been less animated about it, Louis could tell he was content. They had both done their jobs. But Louis wasn’t satisfied yet. Watching Harry stand at the top of the podium, smug and victorious, only fueled the fire in his chest. The fucker was talented—Louis would never admit it aloud, but he couldn’t deny it either. Styles made it look effortless, like the car was an extension of him. The way he handled the car, the precision in every turn, the way he read the track—it was frustratingly brilliant. As much as Louis wanted to brush it off, to chalk it up to having the best car, deep down he knew the truth. Harry Styles was born to do this.

And maybe, just maybe, Louis hated that about him most of all.

One day, he’d be up there too. Standing on that top step, making sure no one could ignore him. Not Styles, not Hamilton, not anyone. And when that day came, he’d make damn sure Harry had to watch—had to see him lift that trophy, had to hear his name echo through the paddock.

But fuck, as much as Louis hated to admit it, he could see why Harry was up there now. The way he controlled the car, the way he adapted with each lap, making it look so effortless—it was frustratingly impressive. Styles had an instinct that couldn’t be taught, an unshakable confidence on the track that made him a force to be reckoned with.

Louis clenched his fists. He wanted that. Wanted to prove he wasn’t just some lucky IndyCar transfer, that he could fight at the top. He could already picture it—him standing there, champagne dripping from his hands, a McLaren on the highest step, and Styles forced to look up at him. That day would come, and when it did, he’d make sure it was unforgettable.

Louis wished he could just focus on the next race and everything that came with that, but it just wasn't meant to be. After the racing, the day wasn’t done for Louis and Zayn. There were interviews to get through, technical debriefs with the team, and a full race analysis.

By the time they finally left the paddock, exhaustion clung to their bodies, but their spirits were high. Louis wanted nothing but chill with Zayn and have a little fun, but fate had other plans, it just wasn't meant to be.

The cool evening air did little to settle the adrenaline still coursing through Louis’ veins. His body still buzzed with the sensation of the track, the feeling of the wheel in his hands, the way he had nailed sector two, shaving milliseconds off his lap time. That rush—it was fucking intoxicating. Nothing else in the world could ever match it.

Zayn seemed equally pleased, his relaxed demeanor giving away how content he was with his own performance. They walked side by side, the McLaren logos on their jackets catching the dim paddock lights as they strolled toward the team transport, savoring the quiet after a relentless day.

Ahead of them, two figures moved through the shadows—Lewis and Harry, still lingering on the paddock grounds. But Louis couldn’t care less. He and Zayn were celebrating, and nothing could kill their high.

Pulling out a cigarette, Louis lit up, letting the smoke swirl lazily in the night air.

Zayn side-eyed him, unimpressed. "You know you shouldn’t be smoking."

Louis grinned, exhaling slowly. "Mate, I only smoke on special occasions. And let’s be real, with how perfect I am, I need a flaw, otherwise I’d just make it unfair for everyone else."

Zayn let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You’re absolutely insufferable."

Louis tipped his head back dramatically. "I do my best."

Their laughter echoed in the night, light and easy. The energy between them was electric, like two kids sneaking out past curfew. The kind of post-race high that made everything feel untouchable. Fueled by adrenaline and beer, Louis jumped onto Zayn’s back with no warning, gripping onto his shoulders.

"Go, my noble steed!" he declared.

Zayn groaned under his weight but still managed a laugh. "You’re fucking impossible, Tomlinson."

"And yet, you love me. Now, onward!" Louis whooped, throwing a fist in the air.

Zayn trudged forward a few steps before pretending to stumble. "You keep this up, and I’m dropping your ass right here."

Louis cackled, tightening his hold. "You wouldn’t dare!"

But before the fun could continue, a sharp voice sliced through the air, dripping with condescension.

"You should show some fucking respect for the sport, Tomlinson."

Zayn stopped in his tracks, shifting Louis off his back as they turned to face the speaker. Lewis Hamilton stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression a mixture of irritation and something darker—something bordering on contempt.

"Running around like a child—who the hell do you think you are?" Lewis’ voice was sharp, his usual cool demeanor cracking with barely restrained frustration. His nostrils flared as his gaze bore into Louis, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

Louis barely blinked before letting out a slow, amused chuckle. "I think I’m the guy who just overtook you."

Lewis’ jaw clenched, his shoulders squaring as he took a step closer. "You’re a cocky little shit, you know that? Just another loudmouthed, working-class nobody who thinks he belongs here."

Zayn tensed beside Louis, shifting slightly as if ready to step in. But Louis didn’t need anyone to fight his battles for him. He took a step forward himself, closing the space between him and Lewis, tilting his head slightly, eyes gleaming with defiance.

"And yet, here I am," Louis said smoothly, voice dripping with mock innocence. "On the same grid as you. Qualifying ahead of you. Beating you. So tell me, mate—who exactly doesn’t belong here?"

The muscles in Lewis’ jaw twitched, his fists curling at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he might actually take a swing, the tension between them thick enough to suffocate. Louis held his ground, unwavering, daring Lewis to do something about it.

Zayn stepped between them, hands raised slightly. "Alright, let’s all calm the fuck down. No need to throw punches over a race."

But Lewis didn’t budge. His glare flickered between Louis and Zayn, and just when it seemed like things were about to explode, another voice cut through the tension.

“That’s enough.”

Harry.

His tone was even, controlled, but there was an edge to it—firm, unwavering. But his eyes—his green eyes burned with barely restrained fury. He wasn’t just intervening. He was angry.

Before Louis could even react, Harry stepped in between him and Lewis, shoving Lewis back a step with more force than necessary. “You had a rough day, we get it. But that’s not on him, and you fucking know it. So, take your frustration somewhere else.”

The sudden contact made Lewis’ face twist with pure outrage, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He glanced between Harry and Louis, his entire body vibrating with pent-up aggression. “Watch yourself, Styles,” Lewis muttered darkly. “You might be the better driver nowadays, but don’t think for a second that makes you untouchable.”

His glare flicked back to Louis, his voice dripping with disdain. “And you—this isn’t over.”

With that, Lewis turned sharply on his heel, storming off into the night, still bristling with fury.

Louis exhaled sharply, crossing his arms, his chest still rising and falling from the adrenaline of the confrontation. "What the fuck was that?"

Harry turned to him, still breathing hard, his jaw tight, his green eyes flashing with something unreadable—anger, challenge, something else Louis didn’t have the patience to decipher. His usually styled curls were a mess, sticking in different directions from the night air and the sheer intensity of the moment. "You’re welcome."

Louis let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, please. I don’t need a fucking knight in shining armor. Especially when the ‘prince’ is actually just a frog."

Harry’s lips curled, his smirk just a little too pleased, a little too smug. "Still don’t trust me, huh?"

Louis’ eyes narrowed. "Not for a second."

Harry took another step forward, close enough that Louis could see the tension still lingering in his features, the way his jaw flexed, the way his usually disheveled curls fell over his forehead. He looked wild, untamed, like he was still buzzing from the confrontation, from the rush of adrenaline.

Louis knew that feeling well. But unlike Harry, he wasn’t about to channel it into some fake hero act.

Harry tilted his head slightly, voice lowering to something more deliberate, more taunting. "You really think I did that for you?" His smirk deepened, and Louis felt the heat of his breath, the sheer audacity of his arrogance. "Come on, Tomlinson. I just didn’t feel like listening to Hamilton’s whining any longer. Let’s not pretend you’re that important."

Louis clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his side. There it was—that arrogance, that fucking confidence that made his skin prickle. Harry’s eyes were daring him, waiting for him to snap. Louis could see it now—Harry didn’t just want a reaction, he was thriving off this, off him.

"So, have you finally given in yet?" Harry continued, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. "I hope you’re still refusing the Rolex deal. No one needs Louis Tomlinson next to me."

That was it. That was the fucking push. Louis clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his side. That arrogance, that fucking confidence that made his skin prickle. Harry’s eyes were taunting, daring him to react, to take the bait. And Louis wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly what this was. He knew Harry was playing him, pushing him toward a decision.

And yet, that only made him angrier.

With slow, deliberate movements, Louis flicked his cigarette to the ground, stepping forward just enough that Harry had to tilt his chin slightly to meet his gaze. Then, with the same measured control, he ground the cigarette under his shoe, never breaking eye contact. "Go fuck yourself, Styles."

Harry’s smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened. For a second, it almost looked like he was going to say something else, push just a little further—but then he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before turning on his heel and walking away.

Louis didn’t move. He stood there, fists clenched, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. The worst part? He knew Harry had wanted this. He’d wanted to push Louis right to the edge, and he had succeeded.

Grinding his teeth, Louis yanked his phone from his pocket and pulled up Simon’s contact. His fingers hovered over the screen for just a second before he let out a frustrated sigh and pressed the call button instead.

The phone barely rang twice before Simon answered, his voice as sharp and calculating as ever. "Louis. I assume this is about Rolex?"

Louis rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering tension in his muscles. "Yeah, I’m in. Let’s do it."

There was a pause, then a satisfied hum from Simon. "Smart choice. I knew you’d come around."

Louis clenched his jaw. "Don’t get it twisted, Simon. I’m not doing this because of you."

Simon chuckled, that condescending tone grating on Louis’ nerves. "Of course not. But whatever the reason, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’ll inform Rolex. We’ll set up a schedule for the first campaign shoot."

Louis exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, whatever. Just send me the details."

He ended the call before Simon could get another word in, gripping the phone tightly in his fist for a moment before shoving it back into his pocket.

If Harry fucking Styles thought he could dictate his choices, he had another thing coming.

What Louis didn’t know was that this was exactly what Harry had wanted. 

Chapter Text

Louis POV

Louis was back in Doncaster. The mid-June heat hung heavy in the air, wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. He sat on the terrace, his shirt discarded beside him, beads of sweat rolling down his bare chest as he took a long sip from his glass of ice-cold water. The scent of freshly cut grass filled the air, clinging to his skin, mixing with the faint salt of sweat. Earlier in the afternoon he had spent over an hour mowing the lawn, the hum of the machine drowning out his thoughts, the sun beating down on his back. Each pass over the yard had left neat, satisfying lines, the rhythmic movement giving him a rare moment of clarity. His hands still carried the slight sting from gripping the mower too tightly, the vibrations numbing his fingers even now. His skin was sticky with sweat and the faint residue of dirt, but there was something grounding about the physical labor, the scent of earth and freshly cut grass settling deep in his senses.

The evening sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the perfectly trimmed yard. His gaze lingered on the old swing set at the far end. Once, it had been a place of endless laughter, back when he and his sisters would race each other to see who could swing the highest. Now, even Phoebe and Daisy had long outgrown it. He should probably take it down. But the thought of doing so felt like erasing another piece of his mum.

The house was as chaotic as ever—his sisters running in and out, the sound of music spilling from open windows, the constant hum of life. Inside, Phoebe and Daisy were in the middle of a full-blown argument over something entirely ridiculous.

"I told you not to take my hoodie!" Phoebe’s voice rang through the house, followed by the sound of feet stomping up the stairs.

"It’s our hoodie, actually! Mum bought it for both of us!" Daisy shot back, her tone equally heated.

"Yeah, but it looks better on me!"

Louis rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he took another sip of his water. Some things never changed. "Oi! Either you two shut up or I’m selling the damn hoodie on eBay!" he called out, only half-joking.

There was a pause before Daisy huffed, "You wouldn’t!"

"Try me!" Louis smirked, hearing them mutter something under their breaths before the argument dissolved into laughter.

Lottie appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused expression on her face. "You love the chaos, don’t you?"

Louis sighed dramatically. "Oh yeah, it’s what I live for. Nothing like coming home for some peace and quiet, only to referee fights over stolen hoodies."

Lottie chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "You look knackered. You sure you’re even getting a break while you’re here?"

"This is my break," Louis muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Better than dealing with bloody sponsors breathing down my neck and crazy fans making me a sex symbol."

Lottie gave him a pointed look, mischief in her eyes. "Speaking of which, look what I found on TikTok."

She shoved her phone toward him, and the moment he saw the video playing, he groaned. The latest Tate McRae song, "Sports Car," blasted over the footage, the lyrics syncing almost too perfectly with the over-the-top montage of himself. The first clip was from a post-race interview—him pulling his shirt off to wipe his face, unaware that his undershirt lifted with it, exposing just enough skin to send the internet into a frenzy. Then came the slow-motion shot of him during the track walk, sunglasses perched on his nose, sweat glistening on his skin under the unforgiving sun. Another cut showed him laughing with his race engineer, his blue eyes catching the light, making the whole edit feel ridiculously dramatic.

As the chorus kicked in—Oh, but you got a sports car, we can uh-uh in it—a clip of him adjusting his racing suit appeared, followed by an exaggerated slow-motion zoom of him smirking at the camera before stepping into his car.

Lottie was already in hysterics, laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach. "Louis, this is it! This has to be your F1 anthem!" she wheezed. "Come on, can’t you just imagine it? The engines revving, the cameras zooming in, and this playing in the background while you strut in like some goddamn action hero."

Louis rolled his eyes, shoving the phone back at her. "Jesus Christ, I hope Simon never sees this, or he’ll actually make it happen."

Lottie was still chuckling, tucking her phone away. "I mean, can you blame them? You do have the whole 'mysterious F1 heartthrob' thing going on."

He groaned, leaning his head back against the chair. "Yeah, well, I’d rather be known for actually winning races than for the way I take off my bloody shirt."

Lottie smirked. "Too late for that."

Louis exhaled, letting the teasing settle as the conversation faded into a quiet lull. The sky had started shifting to orange and pink hues, the smell of a barbecue from a few houses over mingling with the warm air. It should’ve felt like a break, but his mind kept drifting—to the season, to the races ahead, to Harry. It was comforting in its own way, but exhausting too. Now, as he sat still, the ache in his shoulders reminded him that even small tasks drained him more than they should.

Balancing these two worlds—his family in Doncaster and the relentless, high-speed intensity of Formula 1—wasn’t easy. The contrast was stark. One moment, he was being cheered on by thousands, hailed as the next great superstar, cameras flashing in his face, the world dissecting his every move. The next, he was here, in Doncaster, where none of that mattered. Here, he wasn’t Louis Tomlinson, the rising star of F1. He was just Louis. Just a boy who used to run barefoot across this very grass without a care in the world. But things had changed. Now, he was something in between—still their brother, still the one they fought with over stupid things, but also the one who made sure the fridge was stocked and the one who worried about bills being payed. Since their mum was gone, he had slipped into a role he never asked for, never quite fit into, but had no choice but to take. He was the older brother who got into stupid arguments over hoodies and television remotes, the one who was expected to have all the answers, the one who kept the house running when Lottie wasn’t around.

He was also the one who reminded Phoebe and Daisy to do their homework, even when they tried to wriggle out of it.

"Oi, have you two done your homework?" Louis asked, glancing into the living room where the twins were sprawled on the couch, lazily flipping through their phones.

Daisy groaned dramatically. "We’ve got it covered."

"Yeah? How exactly?"

"I do the English assignments, and Phoebe does the maths," Daisy said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Louis rolled his eyes. "That’s not how homework works. You can’t just divide it up like it’s chores."

Phoebe shrugged. "Well, technically, we’re still getting it done."

"Yeah, and technically, you’re both gonna fail when the teacher asks you to explain something the other one did."

Daisy huffed. "God, you sound like Mum."

Louis arched an eyebrow. "Good. Then maybe you’ll actually listen."

Lottie walked into the house, a smirk playing on her lips. "You know you're wasting your breath, right?"

Louis sighed, shaking his head. "I know. Doesn’t mean I’m giving up."

That was just how it was. Arguments over schoolwork, fights over borrowed clothes, trying (and usually failing) to cook something edible for them when Lottie wasn’t home. There was never a moment where things weren’t moving, where someone didn’t need something, where he wasn’t being pulled in two different directions—big brother and father figure, provider and referee, the one who had to make sure everything was okay even when it felt like the weight of it all would crush him.

He wasn’t sure when it had started to feel normal. Maybe it never had. But this was the way things were now, and he had no choice but to keep going.

And lately, the exhaustion ran deeper than just the physical toll of the races and having a household at home with four younger siblings. It seeped into his bones, into his mind, into everything. The fame, the pressure—it felt distant here, but never fully gone. It was always lurking, waiting for him to step back into the spotlight.

The last two races—Germany and Austria—had been the toughest of the season so far. Scorching heat, brutal circuits, and relentless wheel-to-wheel battles had left Louis utterly drained. His body was screaming for rest, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now. He was fifth in the championship standings, and the hunger to climb higher burned in his chest. He had something to prove—not just to the world, but to himself.

He exhaled deeply, running a hand through his damp hair, letting his thoughts drift. And, as much as he hated it, they drifted to Harry.

Harry Styles, who he had barely seen during the last two race weekends, except from a distance. Harry, who was sitting second in the standings but was fighting battles off the track that Louis had no interest in understanding. The media had latched onto his struggles like vultures. They speculated about his form, whispered about his drinking habits, turned his every move into a dramatic spectacle. And, of course, they had dragged Louis into it.

Every other headline seemed to pit them against each other—“The Rising Challenger vs. The Fallen Champion.” It was a perfect storm, a narrative too enticing for the press to ignore. And if it weren’t about Styles, Louis might have even felt sorry for him.

And then there was the video.

It had surfaced online earlier that morning, an unsteady, grainy clip taken outside a bar in Vienna. The comments were relentless. Harry looked wrecked—glassy-eyed, swaying slightly as he leaned against a lamppost, cigarette between his fingers, muttering something inaudible to a friend. The flashes of cameras were unmistakable, the crowd around him too eager to capture the moment, to turn it into another headline.

"Falling apart," one comment read. "Golden boy is done."

But that wasn’t the part that had really set everything off.

Later that same night, Harry had given a short interview as he was leaving the bar, and in the middle of it, he had been asked about Louis. And instead of brushing it off, instead of keeping his mouth shut like he usually did, Harry had smiled—actually smiled—and said, "Louis? He’s incredible. Honestly, I think people underestimate how talented he really is. I see it firsthand."

The media had latched onto it immediately. The rivalry that had defined them was suddenly being questioned. What was really going on between them? Was there something else beneath the surface? Why was Harry suddenly singing Louis’ praises?

Louis had watched that part of the video once—just once—and immediately regretted it. He could already hear the speculation, the overanalyzing, the endless discussions on social media dissecting every word, every glance, every possible meaning. And it pissed him off more than it should have.

Because for Louis, this was all a game to Harry. A carefully crafted narrative, a way to keep the mystery alive, to keep the media guessing, to make sure the headlines kept rolling in. It was always something with him.

Louis scoffed, shaking his head at himself. He shouldn’t care. He wouldn’t. Because Harry Styles wasn’t his problem.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe, somehow, he was.

A sharp vibration against the wooden table snapped him out of his thoughts. His phone buzzed insistently, dragging him back to the present. He glanced down, exhaling sharply when he saw the name flashing on the screen—Eleanor. Right. A reminder that he had other complications to deal with.

The situation with Eleanor had started to intensify at the Grand Prix in Austria. On Thursday, during the press conference before the race weekend, he had been seated alongside Harry Styles, Leclerc, Hamilton, Verstappen, and Zayn. The interview began as expected—technical questions about their cars, their setups, how well they understood the machines they were driving. Louis had held his own; he worked on his car more than most drivers, and it showed in the way he answered.

But then came the inevitable shift to personal lives, the kind of questions Louis usually ignored or deflected. One journalist had asked what qualities they looked for in a woman. Harry had been the first to respond, his tone casual: "Well, first of all, she should be female."

Something about that triggered Louis. The way Harry said it so smoothly, so decisively, like it was an unshakable truth. Like he could pretend none of it had ever happened. Flashbacks of Harry in that alcove at the club two years ago occured. All hands and heat, his breath warm against his neck. Hello? Louis was there. He knew for a fact that Harry didn’t mind making out with him—so what was this sudden act? The hypocrisy made his blood boil. Louis barely had time to think before the words were out of his mouth.

"not that important," he had quipped.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

For a split second, the room had fallen into a stunned silence. But then, miraculously, the moment passed. The press moved on—thanks to Zayn.

With perfect timing and a lazy smirk, Zayn leaned into the mic and said, "You lot ever notice how we get asked more about our dating lives than tire compounds? Guess rubber really is the most important topic in F1."

The reporters burst into laughter, cameras flashing as the tension broke. Leclerc nearly choked on his water, and even Hamilton let out a chuckle. The journalist who had been eyeing Louis for a follow-up instead latched onto Zayn’s comment, spinning it into a joke about tire strategies.

Louis exhaled, sinking slightly in his chair. He owed Zayn for that one.

Zayn shot him a warning look—but Louis barely registered it. His focus was locked elsewhere.

Harry. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even reacting to Zayn’s distraction. Instead, his green eyes bore into Louis, unblinking, as if trying to piece him apart, as if trying to figure out if he had completely lost his mind.

Louis held the stare, refusing to look away first. His heart pounded, but he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or defiance. Maybe both.

The second they were offstage, Simon had pulled him aside, his face like thunder. "What the hell was that?" he hissed. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are that no one caught that?"

Louis had just shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "Oh, come on, Simon, lighten up. It was just a joke. Didn’t know we were all so uptight."

Simon’s eyes narrowed. "You really want to push this? Keep making those little comments and see where it gets you. You should think long and hard about what kind of image you’re putting out there, Louis. This sport isn’t just about driving—it’s about control."

Louis scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, and I’m sure the fans would just love me if I sat here all prim and proper and pretended to be some perfect PR puppet. Oh wait—that’s your job, isn’t it?"

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly biting back a stronger reaction. "I’m warning you. Don’t be stupid."

Louis rolled his eyes, clapping a hand on Simon’s shoulder in mock sympathy. "Too late for that, mate. I’m already in Formula 1."

Simon’s jaw tightened, and then he struck harder.

Later that evening, as Louis was leaving the paddock, he heard his name.

"Louis!"

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. He turned and saw Simon striding toward him, a grin on his face. But when Simon Cowell smiled like that, it was never a good sign. It wasn’t warmth—it was control, amusement at something Louis had yet to understand.

Louis stood his ground, but his heart pounded as Simon reached him, stopping just a little too close. The air around them thickened.

“You know, i was thinking about the last interview” Simon’s voice dropped to a near whisper, dangerously cold. "So, you think you get to decide how the world sees you?"

Louis swallowed, his body stiffening. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Simon clicked his tongue, shaking his head as if he was disappointed. Then, he took another step forward, his voice dropping to an eerie calm. "You know exactly what I’m talking about. Your sexuality. Everything you’ve been hinting at, all the little things you’ve been letting slip. It ends now."

Louis tensed, his jaw clenching, but Simon didn’t stop.

"You will stop playing these little games, Louis. You will find yourself a girlfriend. If you don't want one, you’ll get a beard. But trust me, I will not stand by and watch you make a fool of yourself any longer. You think you can do what you want? That’s not how this works. Not in my world."

Louis scoffed, folding his arms. "And if I don’t? You going to ruin my career?"

Simon laughed—low, quiet, deadly. “Oh, Louis. You think this is about you?” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "I’ve come to understand that maybe this isn’t such a big deal to you. Maybe you don’t see the weight of your actions. But you are a family man, aren’t you? You have four wonderful sisters."

Louis’ stomach twisted. "What the fuck are you saying?"

Simon leaned in, lowering his voice further. "You ever wonder what it would feel like if something happened to them? If suddenly, their lives weren’t as perfect as they seem? Teenage girls are fragile. Depression is a dangerous thing, isn't it? The weight of the world can be unbearable. Imagine, for a moment, if one of them… just couldn’t handle it anymore."

Louis felt his blood turn ice cold. "You wouldn’t."

Simon shrugged. "I don’t have to. The world is a cruel place. Things happen. Mistakes are made. And you? You wouldn’t want to see them suffer, would you?"

Louis’ fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. He wanted to swing, to throw a punch, to do anything—but Simon was untouchable. He always had been.

“Make the right choice, Louis.”

With that, Simon turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Louis standing there, shaking, the weight of the unspoken threat pressing down on his chest like a crushing boulder.

Exhausted and still bristling from Simon’s words, he saw her. Eleanor. Standing just outside the entrance, arms crossed, watching him with that knowing look. His stomach tightened. He hadn’t told her to come.

He hesitated for a second, something uneasy curling in his gut. Was it the way Eleanor seemed to appear just when he least expected her? Either way, he exhaled and gestured to the security team to let her through.

"Surprised?" she asked as she approached, a smirk playing on her lips.

Louis forced a chuckle. "You could say that. Didn’t think Austria was on your travel list."

She shrugged. "Felt like a change of scenery. Thought I’d see how you’re doing. And, well, I figured you might want some company."

He ran a hand through his hair, still buzzing from the tension of the day. "Yeah, well. Can’t say it’s been a boring day."

She tilted her head, scanning his face. "Wanna grab a drink?"

He should’ve said no. He knew exactly where this would lead. But his brain was too loud, his body too tired to argue with himself. "Yeah, alright."

One drink in the hotel lobby turned into two. Turned into her fingers ghosting over his wrist. Turned into laughter that felt too easy, too familiar. Turned into them stumbling into his hotel room, her lips on his neck before the door even shut.

In the morning, as sunlight streamed through the curtains, he stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched, anger simmering beneath his skin. He didn’t regret it—no, what he regretted was how easily he had let himself fall into Simon’s trap.

This was exactly what Simon wanted. He had played right into it, let himself be backed into a corner until there was no other way out. Simon had pushed, manipulated, twisted the narrative, and Louis had given in. Sleeping with Eleanor had been the easiest way to drown it all out—the press conference, Simon’s threats, the way Harry’s words had crawled under his skin and refused to leave.

But now, with Eleanor curled into his side as if this meant something more, the rage was undeniable. He had let himself be controlled. Again. He had done exactly what Simon had demanded, and the worst part? It had been so fucking easy.

His fingers tightened around the sheets, his breath coming out in a slow, controlled exhale. He wanted to blame Simon, the press, the expectations forced upon him—but in the end, the choice had been his. And that was what made him hate himself the most.

Still, as he watched the early morning light stretch across the hotel room ceiling, one thing became painfully clear: Eleanor may have seen this as something real, but for Louis, it was nothing but another cage, another chain he couldn’t break.

Now, looking at her name flashing on his phone, he let out a slow breath. He hesitated before answering, first making sure none of his sisters were within earshot. The last thing he needed was Lottie or the twins overhearing this conversation.

Once he was certain the coast was clear, he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hey," he said, already bracing himself.

"Hey yourself," Eleanor’s voice came through, smooth but laced with a hint of irritation. "You do remember we have plans, right? Or are you going to flake on me again like last time?"

Louis exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "No, no. I remember. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, alright? We’ll grab something to eat."

"Good," she said, and he could hear the smirk in her voice. "Because I was starting to think I’d have to hunt you down."

Thirty minutes later, Louis pulled up outside Eleanor’s place in Rotherham. She was already waiting, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. "Well, look who actually showed up this time."

Louis rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it."

They drove into Sheffield, settling on a cozy little restaurant tucked away from the main streets. The atmosphere was warm, dim lighting giving it an almost intimate feel. Louis wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Over the first glass of wine—her suggestion, which he hadn’t declined—conversation flowed easily. Eleanor had always been good at filling silences, and tonight was no different. They talked about familiar things—old friends, life in Doncaster, the madness of Formula 1. And Louis, who rarely drank wine, felt the warmth of it seep into his veins, making the evening feel lighter than it probably was.

"I have to say," Eleanor mused, swirling her glass, "I didn’t expect you to still be this bad at texting back. Thought all this fame would make you more reliable."

Louis let out a short laugh. "If anything, it’s made me worse. Too many people want too many things."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what do you want?"

He hesitated for just a second too long. He didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he just didn’t want to say it out loud.

Instead, he shrugged, picking up his glass again. "To eat my food before it gets cold."

Eleanor shook her head with a smile, but she let it slide. The meal stretched on, another glass of wine appearing in front of Louis before he could think to refuse. It had a way of creeping up on him, warming his chest, softening the edges of his thoughts. The conversation turned even easier, the laughter more frequent, the weight of the past few days lifting, at least for now.

At some point, Eleanor moved closer. "This is nice," she murmured, reaching across the table to brush her fingers lightly over his wrist. It was casual, but the look in her eyes wasn’t.

Louis smirked, leaning back against the booth. "Didn’t know you missed me this much."

She chuckled, shifting until she was beside him on the cushioned bench, their legs pressed together. "You’re impossible, you know that?" Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his forearm, her body leaning slightly into his.

He should have pulled back, should have thought about what this would lead to, but the wine had made everything easier, lighter. When her hand slid a little higher, fingers grazing places that probably shouldn’t be touched in public, Louis didn’t stop her. He exhaled slowly, letting himself get lost in the moment, in the familiar ease of Eleanor’s presence.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t something he had even thought about when they sat down, but it felt easy, like slipping back into something familiar. Her lips were soft, her touch confident, and Louis let himself go with it, let himself forget. Just for a little while.

What he didn’t notice was the discreet flash of a camera from across the restaurant, the quiet click of a shutter capturing something that would turn into a headline, Simon would be very happy with.

Two days later, Louis barely had time to wake up properly before his door was flung open with a loud bang. "Are you kidding me?" Fizzy’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Louis groaned, face pressed against the pillow, blinking blearily at the harsh morning light filtering through the curtains. His room was a disaster—clothes draped over furniture, empty water bottles and snack wrappers cluttering his nightstand, and a pile of laundry in the corner he kept telling himself he’d deal with. His phone buzzed on the mattress beside him, but before he could grab it, Fizzy stormed in, her phone gripped tightly in her hand, shaking it like it personally offended her.

Lottie followed, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable but far calmer than Fizzy’s fuming rage.

"Louis! What the hell is this?" Fizzy practically shoved her phone in his face.

Right at the top of The Sun’s website, the headline screamed at him:

IS LOUIS TOMLINSON OFF THE MARKET? MYSTERIOUS BRUNETTE SPOTTED WITH THE F1 STAR

Below the headline was the grainy photo of him and Eleanor, her body tucked close to his, her face turned just enough to be unrecognizable, in the dim lighting of the restaurant.

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—" Louis groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "It was just dinner with a friend."

"Yeah? Well, this, my friend, is Eleanor fucking Calder! We are not dumb!" Fizzy’s eyes were burning with anger, her face flushed as she paced at the foot of his bed. "Are you serious right now? After everything? After what she did? And you just—what? Thought this would be a great idea?"

Louis pushed himself up, still groggy, rubbing his temple. "Jesus, Fizzy, can you lower your voice? My head’s killing me."

"Oh, your head’s killing you?" Fizzy let out a bitter laugh. "Well, that’s just fucking fantastic, Louis. Because my head is killing me thinking about how stupid you’re being!"

Lottie sighed, stepping further into the room, still far more composed than Fizzy but clearly not thrilled either. "Fiz, let’s not scream at him before he’s even fully awake."

"No, let’s! Maybe it’ll actually knock some sense into him!" Fizzy shot back before turning on Louis again. "Do you even get what you’re doing? Do you even care? You let her back in again like none of it ever happened! And now you’re all over the fucking internet, looking like a lovesick idiot while she gets exactly what she wants—another shot at fame thanks to you!"

Louis swung his legs over the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. "It’s not that deep, Fizzy. We had dinner. We caught up. That’s it."

"Bullshit!" she snapped. "You know what? Fuck you, Louis! Fuck you! You always do this!" Her voice cracked slightly, but it was drowned out by the sheer force of her anger. "You let her back in, like none of it ever happened, like you didn’t spend months miserable because of her. And now, now, you’re what? Playing house again? You’re unbelievable."

Louis’ jaw tightened as he swung his legs off the bed. "Oh, and you’re the expert now, are you? You think you know everything about my life? You have no idea what’s going on, Fizzy."

"Yeah? Well, I guess it’s none of my fucking business, then! But don’t think I’m in your boat when she is as well!"

His blood boiled. "You’re acting like a child!"

"And you’re acting like an idiot!" she shot back, her hands clenched into fists. "Whatever, Louis. Do what you want. You always do."

With that, she spun around, ramming her shoulder hard into Lottie, who barely had time to step aside, before storming down the hallway. A door slammed somewhere in the house.

Lottie sighed. "Well, that went well."

Louis groaned, letting himself fall back onto his bed, staring at the ceiling. His room was a disaster, even worse now that Fizzy had stormed through like a hurricane. It smelled faintly of stale cologne and something he couldn’t quite place—maybe regret.

Lottie stepped further inside, her eyes scanning the mess before settling on him. "You alright?"

She perched on the edge of the bed, crossing her arms. "She’s not wrong, you know."

Louis exhaled heavily, rolling onto his side to look at her. "Not you, too."

"I just don’t get it," Lottie said, her voice calmer, but no less firm. "Do you even like Eleanor? Like, actually like her? Because I don’t buy it, Louis. You’re not some hopeless romantic, and you sure as hell aren’t acting like a guy who’s in love. It’s like you’re just going through the motions. Are you doing this for her, or are you doing this for someone else?"

Louis hesitated. He could tell her the truth—that Eleanor was just a convenient shield against the speculation. He dragged a hand through his messy hair, staring at the ceiling. "Simon’s breathing down my neck, Lots. He’s made it very clear that I’m not supposed to—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "That I’m expected to play a certain role."

Lottie frowned. "What role?"

Louis let out a humorless chuckle. "How did he say - the straight golden boy of F1. The one who dates pretty brunettes and doesn’t get caught in compromising photos that might make people ask too many questions."

Lottie’s face shifted, something between understanding and disappointment flickering in her eyes. "Louis…"

He sat up, rubbing his face. "There are pictures, Lots. Of me and Harry. Nothing explicit, but enough to make people wonder. In some, it looks like we’re about to kiss. They aren't made public, but still Simon lost his mind about them"

Lottie’s brows knitted together. "But… so what? People speculate all the time. Why is this different?"

Louis let out a dry laugh. "Because Simon is terrified it’ll give them a reason to start digging. He thinks if they look too hard, they’ll figure it out. That I’ve been with a guy before. That I’m bi, Lottie. And in his eyes? That could ruin everything. He’s convinced that if people even suspect, I’ll lose everything—sponsors, credibility, my entire career."

Lottie inhaled sharply. "Louis—"

"If it was just about me," he cut in, his voice sharper now, "I wouldn’t care at all, you know i am proud of who I am. But it’s not. Fizzy… she’s different lately. She’s quieter. She doesn’t say much about school anymore, and I know it’s because of me. She already gets enough shit just for being my sister, and if this comes out, it’ll only make things worse. She tries to act tough, but I see it, Lots. The way she shuts down, i'm scared, i can't reach her anymore."

Louis clenched his jaw, rubbing his temples. "I can take the speculation, the rumors, the bullshit. I can take Simon barking orders at me. I would fight for someone i love no matter what. But I can’t take the thought of my family being caught in the crossfire because of me. And it’s worse than that, Lottie."

His voice dropped lower, almost shaky. "Simon… he threatened me. He didn’t say it outright, but he made it clear. He said things like, 'young girls don’t always handle things well,' like he fucking knew what Fizzy’s been going through. He was smirking, like he was just waiting for me to break. He wants to control me, and if I don’t listen, he’s willing to let my sisters suffer for it. Lottie… what am I supposed to do?" His voice cracked at the end, his hands clenched into fists. "I feel like I’m backed into a corner, and I don’t know how to get out."

Lottie exhaled, rubbing a hand down her face. "So you’re doing all of this for us? You’re hiding yourself for us?"

Louis let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I’m just fucking tired of fighting every goddamn battle. Maybe I just wanted something simple for once."

She studied him for a long moment before shaking her head, disappointment flickering in her eyes. "Louis, none of us—none of your sisters—wants you to do this. To change who you are. Mum wouldn’t have wanted that either."

Louis swallowed hard, looking away. He could handle pressure from the media, from Simon, even from himself—but hearing that? It stung in a way he hadn’t expected.

"Fizzy’s been struggling, yeah," Lottie continued, softer now, "but it’s not because of you. It’s because of Mum. Since she’s been gone, it’s been hard, Lou. For all of us. But Fizzy? She’s been carrying it differently. She’s angry and restless, but that has nothing to do with you. She would never, never want you to feel like you have to pretend to be someone you’re not just to protect her, we are family, we stand together. And you know that."

Louis clenched his jaw, staring down at his hands. He wanted to argue, to insist that his decisions were protecting them, that keeping things simple was the best way to avoid dragging them into unnecessary bullshit. But deep down, he knew Lottie was right, but he was still very scared.

She reached out, squeezing his wrist tightly this time, her voice filled with urgency. "Louis, listen to me. You can’t let him win. You can’t let him do this to you. I know you feel trapped, but this isn't over. Not by a long shot. He wants you to think that he holds all the cards, but he doesn’t. He’s just making you believe that so you won’t fight back."

She leaned in closer, determination flashing in her eyes. "So let him think he’s won. Do what he wants—for now. Act like you’ve given in. But we’re not done. We’ll gather proof. We’ll find a way to fight back. You are not alone in this, Louis. You have me, you have Fizzy, you have all of us. And together, we are going to take him down."

Louis let out a dry, almost broken chuckle, shaking his head. "You know, sometimes I don’t feel like the big brother when I’m talking to you."

Lottie’s smirk was small but firm. "Well, someone has to remind you of who you really are. And trust me, Louis, you’re not someone who just gives up."

Louis let out a dry, almost broken chuckle, shaking his head. "You know, sometimes I don’t feel like the big brother when I’m talking to you."

Lottie’s smirk was small but firm. "Well, someone has to remind you of who you really are."

Louis exhaled, running a hand through his hair before Lottie’s expression turned a little more serious. "By the way, have you actually thought about packing? Because, judging by the state of this room, it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere anytime soon."

Louis blinked, rubbing his temple. "Packing?"

Lottie raised an eyebrow. "You do remember you’re flying to Madeira tomorrow for the Rolex shoot with Harry Styles right? Or were you planning to show up in whatever’s currently buried under that pile of clothes?"

Louis groaned, finally sitting up fully and running a hand down his face. He still wasn’t fully awake, and his head was already pounding from everything weighing on him. His suitcase sat half-open in the corner, and he had barely touched it. He had ignored the fact that he was flying to Madeira tomorrow, ignored the emails, the calls—everything.

"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I’ll deal with it."

Lottie shook her head. "That’s what you said yesterday."

"I mean it this time."

She snorted, standing up. "Sure you do. Just don’t forget your passport or something stupid."

Louis watched as she moved toward the door, but before she could leave, he sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "Lott?"

She paused, glancing back. "Yeah?"

He hesitated for a second, then shook his head. "Never mind."

She studied him for a moment before offering him a small smile. "Get some rest, Lou. And maybe clean up a little. You’re not that hopeless."

Louis let out a breathy laugh as she left, but as soon as the door clicked shut, the weight of everything crashed back down. His phone was still buzzing, undoubtedly full of unread messages, news alerts, and speculation. He already knew what it would say—more headlines, more press.

At least Simon would be proud, he thought bitterly. He had played the game, stuck to the script, done what was expected. And for what? So that he could sit here, feeling like a stranger in his own skin? So that he could lie to the world and himself all at once?

Louis groaned, he had a flight to catch tomorrow, and just thinking about it made his stomach turn. Not because of the early morning or the packing he still hadn’t done, but because Simon had conveniently left out one crucial detail, until the very least moment—he wouldn’t be flying alone.

It wasn’t until he glanced at his itinerary, the one he had ignored all week, that he saw it in plain text: Manchester to Madeira – 4-hour flight. Accompanying passenger: Harry Styles.

Fantastic. Absolutely fucking fantastic.

Four hours. Trapped in a tin can with the one person he’d rather not think about. Right up there on his list of worst-case scenarios, somewhere between crashing into a wall at full speed and avocados. Louis exhaled sharply, raking his hands through his hair. Just perfect. If there was one thing worse than eating avocados, it was being stuck on a four-hour flight with Harry fucking Styles. And that said a lot, considering he really fuckin hated avocados

"They piss me off, fuckin' avocados," Louis muttered under his breath, still glaring at the flight details. The thing about avocados was that everyone loved them, everyone acted like they were the best thing ever, but Louis had never even tried one. He had no interest in them. And still, somehow, they found a way into his life, onto every menu, into every conversation. Just like him.

Harry bloody Styles. Fucking perfect.

If it wasn’t in some random article, it was in the way Simon panicked over images of them, or worse—in his own damn head.

He shut his eyes for a second, willing the thought away. He’d get through the flight. He had no other choice. Maybe he’d sleep, maybe he’d put on noise-canceling headphones and pretend he was somewhere else—anywhere but stuck in a cabin with Harry Styles breathing the same recirculated air.

Louis huffed, rolling onto his side. Tomorrow was going to be a fucking nightmare. But for now, he could at least try to get some sleep before his inevitable descent into hell.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Harry stepped into the private terminal, still half-asleep, sunglasses perched on his nose and a coffee in hand. The terminal was sleek and modern, with high ceilings, polished marble floors, and large windows offering a clear view of the tarmac. A few well-dressed travelers lounged in plush leather seats, murmuring in hushed tones, while uniformed staff moved efficiently through the space. He wore a sheer floral-patterned shirt with vibrant orange and yellow flowers, green vines intertwining across the fabric, and billowy sleeves that hung effortlessly over his wrists. His hair, tousled and slightly windblown, framed his face in soft waves, giving him a careless yet effortlessly stylish look in his usual skinny jeans—not necessarily his outfit of choice for a flight, but for the cameras. He’d change on the plane.

Dragging his weekend bag beside him, he barely listened to Nick, who was in the middle of an endless monologue about the Rolex shoot, what was expected of Harry, and—most annoyingly—how he should behave around Louis.

“Oh, and by the way," Nick’s voice crackled through the phone, far too casual for the bombshell he was about to drop. "You’re flying with him."

Harry halted mid-step, his grip tightening around the coffee cup in his hand. He turned his head slowly, as if hoping he had misheard. "Excuse me?"

"Louis. He’s on your flight to Madeira. Simon thought it’d be good for your ‘image’—you know, sustainability and all that."

Harry blinked once. Then again. The words settled over him like an unwelcome chill, creeping under his skin. "Are you actually serious right now?"

A chuckle echoed through the speaker, and Harry could practically hear Nick smirking on the other end. "Afraid so. Looks like Simon and I are finally on the same page."

Harry let out a slow breath, willing himself to stay calm. His jaw clenched, shoulders stiffening. Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic. Of course, out of all the people in the world, it had to be Louis Tomlinson.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Harry groaned. "This is going to be a nightmare."

Nick’s voice remained infuriatingly amused. "Oh, come on. Think of it as a team-building exercise."

Harry rolled his eyes, shifting the phone to his other hand. "I’d rather be thrown out of the plane without a parachute."

Nick simply laughed. "Well, too bad. Buckle up, Harry. You’re in for a ride."

Harry hung up with a sigh, already mentally preparing himself for what was about to be four agonizing hours of hell. He rolled his eyes. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

When Harry boarded the private jet that was already waiting for him, he immediately spotted Louis Tomlinson, sprawled across the plush first-class seats like he owned the place. The cabin was lavishly designed, with cream leather seats, polished mahogany paneling, and ambient lighting that cast a soft golden glow over everything. A subtle scent of expensive cologne and freshly brewed espresso filled the air, completing the atmosphere of effortless luxury.

Louis, naturally, had taken full advantage of the space, stretching across two seats with his feet kicked up against the armrest. He chewed gum lazily, the snap of it punctuating the otherwise serene environment. His black oversized hoodie hung loosely over his frame, the hood partially obscuring his tousled brown hair. Light blue ripped jeans clung to his legs, his white sneakers tapping idly against the seat. But what stood out the most were his eyes—bright, mischievous, and undeniably sassy. His piercing blue gaze locked onto Harry’s, a slow smirk curling at his lips. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, and Harry already knew this flight would be anything but relaxing.

"Oh, fantastic," Harry muttered under his breath as he shoved his bag into the overhead compartment, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Louis smirked. "Thought so too." He stretched out even further, spreading himself obnoxiously across the seat. "Nice of you to settle in, Styles. Welcome to my humble abode."

Harry sighed, feeling the first hints of a headache creeping in. Four hours. Four whole hours. He could survive this. Maybe.

Just then, a flight attendant walked to the front of the cabin and began the standard safety briefing. Her voice was smooth and professional as she gestured towards the exits and demonstrated how to fasten a seatbelt. Harry was half-listening, staring blankly ahead, when Louis suddenly leaned in close, his breath warm against Harry’s ear.

"Harry, quick question. If we crash and I have to save one person, do you think I should go for you or the flight attendant?"

Harry blinked, pulled out of his daze. "What?"

Louis nodded seriously, pretending to ponder. "I mean, she knows where the emergency exits are, but you—well, you’re basically a walking disaster, so you might need more help. Tough call."

Harry frowned. "That’s not even remotely funny."

Louis gasped dramatically. "How dare you? I am trying to make responsible survival decisions, and you belittle me. Unbelievable."

For a few blessed minutes, there was silence. The hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, and Harry allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that Louis might have found something else to entertain himself. He leaned his head back against the seat, letting his eyes drift shut. Maybe, just maybe, he could actually get some rest.

Louis shifted in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, his bright blue eyes flickering between Harry and the safety pamphlet tucked into the seat pocket. He huffed dramatically, then drummed his fingers against the armrest, his nails tapping a soft, rhythmic beat. He let his head loll back, exhaling loudly as if he were suffering some great injustice. Harry ignored it. Louis stretched his legs out, nudging Harry’s foot with his own. Harry ignored that too.

A beat passed.

Louis sighed again, louder this time, shifting in his seat so much that the leather squeaked beneath him. He threw Harry a glance—his blue eyes alight with mischief, his lips quirking up as if daring Harry to acknowledge him. When that failed, Louis started tracing invisible patterns on the seat between them, his fingers ghosting over the leather with exaggerated precision.

Harry clenched his jaw, inhaling deeply through his nose. He was determined to ignore him. It was a test, and he refused to be the first one to break. His fingers tightened around the armrest as he focused on the steady hum of the jet engines, willing himself to tune Louis out. Maybe if he didn’t react, Louis would get bored and move on. With a quiet sigh, Harry pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocking the screen with a lazy swipe. He scrolled aimlessly, pretending to be utterly engrossed in whatever he was looking at. Maybe, just maybe, if he looked disinterested enough, Louis would get the message and back off.

Of course, that was wishful thinking.

A moment passed. Then another.

The weight of Louis' gaze was almost tangible, burning into the side of Harry’s face. The anticipation was worse than the inevitable provocation. He could feel it coming. The moment before the storm. And then—

Klick. Surr. Klick.

Louis was playing with his seat.

"Oh wow, this position is comfy. Or maybe this one?"

Klick. Surr.

Harry opened one eye. "Stop."

Klick. Surr.

Before Harry could say anything, Louis pressed a button, making his seat recline even further with an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, would you look at that? Fancy seats that move all on their own! This is wild, you know, coming from a working-class family, this is all so new to me. Thank you so much for taking me along on this little trip!" His voice was dripping with sarcasm, and Harry barely resisted the urge to groan.

Louis leaned back completely, legs stretched out as far as they could go.

"Louis."

"Jep?"

"I swear to God—"

"God can't deal with me. But you know what, Harry? Maybe if you prayed hard enough, I'd make an exception."

Klick. Surr.

Louis turned his head dramatically, inspecting the seat controls with mock fascination. "Wow, technology these days. I mean, I come from humble beginnings, so this? This is like magic."

Harry inhaled sharply, gripping the armrest so tightly his knuckles turned white. The sheer audacity of Louis, the way he sprawled out like he owned the place, the incessant smirk—it was insufferable. But he wouldn’t crack. No. He refused to give Louis that satisfaction. He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing himself to keep his face neutral, even though his entire body was screaming with irritation.

Louis, of course, could sense it. He drummed his fingers lazily on the armrest, glancing at Harry from the corner of his eye. "You're awfully quiet, Harold. Are you meditating? Trying to manifest some inner peace? Because let me tell you, that’s not going to work while I’m here."

Harry exhaled through his nose. "You're unbearable."

Louis grinned. "And yet, here you are, trapped with me for another three hours. Love that for you."

Harry had given up. He put on his headphones, pretending to be lost in his music, pretending he wasn’t contemplating the number of ways he could strangle Louis and make it look like an accident. But that wasn’t enough. He needed to vent.

Pulling out his phone, he opened his messages and quickly typed into the group chat with Liam and Taylor:

Kill me. Louis is insufferable. He’s playing with the damn seat controls like a child and won’t shut up. This is hell.

He barely had time to hit send before Louis leaned in closer, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief. "Who you texting, Haroooold? Your little girlfriend?"

Harry locked his screen and clenched his jaw. "None of your business, Tomlinson."

Louis smirked. "Ohhh, defensive. That means it’s either someone you complain to about me or—wait—are you sending love texts to Taytay? Tell her I say hi."

Harry groaned and turned away, muttering under his breath. Liam’s response appeared almost immediately:

Mate, you’re on your own. 😅 You knew what you were signing up for.

Harry cursed under his breath. Of course, Liam found this hilarious. Louis, meanwhile, was still watching him like a hawk, thoroughly enjoying Harry’s suffering.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Louis got up, muttering something about needing the toilet. Harry barely acknowledged him, too grateful for the sudden, blissful silence. He sank back into his seat, exhaling deeply, relishing the rare moment of peace. Finally, a break.

He reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of My Policeman, flipping to a random page, though his phone buzzed in his lap, dragging his attention away. Liam had sent another message, followed by Taylor. He balanced between reading and responding, allowing himself to be distracted. Maybe he could actually enjoy this flight for once.

Liam: You should start charging him rent for the space he’s occupying in your head.

Harry rolled his eyes but smirked slightly, typing back. Not funny. He’s driving me insane.

Taylor’s message popped up next.

Taylor: Just try to be nice to him, okay? For once?

Harry groaned. Easier said than done. He’s insufferable.

Liam: Yeah, but it’s entertaining as hell for us.

Harry shook his head, shoving his phone back into his lap. He refused to let them be right. Absolutely not.

And then his phone buzzed again.

A video from Liam.

Harry frowned, clicking on it. The screen loaded, and suddenly, the unmistakable beat of Sports Car by Tate McRae blasted through his phone. His brows knitted together as the video began—TikTok edits flashing at a rapid pace, each one more dramatic than the last. The first clip—Louis pulling his shirt off to wipe his face, unaware that his undershirt lifted with it, exposing just enough skin to send the internet into a frenzy. His toned stomach, the sharp V-line leading below his waistband, the inked tattoos decorating his tanned skin—Harry's throat suddenly felt dry.

Then came the slow-motion shot of him during the track walk, sunglasses perched on his nose, sweat glistening on his collarbones under the unforgiving sun. His blue eyes, playful and sharp, caught the light just right as he laughed with his race engineer. The edit zoomed in, highlighting every arrogant smirk, every casual flick of his fingers through his hair, every damn time he winked at the camera like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And then, as the chorus hit—Oh, but you got a sports car, we can uh-uh in it—there was Louis adjusting his racing suit, fingers teasing at the fabric near his hips, the curve of his smirk deepening in the slow-motion zoom before he stepped into his car.

Harry swallowed hard. It was... a lot. Too much. His skinny jeans, already snug, suddenly felt unbearably tight, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat, attempting to adjust them without drawing attention. He told himself it was just curiosity, just morbid fascination, but his body betrayed him. The video looped seamlessly, and before he knew it, he had watched it three times in a row, each viewing making his stomach twist even further.

He was so focused on the video—on Louis' ridiculous smirk, the defined curve of his muscles beneath his suit, the way his tattoos contrasted against his skin—that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

"Enjoying the view, Styles? You know, Taylor wouldn’t be too happy about this."

Harry jolted so hard his phone slipped from his hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud. His breath caught as he turned, finding Louis standing behind him, arms crossed, an insufferable grin plastered on his face.

Fuck.

Heat crawled up Harry’s neck. He knew he was blushing, knew Louis had seen, and that only made it worse.

"What the hell, Tomlinson?!" he snapped, scrambling to grab his phone.

Louis just laughed. "Didn’t take you for the type to watch thirst edits of me, but hey, no judgment."

"I wasn’t—It’s not—" Harry sputtered, but Louis was already enjoying this far too much.

"Relax, Harold," he teased, plopping back into his seat with a smirk. "I get it. I mean, I do look gorgeous. But next time? Maybe try to be a little less obvious."

Harry groaned, sinking lower in his seat, phone clutched in his hand as Louis chuckled beside him, thoroughly entertained. His face was burning with embarrassment, but then, a thought hit him. If Louis wanted to tease him, Harry could turn the game right back on him.

A slow grin spread across his lips. Without a word, he stood up, reached for his Weekender bag from the overhead compartment, and unzipped it deliberately.

Louis frowned. "What are you doing now?"

Harry didn’t answer. He just pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned muscles beneath, his tattoos stretching over his skin in a way that was far too calculated. He let the fabric drop carelessly onto his seat before beginning to unbuckle his belt.

Louis' expression shifted from amused to wary. "Mate. Seriously."

Harry ignored him, sliding his jeans down in one slow, smooth motion, standing there in nothing but his Calvin Kleins. He stretched his arms casually, as if completely unbothered. But he wasn’t done yet.

With deliberate movements, he pulled out an elegant, flowing pair of trousers from his bag, something effortlessly stylish yet annoyingly comfortable. The soft fabric draped over his legs perfectly, accentuating the long lines of his frame. He knew exactly what he was doing, and from the way Louis’ smirk wavered, it was working.

Louis scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Jesus Christ, you’re unbelievable."

Harry smoothed out the waistband of his trousers, glancing up at him with a slow, knowing grin. "Something wrong, Tommo? You look a little... flustered."

Louis' jaw tightened for a split second before he scoffed again, louder this time, crossing his arms as he sank back into his seat. "Please. As if I care."

Harry shrugged, entirely too pleased with himself. Then, with practiced ease, he slipped a simple white shirt over his head, completing the look. Finally, silence. Finally, a win.

Harry grinned to himself. He could hear Louis grumbling, but as Harry sat back down, he noticed something strange—silence. Louis, for once, was quiet. No sassy remarks, no annoying seat adjustments. Just... stillness. He flipped open My Policeman, and let his eyes drift over the words. For the first time since boarding, he exhaled fully, letting himself relax.

How wrong he was. He should have known better—it was Louis fuckin’ Tomlinson, the most irritating, persistent, and utterly exhausting person Harry had ever met. Thinking he could have a moment of peace was pure delusion. It didn’t even take an hour before the universe reminded him of that fact.

At some point, he must have dozed off, lulled into a false sense of security by the gentle hum of the engines. The book in his lap had slipped slightly, his fingers loosening their grip as his breathing evened out. It was probably the first real moment of relaxation he had all flight. That was, until something cold, shockingly cold, pressed against the sensitive skin at the side of his neck, sending an icy jolt straight down his spine.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body jerking upright as his hand slapped against his neck, desperate to remove whatever the hell had just attacked him. His vision was still adjusting as he blinked blearily, but he could already hear it—the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

Louis was leaning over him, his blue eyes twinkling with absolute mischief, holding a can of water firmly against Harry’s neck like some sadistic scientist conducting an experiment. His grin stretched wide, smug and delighted, as if he had just pulled off the most genius prank of the century.

Harry groaned. "What the actual fuck, Tomlinson?!"

Louis grinned. "Oh, sorry, just trying to share some refreshment."

Harry glared at him, then at the can, then back at Louis. His pulse was still erratic from the cold shock, but then an idea formed—a wicked, glorious idea.

He snatched the can from Louis' hand, cracking it open with exaggerated care, lifting it to his lips to take a slow, almost theatrical sip. Louis watched, unimpressed, arms crossed as if waiting for Harry’s predictable retaliation. But he had no idea.

With absolute precision, Harry tilted the can downward—right into Louis’ lap.

Louis' blue eyes went wide as the icy liquid hit his thighs. For a second, he was too stunned to react, and then—

"What the fuck, Harold?!" he yelped, jerking back as he grabbed at his drenched jeans, his face contorting into a mix of shock and outrage.

Harry leaned back smugly, watching Louis flail as the cold seeped through the denim. "First of all, don't call me Harold, you dickhead. Second—oh, sorry, just trying to share some refreshment. But please, Tommo—don’t get wet for me. I have no interest."

Louis’ mouth opened, then shut. He looked at Harry like he couldn’t decide whether to strangle him or burst out laughing. His jaw tightened as he attempted to compose himself, wiping at his jeans with an exaggerated huff. But despite his irritation, there was something else in his expression—something flickering behind his narrowed eyes.

Harry noticed it. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

Louis exhaled sharply, tilting his head at Harry with a look that was half exasperation, half amusement. "You’re an absolute menace."

Harry smirked. "I know."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Louis held his gaze, something unreadable flickering in his blue eyes before he scoffed and shook his head. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he stood up, wiping at his damp jeans. "Brilliant, Harold. Absolutely brilliant."

Harry leaned back, arms crossed, watching Louis with feigned indifference. "What? You don’t like the refreshing sensation?"

Louis shot him a deadpan look. "Oh yeah, love sitting in wet denim. Super comfortable."

He reached for his bag, pulling out a dry pair of joggers, but just as Harry thought that would be the end of it, Louis' expression changed—his lips curled into something slow and devious. With an almost theatrical flourish, he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the screen before tapping a playlist.

And then, the unmistakable melody began to play.

Sports Car - Tate McRae.

Harry’s head snapped to him. "Are you serious?!"

Louis grinned, clutching his chest dramatically. "Ohhh, does this bring back memories, Haz?"

"Turn. It. Off."

But Louis had other plans. Instead of simply changing his clothes, he let the music dictate his movements. With an exaggerated slowness, he undid the button of his jeans, maintaining eye contact with Harry the entire time, his smirk widening when he noticed the way Harry's throat bobbed. As if on cue, Louis mouthed along with the lyrics, "Hey, cute jeans, take mine off me," his voice just audible over the music, a wicked glint in his blue eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harry blurted, eyes widening.

Louis shot him a pointed look, pure mischief dancing in his annoyingly gorgeous blue eyes. "Changing, obviously. Unless you’d rather I stay in wet jeans."

Before Harry could respond, Louis shoved his jeans down his legs, revealing strong, toned thighs and his tight, black boxers—ones that left little to the imagination. He took his time, deliberately rolling his hips in rhythm with the song, his movements far too controlled to be accidental. When the chorus hit—Oh, but you got a sports car, we can uh-uh in it—Louis had the audacity to grind his hips subtly against the air, his hands sliding down his thighs as he did.

Harry’s brain short-circuited.

His mouth went dry, his grip tightening on the armrests as he willed himself to look away, to not react, to not give Louis the satisfaction. But Louis was watching him, enjoying every second of his discomfort, pushing the limits just to see how far he could take it. His confidence was infuriating.

"You're fucking insufferable," Harry muttered, forcing himself to tear his gaze away.

Louis chuckled, stepping into his joggers but not before rolling his hips one last time, just for effect. "Oh, please. If you didn’t want to watch, you wouldn’t be sitting there looking like you’re about to combust."

But he wasn’t done yet.

The song played on in the background, the sultry outro filling the space between them.

Oh my guy, you don't wanna waste my time... Let's go ride, let's go ride...

Louis swayed slightly to the beat, the remnants of his playful teasing still hanging in the air. The music pulsed through the cabin, the provocative lyrics underscoring the tension between them.

With a smirk still plastered on his face, Louis took a step closer. Then another. Before Harry could react, Louis leaned down, invading his space completely, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. "You know, Styles," he murmured, voice laced with amusement, "next time you want a private show, just ask, and don't make me wet."

Harry stiffened, his entire body on high alert. His fingers twitched where they rested on the armrest, knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping it. He refused to let Louis get to him, refused to react.

But Louis, ever persistent, let the moment hang for just a beat too long before pulling back with a knowing chuckle. "Relax, Harold." Harry noticed how Louis dragged his name, just to piss him off a little, "You look like you’re about to self-destruct."

Harry exhaled sharply, forcing himself to roll his eyes instead of combusting entirely. "You’re ridiculous."

Louis winked. "And yet, you love every second of it."

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. He wasn’t going to give Louis any more fuel. He exhaled sharply, rolled his eyes, and buried his face in his hands for a second before finally sinking into his seat.

Finally Louis plopped back into his seat, far too pleased with himself. He stretched his arms behind his head, exhaling like he hadn’t just put on an entire performance in front of Harry.

Before Harry could say anything, the sound of heels clicking against the floor made both of them glance up. The flight attendant had appeared from the front of the cabin, her expression calm but firm. "Gentlemen, we’ll be landing in Madeira shortly. Please fasten your seatbelts."

Harry had never been so grateful for someone’s presence in his life. He fumbled for his seatbelt, clicking it into place while inhaling deeply. Finally, an escape.

Louis, however, wasn’t done. He turned to Harry with a smirk that spelled trouble. "So, Haz, when we land—"

Harry shot him a warning glance. "Don’t even—"

Louis’ grin widened, voice dripping with playful arrogance. "—are you going to devour me?"

Harry groaned so loudly, it could have been heard across the entire plane. "You are the worst fucking person I have ever met."

Louis only laughed, leaning back into his seat with an air of satisfaction. "Admit it, Styles. You’d miss me if I weren’t here."

Harry clenched his jaw, staring straight ahead. "I hope I never have to fly with you again."

Louis chuckled, crossing his arms as he got comfortable. "We’ll see about that." Then, after a beat, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. "After all, we both know you’d miss me too much, Curly."

The nickname made Harry freeze for a split second. Something in him stirred, a faint sense of recognition he couldn't quite place. His brows furrowed, lips parting as if to say something, but no words came out. Why did that name sound so familiar? Why did it feel like it belonged to something long buried in the back of his mind?

He shook his head, forcing himself to snap out of it. He let his head fall back against the seat, shutting his eyes as the plane began its descent. He should have been relieved. He should have been counting down the minutes until he could finally get away from Louis Tomlinson. But as the engines rumbled beneath them, his thoughts betrayed him.

His mind flickered back, unbidden, to the way Louis had moved to the music, the way his body rolled so effortlessly, how damn good he was at it. Harry clenched his fists, as if trying to will the thoughts away.

He knew one thing for sure—this trip was going to be very, very long.

FUCK

MY

LIFE.

Chapter Text

Louis’ POV

The arrival on the sun-drenched shores of Madeira looked like something out of a dream. The sky stretched in an endless shade of blue over the rolling hills. The air carried a light, sweet scent from the flowers and herbs that grew along the paths, swaying gently in the breeze. In the distance, cliffs rose above the turquoise water, and waves crashed steadily against the shore, filling the air with the calming sounds of the ocean.

Green plants framed the coast, and bright bursts of magenta flowers covered stone walls, adding pops of color to the view. Sunlight reflected off the clear water, making it sparkle like scattered jewels. The mix of salt air and the warmth of sun-heated stones created a scent that felt like summer itself.

As Louis and Harry stepped off the private jet, the beauty of the scenery clashed with the tension hanging between them. The peacefulness around them only made the charged silence they shared feel heavier.

The warm air did nothing to ease the chill between them. Louis stomach was tight, his jaw tense as he tried to keep a neutral expression. After hours of needling Harry on the flight—pointed remarks, teasing grins, and the occasional accidental nudge—the silence now felt like a challenge. It was almost more satisfying to have Harry looking frustrated and annoyed than to be facing this loaded quiet.

Harry’s eyes, usually bright green, looked shadowed and serious as he walked beside Louis. The easygoing attitude he usually wore was missing, replaced by a tense stillness. Louis noticed the subtle things—the way Harry’s fingers flexed against his thigh, or how his breath caught slightly before he let it out. It made Louis want to smirk, to throw another casual jab just to see that spark of fire in Harry’s expression.

Harry’s gaze flicked to Louis, lingering for a moment. Louis' hair, blown slightly messy by the breeze, gave him an effortlessly rebellious look. His posture was relaxed, but his expression was watchful. In the bright light, the sharp angles of his jaw and the cool blue of his eyes were striking—so much so that Harry couldn’t seem to look away.

Louis reveled in that moment—the way Harry’s attention felt like a win, like proof that despite their constant bickering, he could still get under Harry’s skin. Not that it meant anything, of course. Louis refused to let himself think that Harry’s lingering gaze was anything more than annoyance. That’s all it was—a reaction to being irritated, nothing else. And if Louis felt a pull, a flicker of something in that shared moment, he shoved it aside. There was no way he’d ever admit, even to himself, that Harry was anything other than a rival he loved to mess with, not after all that has happened between them.

The drive to the villa was quiet. The driver took them down narrow streets lined with colorful flowers and citrus trees. Both men stared out their windows, lost in thought. Every now and then, their eyes would meet in the reflection, exchanging annoyed looks. Even with the air conditioning in the car, the tension between them made it feel like the temperature was rising.

When they finally arrived at the villa—a sleek, modern building perched above the ocean. The villa was a masterpiece of contemporary architecture, with clean lines, large glass walls, and natural stone features that seamlessly blended into the landscape. The building had a sophisticated yet inviting look, with warm wooden accents that softened its modern edges.

A spacious terrace wrapped around the villa, lined with lounge chairs, potted plants, and a sleek infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the ocean below. The view was breathtaking, with the horizon stretching endlessly, the water sparkling under the sun. Olive trees and palm trees surrounded the property, creating a sense of privacy and connection to nature.

A winding path led down to a private cove, where a small dock jutted out into the water. The waves lapped gently against the shore, the sound a constant reminder of the ocean's presence. It was a place that felt both isolated and connected to the world, an ideal retreat—if only the atmosphere wasn't so tense.

As they stepped out of the car Nick Grimshaw and Simon Cowell stepped out of the villa. Louis had to physically restrain himself from spitting at Simon’s feet. The audacity of the man to stand there, arms spread wide like they were the best of friends, a smug grin on his face as if he hadn’t threatened him only days ago. It made Louis’ blood boil, but he forced himself to keep it together. He couldn’t let Simon see that he’d gotten under his skin, even if every nerve in his body was screaming to lash out.

Simon’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he threw Louis a look that seemed to pierce right through him. "Well, well, I was starting to think you two might have gotten lost," he drawled, his tone dripping with provocation. "Still breathing, I hope? You look like you've been through hell."

He let out a low chuckle, the kind that set Louis’ teeth on edge and took a deliberate step forward, arms still spread wide as if he was welcoming them into his kingdom. "I trust the flight wasn’t too... taxing? It would be such a shame if you couldn’t handle the pressure."

The challenge in Simon’s eyes was clear, and Louis felt his fingers twitch at his sides. He wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug look off the man’s face, but he forced himself to take a slow breath, trying to push down the surge of anger that threatened to show.

Louis stretched lazily, forcing a grin onto his lips. Before he could respond, Harry beat him to it with an exaggerated sigh. “Barely,” he muttered, playing along, his voice carrying a tone of mock exhaustion.

“Oh, it was the trip of a lifetime," Louis added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We should definitely do it again sometime.” He shot a pointed look at Simon, daring him to react as he turned and made his way to the SUV’s trunk.

Simon’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of opportunities,” he replied smoothly. “After all, you two are going to be working very closely with each other over the next few days.”

"Looking forward to it" Louis shot back. 

Louis could feel the tension thickening, pressing against his skin like a heavyweight. He forced himself to keep his expression light as he pulled out both his own bag and Harry’s, moving with deliberate slowness. “Don’t worry, darling,” he drawled, a devilish gleam in his eyes as he slung Harry’s bag over his shoulder. “I’ll take care of your luggage. Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

Harry’s mouth tightened, his eyes narrowing as if he was on the verge of snapping back, but he held himself in check, letting out a long, measured breath instead.

“How considerate,” he finally muttered, sarcasm clinging to every word.

With a mischievous grin, Louis spun on his heel and took off up the stone path that led to the villa. “I’m calling dibs on the best room, Dickhead!” he called over his shoulder, laughter bubbling in his chest as he made his escape.

Behind him, Harry groaned in frustration. Simon, visibly annoyed, rubbed at his temples, rolled his eyes and muttered, “Here we go again,” under his breath, watching the chaos unfold with a resigned expression. Nick murmured something to Simon, but Louis couldn't hear it and he simply didn't care.

He stepped inside the villa, the cool air offering a welcome relief from the heat outside. The transition from the sunlit terrace to the grand interior was almost like entering a different world—one filled with controlled chaos. The high ceilings made the space feel open and luxurious, with tall glass windows that let in streams of natural light. The floors were a sleek mix of marble and warm wood, modern art pieces adorned the walls.

Members of the film crew were already bustling about, creating a whirlwind of activity. Clothing racks filled with outfits were being wheeled from room to room, while cameras, lighting rigs, and other equipment were strategically set up. The air was filled with the buzz of conversation and the hum of machinery as everyone prepared for the shoot.

Louis paused for a moment, letting his eyes wander over the organized chaos, taking in the mix of luxury and industry. It was the kind of setting that whispered wealth and power, but at the same time, it felt like a machine that never stopped moving.

As he moved through the flurry of activity, he spotted one of the house staff and seized the opportunity. He handed over Harry’s bag with a casual grin. “Would you mind washing these clothes? They're all dirty,” he said, unable to resist a mischievous edge to his tone. The thought of Harry’s reaction later made him smirk. Sometimes, he really did have the best ideas.

Satisfied with his little prank, Louis made his way up the sleek, modern staircase, his footsteps echoing lightly against the polished wood. The upper floor was just as impressive, with a wide hallway that offered a stunning view of the infinity pool and the open sea beyond.

It didn’t take long for Louis to find the best room. One look at the spacious suite with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the horizon, and he knew he’d struck gold. The room featured a king-sized bed positioned right in the middle, dressed in crisp white linens that looked almost too perfect to disturb. The best part was the freestanding bathtub positioned near the windows, offering an uninterrupted view of the ocean and the rolling hills an the side —a spot clearly designed for indulgence.

On the far side of the room, a small balcony jutted out over the infinity pool below, and Louis could easily imagine jumping straight into the water if he felt like it. The idea brought a mischievous grin to his face. The room's decor was minimalist, with clean lines and neutral tones, all very sleek and modern. It wasn't quite Louis' style—he preferred something with a bit more personality—but he couldn’t deny that, for the next few days, it felt like a dream.

With a satisfied sigh, he dropped his own bag onto the bed and let himself soak in the view for a moment. The deep blue of the ocean stretched out endlessly, the sunlight making the water shimmer like liquid glass. Just as he was about to relax, the door swung open, and Simon strode in, his gaze briefly sweeping over the room before settling on Louis with a cold, calculating look.

"This is quite the room you've chosen," Simon said, his tone deceptively friendly as he stepped up to the windows and looked out over the view. "Enjoy it while you can, because you're not here to play king of the castle. Nick and I are only here to make sure things don’t fall apart, so I suggest you get yourself together and keep the antics to a minimum."

Louis’ jaw tightened, but he forced himself to remain silent, fists clenching at his sides.

Simon continued, turning his back to the view. "Most of my time will be spent in meetings with the Rolex team to finalize our PR strategy. I won’t be around during filming, but if I hear one whisper about you causing trouble, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Understand?"

Louis pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with feigned compliance. He could feel the tension in his shoulders tightening with every word Simon spoke.

Simon took a step closer, his expression sharp and cold. "You see, Louis, this isn’t a playground. You may think you can waltz around and disrupt things, but let me be very clear—this entire production is bigger than you. The moment you become a liability, I’ll have no problem reminding you of your place here."

Louis swallowed back a bitter retort, feeling the heat of anger rise in his chest. He held Simon's gaze, refusing to look away.

"The shoot starts today," Simon added, a cold smirk curling on his lips, "there's no time to rest or play games, so head down to the makeup team and meet with the crew for your first briefing. You’re on the clock now, and I expect you to act like a professional."

He paused, tilting his head with a mockery of kindness. Simon walked towards the door, his hand resting on the doorknob. He paused, as if suddenly remembering something entirely trivial, and turned to look at Louis again. "Oh, and Louis, if you happen to call your sisters, be sure to say hello from me. Let them know I'm thinking of them... and that I hope they're doing well. Wouldn't want them to worry about anything, now would we?"

Louis’ jaw ached from clenching it so hard. The sheer nerve of Simon made his blood boil—the way he dangled that veiled threat, the way he played at being so damn superior. But before Louis could muster a retort, Simon was already gone, his presence leaving an icy chill in the room.

He stared at the ceiling, feeling the rage churn inside him like a storm. The audacity of Simon, the way he’d dangled that veiled threat about his sisters—it made Louis’ blood boil. If he stayed in this room a moment longer, he was going to explode. He needed air—fresh air—before the anger swallowed him whole.

With a sharp exhale, Louis stepped onto the small balcony. The summer breeze hit him like a cooling balm, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and the faint hum of waves crashing against the shore. The view of the endless ocean was momentarily calming, a reminder that there was a world beyond this suffocating pressure.

His eyes drifted down to the narrow path that led to the private beach below, and without a second thought, he made his decision. He left the room, heading through the villa with determined strides, barely noticing the busy crew members who were setting up for the shoot. He stepped outside, following the winding path down to the sand.

Once he reached the shore, Louis didn’t hesitate. He pulled off his shirt, kicking off his shoes and peeling off his jeans until he stood barefoot in the warm sand, wearing nothing but his boxers. The grains shifted beneath his feet, and he curled his toes, letting the warmth seep in, grounding him in the present moment.

He took a slow, deep breath, inhaling the salty tang of the sea air. The horizon stretched out before him, an endless expanse of deep blue water meeting the sky. The gentle crash of waves against the shore was both soothing and relentless, as if the ocean itself was urging him to let go of the rage simmering inside.

Without another moment's pause, Louis sprinted forward, the sand kicking up behind him, and plunged headlong into the waves. The cold water enveloped him, a shocking contrast to the summer heat. It wrapped around him, heavy and biting, stealing his breath for a heartbeat. But it was exactly what he needed—an abrupt, undeniable reminder that he was alive, that he was here, and that he had control over himself.

He let himself sink beneath the surface, eyes closed as the world above became a muffled whisper. The water pressed against him from all sides, carrying away the heat of his anger. For a few precious moments, he floated weightless, the fury and tension dissolving into the vastness of the sea.

Kicking back to the surface, Louis broke through with a gasp, feeling the sting of saltwater against his skin. He treaded water, letting the coolness seep into his muscles, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. His hair, wet and heavy, clung to his forehead, and he pushed it back, feeling the wind immediately catch at the strands, teasing them into wild disarray.

He turned his face toward the sun, feeling its warmth on his skin, and let the ocean breeze wash over him. The air was thick with salt and freedom, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to simply breathe.

He stayed there, bobbing gently with the rise and fall of the waves, letting the water support him as he looked out over the endless expanse of blue. It was beautiful, powerful, and completely indifferent to him—a reminder that the world was so much bigger than Simon and his threats.

Three days. He could survive this. He had to. He’d faced worse before, and he wasn’t about to let Simon or anyone else break him.

After a few more minutes, Louis swam back to shore, the cool water dripping from his skin. The sun was warm on his back, and he felt no rush to put his clothes on—the heat and breeze were enough to keep him comfortable.

He picked up his clothes, slinging them over one shoulder, and took a slow, measured breath. The sound of the waves was like a steady heartbeat behind him, a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

He walked back up the path to the villa, feeling the grains of sand stick to his damp feet. His hair, still wet and slightly salty, clung to his forehead in unruly waves that the warm breeze continued to tousle. The weight of the ocean's calmness lingered in him, but he knew he needed to brace himself for whatever chaos awaited inside.

With deliberate steps, Louis pushed open the villa's glass doors, moving through the elegant chaos of the interior. The energy was palpable—crew members rushing about, and hushed conversations happening at every corner. Louis set his jaw, a small, determined smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

He walked barefoot into the kitchen, the cool tiles underfoot grounding him as he reached for an espresso machine. The rich, bitter scent filled the air as he prepared his coffee. He took a sip, feeling the liquid warmth roll down his throat and spread a much-needed jolt of energy through his system.

The coffee was a small comfort—a reminder that he could still control these little moments, even when everything else felt like chaos. He leaned back against the counter for a heartbeat, letting the taste linger.

With one final deep breath, Louis straightened his shoulders and pushed off the counter, determination tightening his expression. He made his way toward the rest of the crew for the first meeting, his steps confident and unhurried. He’d face whatever came next, and he’d do it on his terms.

HARRY’s POV

The scene was almost surreal, a perfect blend of luxury and glamour that felt like it had been plucked from the pages of a magazine. Luxurious old cars were parked like set pieces, palm trees swayed gently in the summer breeze, and the entire villa seemed to radiate an effortless air of opulence. But for Harry, there was no moment to stop and appreciate the view.

The instant they arrived, Nick and Simon disappeared into meetings, leaving Harry to navigate the chaos of the schedule alone. His patience was already wearing thin—made worse by the fact that Louis had casually handed off Harry's luggage to the house staff, telling them to stash it away in the laundry room as if it were dirty. That Dickhead. Of course, with Louis claiming the best room for himself, Harry had been left with one of the smaller guest rooms, which was still undeniably luxurious. It had an en suite bathroom with sleek marble finishes and a rainfall shower, and massive windows that offered a panoramic view of the ocean. There was a small private balcony that overlooked the infinity pool, just like Louis', and though it lacked the freestanding bathtub Louis' room boasted, it was still a room most people would envy.

“Fine,” Harry thought, lips curling into a sarcastic smirk, “Let him have the fancy bathtub. Poor thing probably doesn’t know what real luxury feels like.” The thought was dripping with irony, as he reminded himself he wasn’t here for comfort. Still, it grated on him that Louis had managed to throw a wrench into things so quickly, like he was determined to be a constant thorn in his side.

Harry barely had time to drop his own things on the edge of the bed before he was being pulled into the current of the day’s schedule. He moved through the villa’s elegant chaos, past racks of designer clothing and crew members setting up equipment. The air buzzed with energy—the hum of voices, the clatter of cameras being adjusted, and the rush of people preparing for the shoot.

He couldn't shake the tension that coiled in his shoulders. As he walked through the villa, he glanced out of one of the large windows and spotted the driveway below, where two classic cars were being carefully parked. One was a stunning shade of deep forest green, while the other was a sleek, dark blue that gleamed under the sun. The sight of the vintage cars felt like a hint of the old-world glamour the Rolex team was aiming for. Whatever they were planning, it was going to be something grand, exciting, and full of spectacle.

Harry felt a flicker of curiosity but pushed it aside, knowing there was no time to dwell on it. He continued walking down the elegant hallway, the smooth marble floors cool beneath his feet.

He walked down and as he turned the corner, Harry entered the living room—a spacious area with plush seating and panoramic views of the ocean beyond. It was here that he spotted the makeup setup, and the makeup artist, who was bustling around the chair, arranging her tools.

She approached him, a warm smile on her face as she introduced herself. "Lou Teasdale," she said, gesturing toward the chair. "Harry Styles" Harry said, ever the gentleman he was. Lou had long, dark hair that cascaded in effortless waves over her shoulders, framing her face with a mixture of natural beauty and edge. Her warm brown eyes were bright with energy, and her expression carried a friendly confidence that immediately put people at ease. Her style was effortlessly cool, a mix of rock-and-roll chic with an approachable vibe, and she wore simple silver jewelry that caught the light with every movement.

"Let’s get you camera-ready," she said, her voice warm and professional, as if she had been doing this for years and still loved every minute of it. "I've been looking forward to working with you," she added, her tone genuine.

Harry managed a polite nod as he took a seat. "It’s nice to meet you, Lou," he said, his voice steady as he settled into the chair.

Lou's practiced hands began dusting powder onto his face, her touch deft and precise. There was an easy flow to her movements, a gracefulness that spoke of experience. "You know," she said conversationally, "this place has such an incredible vibe. I’ve worked on a lot of shoots, but there’s something special about being here."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, glancing out the window at the ocean view. "Hard to be in a bad mood with a view like that."

Lou laughed softly. "Exactly. And with all this glamour, you and Louis are going to bring some serious energy to this shoot."

Harry's lips curved into a faint smile. "Let’s hope it’s the good kind of energy."

Lou hummed thoughtfully, moving on to styling his curls, her fingers scrunching them to perfection. "You’ve got great hair," she said with a genuine smile. "Makes my job so much easier."

"Thanks," Harry replied, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Can’t take much credit for it, though. Just lucky, I guess."

"Well, luck or not, it's working for you," Lou said, her tone warm and encouraging as she stepped back to admire her work. "Alright, you're ready to go and steal the show."

Just then, Louis sauntered into the room twenty minutes late, hair wild and unruly, a cup of espresso in hand, and conspicuously lacking a shirt and Jeans - only wearing his boxers. The sunlight streaming in through the windows caught on the tousled strands of his hair, creating a halo-like effect that somehow made him look even more infuriatingly good. His blue eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and confidence, like twin shards of sky, and the effortless way he moved spoke of someone who was completely comfortable in his own skin.

That man. Harry tensed, forcing himself to focus straight ahead, determined not to acknowledge Louis' presence or think about the flight, Louis' hot dance, or anything else that lingered between them. The scent of salt, sea, and a hint of coffee clung to Louis, enveloping the space around him.

"Was out admiring the Atlantic," Louis said breezily with a lazy grin. "Thought I should take a moment to enjoy the location."

Harry's eyes narrowed, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Louis, for god's sake, we are here to work," he started, his voice tight, but Lou cut in, her voice bright and enthusiastic.

"Oh, you must be Louis," she said, her eyes lighting up as she took in the scene. "I have to say, you two look like quite a striking pair. It's almost unfair how well you complement each other. Louis, with that playful confidence, and Harry with that intense, brooding vibe—it just works visually." Lou seem pretty excited about the two men infront of her. "I mean, just look at you—it's almost unfair how good you both look together. It's a perfect mix of classic charm and reckless edge, like you're pulling people in without even trying. Sorry if I'm getting carried away, but it's honestly rare to see this kind of dynamic."

Louis arched an eyebrow, a hint of challenge glinting in his gaze. "Cheers, love. Isn’t that just wonderful?" he drawled towards Harry, his voice dripping with a playful kind of arrogance.

Harry met his eyes with a cynical grin, the corner of his mouth curling. "Yeah, absolutely stunning."

Lou's eyes brightened, and she giggled with enthusiasm. "Honestly, you two are going to look absolutely amazing on camera. The way you keep winding each other up—it’s got this natural spark. I can already tell this is going to be one hell of a shoot. And Louis," she added with a grin, "you just have that effortlessly laid-back vibe. It’s like you’re meant to make things look easy.""

Louis leaned back, letting out a loud, unrestrained laugh. "You hear that, Styles? We’re like a match made in heaven. Absolutely meant to be," he teased, his grin wide and challenging.

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he let out an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, because nothing screams harmony like being stuck with you," he shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe it's more a match made in hell. Wonder what I did to deserve you."

Lou shook her head with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Alright, Louis, enough of that. Sit yourself down in the chair next to Harry so I can take care of you, too. We've got work to do."

Louis dropped into the chair, she offered him, the scent of salt and sea clinging to him, and his hair still messy from his earlier swim. "You sure you can handle being this close to me, Styles? I wouldn’t want to distract you," he quipped, his blue eyes glinting with playful defiance.

Harry rolled his eyes, his irritation bubbling up. "Maybe if you put some clothes on and acted remotely professional, it wouldn't be such a chore. Nobody needs to see you strutting around half-naked like you're on holiday. This isn't an escapade!"

Louis' grin only widened, his laughter unbothered. "Aw, didn’t know you were so affected, love. You could just say you missed me."

Harry's jaw tightened as he shot Louis a look of pure exasperation.  The audacity this man had. His casual confidence, the infuriating smirk, the way his blue eyes sparkled with unbothered ease—it all gnawed at him. And that scent, the salt, sea, and faint hint of coffee, clung to the air around Louis, making Harry feel like the room was closing in.

"Yeah, like a migraine," Harry muttered, feeling his irritation bubble up even further. It wasn't just Louis' presence; it was the way he seemed to take up all the space in the room without even trying. Every interaction felt like a tug-of-war he never asked to play.

Lou stepped back, giving Louis a critical look as she began working on his hair. Lou's eyes brightened, and she giggled with enthusiasm. "Gosh, I can’t wait for the results, you two are something else together. Louis, " she added with a grin, "I just love your effortlessly laid-back vibe. It’s a stark contrast to what I’m used to in F1. It’s like you’re meant to make things look easy."

Harry couldn't help but snort. "Great. The world’s about to witness Louis Tomlinson: King of Unprofessionalism. Can't wait." He crossed his arms, leaning back slightly, as if trying to put more distance between them. Louis had a way of making him feel like he was always on the edge of losing control.

Lou pointed towards a nearby clothing rack. "Alright, Harry, grab the white linen trousers and shirt. Kathryn, the director, should be here any minute to walk you through the first scene. Let’s keep this momentum going."

Harry stood, brushing past Louis with a look that could curdle milk. He felt Louis’ eyes on him, like a persistent weight he couldn’t shake. As he reached for the matching linen set, he couldn’t resist a final jab. "Maybe take a cue from the concept of professionalism and put on a shirt, yeah?"

Louis laughed, the sound rich and unbothered. "Sorry, Styles. Didn’t realize you were so easily flustered. But hey, I get it. Not everyone knows how to have a little fun."

Harry rolled his eyes, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Fun? Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks more like an audition for a 'Most Annoying Person' award."

As he walked off, Louis leaned back in his chair, the picture of ease, his lazy smirk still in place. No matter what Harry did, Louis always seemed completely unshakeable—and it drove him mad.

Later after he got changed, Harry caught sight of himself in one of the large mirrors, pausing for a moment to examine his reflection. He’d pulled on the linen set Lou had pointed out—a crisp white shirt left partially unbuttoned, exposing a glimpse of his toned chest, and matching trousers that hung perfectly on his lean frame. He looked effortlessly polished, but the tension in his forehead told a different story.

Louis appeared annoyingly close beside him, adjusting his hair in the mirror’s reflection. He, too, wore a linen set, though his was a deep black that contrasted sharply against his sun-kissed skin. Despite being slightly shorter, Louis' presence was undeniable. He was very fit, Harry had to admit. His blue eyes, vivid and intense, seemed to catch the light like polished gems.

For a brief moment, Harry studied their reflection—two opposing forces, standing side by side, like actors caught in an unending performance. It took him back to the hauntingly beautiful stage of Swan Lake he'd attended with his mother. He could still feel the enchantment of that night—the theater draped in darkness, illuminated only by a mystical glow of silvery moonlight that shimmered over the water-like stage.

Rothbart and Siegfried had circled each other, bound by an invisible thread of fate, their movements both synchronized and opposing. Rothbart’s dance had been bold and dangerous, an embodiment of temptation and chaos, every calculated step a challenge, daring Siegfried to lose himself in the darkness. His presence was commanding, disruptive, and unrelenting.

Siegfried, by contrast, was the picture of grace and resolve. His movements were driven by yearning and an unyielding desire to hold on to what was right, even as Rothbart’s shadow loomed around him. There had been an elegance to the struggle—a push and pull between light and darkness, where neither force could overpower the other.

Watching Louis now, Harry felt as if he were reliving that performance. Louis was the embodiment of disruption—reckless and unapologetically defiant, challenging Harry’s sense of control with nothing more than a glance. It was maddening—this feeling of being caught in an unending dance, where every glance, every word was part of a larger, unwritten story.

Harry felt the pressure coil tighter inside him, the tension crackling like static between them, and he couldn’t shake the unsettling thought that perhaps he was as much a part of this dance as Louis was.

Louis’ lips curled into a smirk as he caught Harry’s gaze in the mirror. "See something you like, Styles?" His tone was teasing, almost daring Harry to react.

Harry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was just thinking how much you look like a villain. Fitting, really."

Louis chuckled, the sound rich and unbothered. "Funny, I was thinking that you look like someone who’s desperate to be the hero." He leaned in closer, his blue eyes glinting with annoyance "The thing about fairytales is, they’re only interesting when there’s a villain to stir things up... You know, Harry, you keep trying to convince yourself I’m the problem, but maybe that mirror’s got something else to say. You look like the golden prince—so perfect, so controlled, but does playing that role really make you happy? Do you even know how you are? Just let go for once and see where it takes you.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he fought the urge to punch Louis in the face. The audacity that man had. "Oh, but you think you know anything about me? Maybe the problem is that you think chaos is the only way to make life interesting."

Louis tapped the glass playfully. "And you think order is the only way to keep it together.” Louis gaze lingered thoughtfully on Harry. “Maybe we’re both a little wrong."

"You know what, Louis? Fuck off - you walk into Formula One like it's your personal playground. Maybe if you stopped acting like everything’s a joke and actually listened to the people around you, you’d know what it really takes to stay on top. You talk about freedom, but from where I’m standing, it just looks like someone who's afraid of doing the real work."

Louis' laugh was dry, almost bitter, and his gaze turned sharper, his expression hardening. "For the record,” he whispered into Harry's ear, “you don't know a damn thing about me. You don't know how much I had to work to get here. I might be chaos, but I've fought for every step, every inch of this, in a way you'd never understand. So maybe you should think twice before acting like you know what I've done or what I haven't." Louis stepped away from him, and as he walked away he stopped, looking at Harry once more, “At least I know who I am.”

And than Louis's reflection in the mirror was gone, leaving Harry feeling on edge, like he was constantly fighting a battle he never wanted to acknowledge.

A quiet scoff pulled him back to reality, and when he turned, Lou was standing there, arms crossed, shaking her head with an amused but knowing expression.

"You two," she said, exhaling with a half-smile. "You don’t even hear yourselves, do you?" Her eyes flicked between them before landing on Harry. "All this talk about heroes and villains—honestly, you sound like you’re in some tragic romance novel. Maybe you both just like the drama a little too much."

She let out a laugh, shaking her head. "I mean, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two sound like you're about five seconds away from a love confession."

Harry stiffened immediately, his jaw tightening as he shook his head. "Oh, come on. You’ve got it all wrong," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "That’s not— that’s not what this is."

Lou just smirked, clearly entertained. "Mhm. Sure. Either way, at least it’ll look great on camera."

Louis POV

Louis walked away from Harry, to the other side of the room. His hands clenched into fists. Who did Harry Styles think he was? Acting like he had all the answers, like he was better than everyone else. Louis felt a wave of irritation rise inside him, sharp and unrelenting. The guy had no idea what it was like to fight for everything you had, to claw your way up when no one was there to hand you anything.

Puh, this arrogant little prince, born and raised in his Styles palace, with Formula 1 handed to him on a silver platter. The idea made Louis’ blood boil. Maybe Harry had talent, okay sure he had talent, but he had no idea about real struggles, about fighting tooth and nail for a place in this world. He didn’t know about real loss.

Louis’ thoughts turned darker, a flicker of pain he refused to let show. He’d lost his mum, and after that, he’d taken on the weight of caring for his sisters. He’d been their rock, the one who held things together when everything threatened to fall apart. Simon’s constant presence breathing down his neck, piling on the pressure, the threats, the expectations—sometimes it felt like he was fighting a battle on every front.

But even in all that chaos, all that responsibility, Louis was proud of one thing: he hadn’t lost himself. He hadn’t let the weight of it crush him. He’d fought to stand here, in the middle of it all, and he wasn’t about to let anyone—especially Harry Styles—make him feel like he didn’t belong.

He took a deep breath, pushing the anger aside as Kathryn Bigelow walked into the room with an air of quiet authority. The director was tall, with a lean build and striking features that carried a blend of grace and steel. Her auburn hair was worn in loose waves, and her sharp eyes missed nothing as they swept over the room, taking in every detail with practiced ease. She had an intensity about her, a presence that commanded respect without having to demand it. She looked like someone who thrived in high-stakes environments, someone who could bring out the best in those around her. Louis had heard of her reputation—a visionary director who was known for pushing boundaries and capturing raw, unfiltered energy on screen. She introduced herself quickly and got straight to the point, explaining the plan for the next three days of shooting.

Kathryn took a moment to scrutinize both of them, her gaze critical but not unkind. "Alright, you two, follow me outside. I want to give you a look at what you'll be working with."

As they followed her out the door, the warm air hitting them as they stepped onto the villa’s front terrace. Parked in the driveway were two magnificent cars: a Jaguar E-Type in a rich, dark green that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, and a Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster in a deep, midnight blue that was nearly black. Both cars were convertibles, their sleek lines and elegant curves embodying timeless luxury and power.

"Beautiful, aren’t they?" Kathryn said, her voice carrying a hint of pride. "The Jaguar E-Type has always been known as one of the most iconic cars in history—fast, agile, and a little rebellious, just like you, Louis. And the Mercedes 300SL, well, it’s the kind of car that commands respect. Precision, elegance, and absolute control. Seems fitting for you, Harry."

A smirk curled at the edge of Louis’ lips as he shot a sideways glance at Harry. "Of course, you’d put Harry in a Mercedes. Wouldn’t want him to get lost behind the wheel of something else."

Harry’s expression flickered with annoyance, but he didn’t bite, which only made Louis’ smirk widen.

Kathryn crossed her arms, her eyes sharp as she looked between them. "Here’s the deal. I want you two to treat this like a real race. The cameras will capture everything—the rivalry, the thrill, the way you push each other. We’ll start with some controlled shots, but eventually, I want to see the fire. Don’t hold back. Show me what this rivalry is made of."

She glanced down at their wrists and frowned. "You two aren’t wearing your watches. You’re supposed to be sporting those Rolex sports models." She gestured to a nearby crew member, who stepped forward with a pair of sleek, high-quality watches.

Louis accepted his with a spark of fascination, turning it over in his hand. The watch had a simple elegance, sturdy yet refined, a perfect blend of luxury and function. He slipped it onto his wrist, appreciating the weight of it, the coolness of the metal against his skin. It was a proper sport watch—made for action.

"Nice," he muttered, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The crew member handed Harry his watch, and Kathryn gave a satisfied nod. "Alright, now that you’re properly suited up, let’s get to it. Louis, here are your keys." She tossed them to him, and he caught them with a quick reflex.

Louis felt a thrill of anticipation as he walked across the gravel toward the Jaguar. The dark green convertible gleamed in the sunlight, all sleek lines and predatory elegance. He ran a hand over the hood before sliding into the driver’s seat, feeling the power of the machine beneath him.

Moments later, Harry eased into the Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster, the deep midnight-blue convertible looking like something out of a dream—refined, powerful, and utterly classic. Louis cast a quick glance over, taking in the confident ease with which Harry settled behind the wheel.

"Alright, we’ll drive over to the location together," Kathryn instructed. "It’s about ten minutes down the road—a coastal stretch with the ocean on one side and cliffs on the other. Let’s keep it steady for now. We want to arrive with these cars in one piece."

They started their engines, the low purr of the Jaguar’s engine vibrating through Louis, filling him with a rush of energy. The convoy rolled out from the villa’s driveway, with Kathryn in a big black SUV leading the way. Louis fell in line behind her, the Jaguar gliding smoothly over the road, and Harry’s dark blue Mercedes close behind.

The road wound its way along the rugged coastline, a narrow ribbon of asphalt hugged tightly between the glittering ocean on one side and sheer, jagged cliffs on the other. The scent of salt lingered in the air, and sunlight danced on the waves, creating a dazzling play of light and shadow. As they drove, the rhythmic crashing of waves was almost drowned out by the deep growl of the engines.

Louis felt a surge of exhilaration coursing through him. There was something raw and liberating about driving with the ocean stretching out endlessly to his left, feeling the power of the car beneath him.

He glanced in his side mirror, catching a glimpse of Harry’s car close behind, and a competitive thrill shot through him. Even driving at this casual pace, the tension was there, simmering under the surface like a coiled spring.

When they reached the shoot location, crew members were already bustling about, setting up equipment, drones hovering overhead, and cameras ready to capture every moment. Louis stepped out of the Jaguar, running a hand over the smooth, cool metal once more.

A crew member approached them, clipboard in hand. "Alright, we’ve closed off this entire stretch of road. First, we’ll start with some wide drone shots along the curves of the road, then we’ll move into close-ups of you both inside the cars. Stick to the choreography for now, but later on, we’ll let you two go all out."

Louis flexed his fingers on the steering wheel as he got back into the car, a grin spreading across his face. This was where he felt alive—in the driver’s seat, adrenaline humming in his veins, ready to take on anything.

Kathryn took a step closer. "Just remember—the cars are insured, but let’s not end up needing to use that insurance. Got it?"

Louis nodded, feeling a thrill of anticipation. "Understood."

"Good. Now suit up, gentlemen. We’ve got a scene to make unforgettable."

As the shoot began, they drove side by side, engines rumbling in harmony as they rolled down the coastal road. Kathryn’s voice crackled over their earpieces, her tone authoritative yet enthusiastic. "Alright, Louis, Harry, I want you to stay close but safe. We’re looking for that natural tension between you two. Keep your movements synchronized, but don’t be afraid to let your personalities shine through."

They followed her instructions, weaving down the road with practiced precision. The sun glared off the sleek bodies of the Jaguar and Mercedes, the ocean to one side and towering cliffs on the other, creating a breathtaking backdrop.

"Perfect! Now lean into the turns—make it look dangerous but controlled. I want to see the hunger, the rivalry!" Kathryn urged.

Louis threw a quick glance at Harry, feeling the competitive energy crackling between them. He pushed the Jaguar forward, closing the gap between them as they maneuvered through a tight curve.

"That’s what I’m talking about," Kathryn’s voice crackled with excitement. "You two are killing it. The camera’s loving this."

After a few hours of controlled driving shots, Kathryn’s voice came through again, this time with an edge of excitement. "Alright, let’s drop the choreography. You’re free to go all out. Show me what a real race looks like."

Louis’ pulse spiked with anticipation, a fierce grin spreading across his face. "Finally," he muttered under his breath.

The signal was given, and Louis slammed his foot on the gas, the Jaguar roaring to life beneath him. He felt the adrenaline surge through his veins as he shot forward, the engine’s growl reverberating in his chest.

For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to this moment—the thrill of speed, the burn of competition, and the sound of tires gripping the asphalt. He looked to his side, locking eyes with Harry for a split second. Harry’s green ones were full of intensity and focus, a glint of challenge mixed with raw determination. Louis felt a twinge of grudging respect; he knew that look—the hunger, the need to win. It was a mirror of his own drive.

The drone flew overhead, capturing the scene from above as the two cars sped down the coastal road. On one side, the ocean was wild and restless, waves crashing against jagged rocks, as unpredictable and untamed as Louis himself. On the other side, the cliffs loomed high, casting long shadows across the road, making the whole scene feel like something out of a dream.

Harry’s Mercedes surged ahead, cutting in front of Louis with precision. Louis cursed under his breath, his competitive instincts flaring to life as he closed the gap between them, refusing to be left behind.

"Think you can shake me that easily?" Louis called over the walkie talkie, his voice sharp with determination.

"Try and keep up," Harry shot back, a cocky laugh echoing through the line.

They pushed their cars to the limit, engines roaring as they raced neck on neck down the winding road. The wind whipped past, tugging at Louis’ hair, and he felt the wild exhilaration of the race surging through him. This was freedom—pure and unfiltered.

Their cars moved as one, each refusing to yield an inch. In another sharp curve, Harry pulled ahead, but Louis was right on his tail, closing the gap once again until they were side by side.

They locked eyes, a collision of defiance and determination. Harry’s green eyes were narrowed in concentration, the tension crackling between them almost tangible.

The road stretched out before them, the horizon a blur of blue sky and ocean. Louis felt the pulse of adrenaline, the sheer power of the Jaguar beneath him. It was more than a race—it was a challenge, a test of who they were.

He could hear Harry’s laughter crackle through the walkie talkie, mingling with the roar of the engines. There was a wildness to it, a thrill that sent a pulse of heat through Louis, and before he knew it, he found himself laughing too. The sound bubbled out of him, raw and unrestrained, as if Harry’s infectious laughter had reached right into him and pulled out something untamed. It felt like freedom, pure and exhilarating, and for a moment, it didn’t matter that they were rivals. In this instant, they were just two people racing against the wind, alive in a way that defied everything else.

As they reached the end, neither had pulled ahead. Louis’ heart was pounding, his chest heaving with exhilaration as he eased the car to a stop. It felt like victory, even if it wasn’t clear who had won.

Louis felt a sense of accomplishment settle over him, his pulse still racing from the adrenaline. He climbed out of the Jaguar, taking a moment to run a hand over the sleek metal. He glanced over at Harry, who had stepped out of the Mercedes, looking windblown and exhilarated. The wildness in Harry’s expression was striking, making him look younger, more alive than Louis had ever seen him. For a fleeting moment, they weren’t rivals, but kindred spirits who shared a love for speed and the rush of competition.

Harry caught Louis’ gaze and smirked. "Still think you had me there?"

Louis laughed, the sound unrestrained and genuine. "Of course, Love, we both know I had you sweating."

Kathryn approached, her eyes bright with satisfaction. "You two were incredible out there. You captured exactly what we needed—an intensity that felt real. I couldn’t ask for more."

She gave them an approving nod. "You’ve earned the evening off. Rest up, because tomorrow’s an early start. We’ll be hiking up the cliffs for the next scene, so get a good night’s sleep."

Louis arched an eyebrow, throwing a playful look at Harry. "Think you can handle a hike, Styles? Or do you need me to carry you?"

Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin that tugged at his lips. "Save it for the track, Tomlinson."

As they made their way back to the villa, the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, casting a warm golden light over the landscape. Louis felt an unexpected sense of contentment settle in his chest—a rare moment where he felt truly alive, present, and untethered from the pressures that usually weighed him down.

As they made it to the driveway, he caught another glimpse of Harry walking towards the entry, the wind ruffling his hair, the relaxed look still on his face. There was something about seeing Harry like this that made Louis think that, maybe, this was exactly where they were both meant to be.

Still feeling the buzz of adrenaline, Louis headed up to his room. He was still too wound up to settle down, so he decided to take a shower, letting the hot water wash away the salt and sweat from the race. The steam curled around him, and as the heat soaked into his muscles, he felt the rush of energy slowly ebbing away.

After drying off, he pulled on a pair of loose sweatshorts and dropped onto his bed. For a moment, he lay there staring at the ceiling, his mind still spinning from the day’s events. He couldn’t shake the image of Harry’s face during the race—how, he’d looked so much like the boy Louis had met two years ago in that club, curious and unguarded, full of raw emotion and excitement.

Seeing Harry like that today had brought back those memories, and Louis wasn’t quite sure how to make sense of it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push the thought aside. There were more important things to focus on—like the fact that his alarm was set for four in the morning, and if there was one thing Louis definitely wasn’t, it was a morning person. The idea of dragging himself out of bed at that hour made him groan softly.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, rolling onto his side. He reached for his phone, more out of habit than anything else, and noticed a string of new messages lighting up the screen. One message from Eleanor, and a few in the family group chat—Niall and his sisters were clearly waiting for an update.

Before opening the groupchat, Louis quickly responded to Eleanor’s message:

Just got done for the day. It was a good shoot, but I’m absolutely knackered. Early morning tomorrow, so I’m off to bed soon. xx night

Then he turned his attention to the family chat.

Niall: So, how was the shoot today? Or were you too busy looking pretty and avoiding real work?

Lottie: Come on, we need juicy details, Louis! 😏 Did you do anything cool or just stand around being mysterious?

Fizzy: We’re dying here. You’d better have a story to tell, did you make Harry cry? 

Phoebe: Oi, Fizz, did Niall burn dinner yet? Daisy and I are hungry. 🍔🔥

Daisy: We need more pics.😜 Preferably of you looking heroic or ridiculous. Either works. 

Niall: Speaking of ridiculous, you twins - when have I EVER burned BBQ? 😤

A few photos followed—Niall standing at the grill on Louis’ terrace, wearing a goofy chef’s hat. Behind him, Lottie, Fizzy, Phoebe, and Daisy were hanging out, chatting and laughing. In one shot, Fizzy flipped off the camera with a scowl while Niall stuffed his face with a burger. Another showed Phoebe and Daisy running through a sprinkler in the garden, sunlight making the water droplets sparkle. 

Niall: See? I’m keeping them well-fed and entertained. You’d better be having as much fun as we have, mate. 😎

Louis: We had a proper race today. Old convertibles, tight curves, and Harry almost ate my dust. You lot would’ve loved it—felt like I was flying. Madeira’s absolutely gorgeous, by the way. Wish I could send you pictures, but it’s all top-secret. 🤐

Phoebe: Sounds epic! Did you really almost win? 

Louis: Let’s just say it was a dead heat. The cars were neck and neck the whole time. We were both too stubborn to let the other win. 😅

Fizzy: So basically, you let Harry think he’s not the worst driver ever. Very generous of you. 😜

Lottie: You really are too kind sometimes, Lou. 🙄

Niall: Oi, enough about Harry! What’s the plan for tomorrow? Are you going to set fire to anything exciting? 

Louis: Hah, not likely. I have to be up at 4 AM for the next shoot, and we’re going hiking. Actual physical torture, can’t wait. 😒

Daisy: You on a hike? 🤣 Now that’s a sight I’d pay to see.

Fizzy: Better set three alarms. You know you’ll hit snooze. 😆⏰

Lottie: Get some sleep, speed demon. We’re proud of you. 

Louis couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he looked at the pictures. It was a snapshot of normalcy, a reminder that even if he couldn’t be there, his family was together and happy. The goofy image of Niall in the chef’s hat, the sight of Fizzy flipping off the camera, and the twins laughing in the sprinkler—it was all so wonderfully, chaotically them.

He could almost hear their voices, the laughter and teasing that would’ve filled the air if he were there. It grounded him, reminding him of where he came from and what truly mattered.

Feeling a faint smile tug at his lips, Louis tapped out quick replies to each message:

Louis: Wish I could be there. You lot look like you’re having way too much fun without me. Maybe I should worry about my BBQ job security. 😅

Louis: But seriously, thanks for holding down the fort. Today was wild. Would’ve been even better with you lot cheering me on. Miss you! xx

Then he set his alarm, before putting his phone aside. His heart felt a little lighter, the connection to his family seeping warmth into the quiet of his room.

Finally, he switched off the light, letting the darkness settle around him. He wished that would be enough to make him fall asleep, but after a few minutes of tossing and turning, his stomach made a low, insistent grumble. Of course. He had barely eaten all day, and now his body was making him pay for it.

Groaning, Louis rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling in frustration. Maybe he could just ignore it, force himself to sleep. But no—his stomach wasn’t having any of that. Huffing, he pushed the covers off, dragging himself out of bed.

The villa was quiet as he padded barefoot down the dimly lit hallway, the cool tile soothing against his skin. When he reached the kitchen, he realized he wasn’t the only one still awake.

Lou was standing in front of the open fridge, rummaging through its contents, her hair tied up messily, an oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. When she spotted him, she held up a plate stacked with pre-made sandwiches. "Fancy a snack?" she asked, grinning.

Louis sighed and leaned against the counter. "Apparently my stomach decided I’m not allowed to sleep yet."

She handed him a sandwich, and they ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound the occasional hum of the fridge and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Eventually, Lou wiped her hands on a napkin and turned to him with a knowing look. "Alright, so… what’s the thing between you and Harry?"

Louis nearly choked on his next bite. He swallowed, taking a second longer than necessary before responding flatly, "Nothing. We can’t stand each other."

Lou gave him an incredulous look, tilting her head. "Look, it's none of my business, I get that. Love is love, and whatever this is, if it even is anything, it's yours to figure out."

Louis stiffened, his grip tightening around the sandwich in his hand. "What—where the fuck did that come from? I—" His voice faltered, panic flashing across his face before he forced himself to scoff. "I’m not—  What.., Do you actually know what you're saying Lou?"

Lou held up her hands, her expression open but laced with curiosity. "Look, I’m not saying anything. I know nothing for sure. I just get a feeling. The way you two react to each other, the way you orbit each other’s space—it’s different. But, maybe I’m reading too much into it. If I hadn’t seen you two in the makeup room earlier, I probably wouldn’t have thought twice."

Louis’ stomach twisted, an uneasy heat spreading through his chest. "It’s nothing," he muttered, gripping the sandwich like it might anchor him. "Harry is with Taylor. And as I said before, we can’t stand each other."

Lou let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "Mhm, sure."

Louis’ throat went dry. His heart pounded unevenly. "You have no idea what you’re talking about."

Lou simply shrugged, her tone still light, but her eyes sharp. "Maybe not. But—if I’m wrong, then I’m wrong. Doesn’t really matter, does it?" She took another bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

Louis just stood there, lost for words.

Lou squeezed his hand and flashed him one last knowing look before slipping out of the kitchen, leaving Louis standing there, his appetite suddenly gone, his mind wandering off to a green-eyed boy.

Harry had looked free today — young and reckless in a way Louis had never seen before. Like for once, he wasn’t trying to be the polished, carefully composed version of himself the world expected. Like he had let himself just exist, without the weight of control pressing down on him.

Louis exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if it would physically rid him of the thoughts lingering in his mind. He needed to get some sleep. He had a long day ahead of him, and the last thing he needed was to let Lou’s words take up space in his head.

With a final bite of his sandwich, he tossed the napkin onto the counter and made his way back to bed, determined to ignore the thoughts chasing him into his dreams. Tomorrow was going to be brutal with an alarm set for half four in the morning, and a hike that sounded more like a punishment than an adventure.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The shrill blare of his alarm pierced through the darkness, sending a sharp spike of irritation straight through Harry’s skull. His arm shot out from under the sheets, fumbling blindly across the nightstand until his fingers found the phone. With a groggy swipe, he silenced the noise, but the damage was done. Half past four in the morning. Ugh.

Even for someone who considered himself a morning person, this was brutal. The exhaustion from the previous day still clung to him, his body aching in protest as he forced himself upright. His curls were a tangled mess, strands falling into his face as he ran a tired hand through them. For a brief moment, he considered collapsing back onto the pillows—just a few more minutes—but no. Ignoring the protest from his conscience, he reminded himself that he had a job to do.

The room remained cloaked in darkness, with only the faintest hints of twilight pressing against the horizon, barely discernible through the curtains. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framed the vast stretch of ocean, its surface an inky black expanse, reflecting only the dim glow of distant city lights on the horizon. A light breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the fresh scent of salt and jasmine. The warm sea breeze drifted in through the open balcony doors, carrying the fresh scent of salt and jasmine. The sheer white curtains swayed gently, responding to the salty wind that rolled in from the water. Their movement cast shifting patterns of shadow and light against the minimalist interior, complementing the crisp white sheets and the earthy wooden accents of the room. Beyond the balcony, the steady murmur of waves against the rocky shoreline filled the quiet night air, the occasional rustling of palm leaves blending into the rhythmic pulse of the ocean. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, stretching his arms overhead before rolling his shoulders. He needed a shower. Something to shake off the heavy weight of fatigue. With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet, his muscles stiff as he padded toward the bathroom.

The cold tiles sent a sharp shock through his bare feet, a contrast to the lingering warmth of sleep still clinging to his body, but he welcomed it, embracing the sudden alertness it brought. He twisted the shower knob, letting the water run hot, the steam already beginning to rise as he stripped off his boxers. Stepping under the stream, he closed his eyes, allowing the warmth to seep deep into his muscles, washing away the last remnants of fatigue. The water cascaded over his shoulders, loosening the tension from his neck and back, a soothing balm against the weight of another demanding day. For a moment, he just stood there, inhaling the steam, letting it fill his lungs, willing himself to wake up properly before reality pulled him forward.

As the heat wrapped around him like a cocoon, his mind wandered to the long day ahead. The thought of the early hike, the meticulous schedule, and the pressure of the shoot pressed heavily against him, making his chest tighten with an unspoken weight. He exhaled slowly, watching the mist swirl in the air, forcing himself to let go of the tension threatening to settle. There was no space for distraction. He had to focus, had to push through.

Finally, he shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel and running it through his damp curls, feeling the cooler summer air prickle against his heated skin. He wrapped the towel loosely around his waist as he moved back into the bedroom, his feet sinking into the plush carpet. His suitcase lay open in the corner, still half-unpacked from the day before, the sight of it a stark reminder of how quickly time slipped away in his world. Without thinking much about it, he pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, the fabric snug against his hips. If Louis could constantly lounge around half-naked, then surely he could get away with this too. Besides, the team had already prepared his outfit downstairs, so there was no need to fuss over clothes now.

As he descended the stairs, the soft hum of activity in the living room met his ears, a quiet contrast to the tranquility of the early morning. The air was tinged with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the faint scent of fabric from the meticulously arranged outfits. Lou was already there, moving efficiently as she sorted through her makeup brushes, her fingers lightly tapping against the table as she arranged products with practiced ease.

His eyes instinctively drifted toward the kitchen, where the sight of a steaming pot of coffee was a small mercy. But even better—next to it, a tray of freshly made bagels and croissants. His stomach gave an appreciative growl; no surprise there, considering the disappointing meal from the night before. Without hesitation, he made his way over, grabbing a bagel and a croissant in one swift motion before pouring himself a coffee. He took a quick bite, savoring the warm, doughy texture.

Balancing his coffee and bagel, he took another bite, savoring the crisp crust and soft, warm center, letting the rich taste fill his mouth. He alternated between bites of his bagel and small sips of coffee, the heat waking him up bit by bit. By the time he reached Lou, he had nearly finished the bagel, pausing only to take a quick bite of the croissant, the buttery flakes scattering slightly as he walked. Feeling slightly more human now that food was in the equation, he finally approached her.

Lou looked up, offering him a bright smile. "Morning, Harry! How’d you sleep?" she asked, her tone light and full of warmth.

He shrugged, inhaling the comforting scent of coffee. "Not long enough, but what’s new?" He took another sip before nodding toward her setup. "Busy morning?"

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Always. But at least you’re easy—" As he chewed, Lou spoke, gesturing with her makeup brush, raising an eyebrow. "Some people are just so difficult to work with. I spend half my time just making sure they don’t look like they’ve been dragged through a hedge backward."

She chuckled, but then her expression softened, and she sighed dramatically. "But you—ugh, Harry, your skin is a dream! And don't get me started on your hair. I swear, I could talk about it for hours."

Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

"Flattered, obviously!" she grinned. "And don’t even get me started on Louis. That golden complexion? Those ridiculous blue eyes? I mean, come on, the guy looks like he was crafted by the gods, as do you."

Harry grunted, taking another sip of his coffee, finishing his Croissant. "Alright, alright, but please, don’t ever say that in front of him. His ego is already unbearable."

Lou just laughed, shaking her head as she returned to her work, clearly still lost in admiration. Then, as if remembering their tight schedule, she glanced at him again. "Okay, you should get your outfit on. We’re running low on time, and I need you ready so we can start soon."

He smiled at that, appreciating her easygoing nature.

He turned his attention to the wardrobe team, who had already laid out his outfit for the day with precise care. The black shorts were lightweight and breathable, hugging his legs just enough to allow movement without restriction. Paired with them was a dark green, moisture-wicking technical T-shirt, designed not just for practicality but also for aesthetics—the snug fit emphasized his toned build in a way that felt both functional and effortless. He ran a hand over the fabric, feeling its smooth texture before slipping into the clothes, their snug fit settling over him like a second skin.

As he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror, he had to admit the team had done an excellent job. The dark green of the shirt made his eyes stand out, a striking contrast against his slightly flushed morning skin. He adjusted the hem slightly, appreciating the way the material moved with him. They really know what they're doing, he thought, giving himself a final once-over before heading back to Lou.

When he returned, Lou was no longer as relaxed as before. She stood with her arms crossed, eyes scanning the room with growing concern. When she noticed him approaching, she exhaled and leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Have you seen Louis?"

Harry arched a brow, already sensing where this was going. "No, why?"

Lou sighed, rubbing her forehead. "He was supposed to be here ages ago. If he doesn’t show up soon, we’re going to have a real problem."

She glanced around nervously, then leaned in even closer. "Listen, can you go check on him? I’d go myself, but… what if he sleeps naked?" She pulled a face, shaking her head. "Not that I’d really mind—he is ridiculously pretty—but, you know, privacy and all."

Harry let out an exaggerated groan, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so you think I want to see him naked? Right, because that's exactly how I wanted to start my day. What a treat." He huffed dramatically before taking another sip of his coffee. "For the record, no, I don’t want to. But let’s be real, it’s not like there’s much left to the imagination anyway. At this point, we’ve all basically seen him naked."

Lou burst into laughter, throwing her head back. "Oh my God, Harry, I needed that!" She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye before fixing him with an imploring look. "But seriously, can you please go? Pretty please? I'll even get you another croissant!"

Harry raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Lou, the croissants are literally in the kitchen. I can get one whenever I want."

Lou clasped her hands together dramatically. "Yes, but I’ll personally bring it to you, warm and perfect, because you’d be doing me a massive favor."

Harry sighed, shaking his head with a smirk. "You're impossible." He downed the last of his coffee and pushed himself up from his seat. "Fine, fine. But only because I’m too nice to people."

Lou beamed. "You really are. Thank you, Harry!"

Muttering under his breath, he turned on his heel and headed toward the stairs. He wasn’t sure why he always ended up doing these things, but for Lou’s sake, he’d go fetch the human embodiment of chaos that was Louis.

When he reached Louis' room, he hesitated for a moment before pushing the door open.

The space was ridiculously nice— now, standing there, Harry couldn't help but feel that Louis absolutely did not deserve it. The spacious layout, the large windows, the luxurious bedding—it was too much. And to top it off, there was even a freestanding bathtub positioned near the massive window, overlooking the breathtaking view outside.

But what annoyed Harry even more was the state of the room. Clothes were already strewn across the floor, despite the fact that they had only been there for one day. How could someone cause this much chaos in such a short amount of time? Harry sighed, shaking his head.

His gaze landed on Louis’ phone, discarded carelessly on the floor, the alarm still going off in a dull, rhythmic chime. Harry couldn’t help but smirk—Louis must have thrown it there in frustration when it got too loud. The thought amused him, but at the same time, an odd, uneasy feeling twisted in his stomach. Louis was obviously not a morning person, something Harry didn't want to know. 

Louis was unbothered by the alarm that kept shrilling through the room. He was sprawled out between the sheets, completely lost in sleep.

Harry bent down, grabbed the phone, and switched off the alarm before stepping closer to the bed. In this rare moment of stillness, Louis looked almost delicate, as if the world hadn't yet caught up to him. His lips were slightly parted, his breath slow and deep, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks in soft contrast to his usual sharp and mischievous expression. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, curling slightly in its natural messiness. Something stirred deep in Harry’s chest, a strange and unwelcome sensation that made him feel unsteady.

There was something almost infuriating about how peaceful Louis looked—completely untouched by the urgency of the morning, lost in sleep as if he had all the time in the world. He looked small in the vastness of the bed, sprawled in a way that made him seem almost vulnerable. The thought unsettled Harry more than he wanted to admit. He lingered for a second longer, taking in the sight, feeling an odd sense of grounding wash over him. The chaos in his own mind stilled, if only for a moment.

Harry shook his head, scoffing quietly to himself. He wished he could feel even half as at ease as Louis did in this moment. But they didn’t have time for this. Harry let out a quiet sigh and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He hesitated for a second, watching the way Louis’ breath remained steady, his lashes resting against his cheeks, completely undisturbed.

"Louis," he called softly, his voice cutting through the quiet. Nothing. Only a faint sigh escaped Louis’ lips, making something uneasy twist in Harry's stomach again.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered before reaching out and nudging Louis' shoulder lightly. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You should've been downstairs ages ago."

Louis stirred, his brows knitting together as his eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep. His gaze met Harry’s, unfocused at first, blinking sluggishly like he was seeing something—or someone—else. But then, his eyes softened, warm and gentle, so open that Harry felt like he could drown in them. It was a look that made the whole world feel like it had slowed to a stop. Harry swallowed hard, his breath catching in his throat. Whoever was lucky enough to be looked at like that had practically won the lottery.

Louis' lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, Harry couldn’t move—he was frozen, caught in the pull of Louis’ sleepy gaze, completely unable to look away. He felt like a deer in headlights, trapped, unmoving. Louis murmured something, his voice low and scratchy, "Hey, Curly," and a slow, lazy smile tugged at his lips as he reached out, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of Harry’s shirt.

Something inside Harry jolted, something unfamiliar and unnerving, as if a part of him that had long been buried was suddenly stirring, trying to remind him of something he couldn’t quite grasp. But before he could even process it, the moment shattered.

Louis’ expression suddenly changed, as if a fog had lifted from his mind. His body tensed, his eyes widened in alarm, and within seconds, he scrambled upright, his covers slipping down his bare chest. Instinctively, he recoiled, putting space between them like Harry had just set him on fire. In a frantic motion, he grabbed at the blankets, yanking them up to his chin as if shielding himself from some unseen danger. His breath came a little quicker, his fingers gripping the fabric tightly, his posture stiff and defensive.

“Oi, what the hell are you doing here?” Louis barked, voice sharp and defensive, his entire demeanor flipping in an instant. It was as if the sleepy warmth from seconds ago had never existed, as if winter had suddenly crept in and wrapped around them, chilling everything in an instant.

Harry exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes—there they were again, back to the same old routine. He forced his face into a mask of boredom, letting a smirk tug at the corner of his lips as he crossed his arms, as if the whole situation didn’t rattle him in the slightest. As if he hadn’t just felt something shift inside him, something he had no interest in naming. "Relax, drama queen. What, are you suddenly shy now? Pretty sure the entire crew has basically seen you naked at this point." He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Honestly, I don’t know why I even thought for a second that Lou might’ve been wrong. Of course you sleep naked."

Louis groaned, dragging a hand down his face before shooting Harry a glare. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get out."

Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms still crossed, taking his time. "Oh, now you want privacy?" He quirked a brow. "Thought you didn’t care about things like that."

Louis threw a pillow in his direction, missing by a mile. "Piss off, Styles."

Harry chuckled, dodging the weak attempt at an attack. "Right, right, I’m going. But hurry up, or we’ll be stuck here even longer. And believe me, as much as I love babysitting you, I’d rather spend an hour debating pineapple on pizza with Niall. At least that would be entertaining." His voice dripping with sarcasm.

He turned, making his way toward the door, but before stepping out, he paused. "Oh, and Louis?" He glanced over his shoulder, watching as Louis flopped back against the pillows, grumbling under his breath. "You might want to check if you're actually dressed before walking out."

Louis groaned louder this time, yanking the blanket even higher over his head as Harry smirked, shaking his head to himself. He really was too nice to people. But as he finally stepped out of Louis’ room, something twisted in his stomach. He pressed a hand against his abdomen, huffing quietly to himself. Maybe that big breakfast so early had been a mistake.

Harry winced as he walked down the stairs again, exhaling slowly as he tried to push aside the uneasy churning in his belly. He made his way back to Lou and dropped into the chair with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his already unruly curls. "He’s coming," he muttered, not particularly eager to elaborate.

Lou smiled, pausing for a moment. "Thank you Harry!"

She eyed him curiously as she pulled out her styling products, the corners of her lips twitching in amusement. "Sooo, no snarky remarks this time? No dramatic standoff at dawn? I was starting to think you two thrived on that kind of thing."

Harry shot her a flat look in the mirror. "Oh yeah, it was magical. A real heartfelt moment—if your definition of that includes him nearly launching himself out of bed like I’d just doused him in ice water, then Louis thrived massively."

Lou chuckled as she kneaded at his scalp, her fingers working through his curls with practiced ease. "See, that’s what I don’t get. You act all put out by it, but you’re still the one running up there to fetch him."

Harry scoffed, shaking his head. "Damn Lou, I did that for you, and you owe me some for it." He added dryly, "this favor is going to cost you more than just a croissant from the kitchen."

Lou hummed, feigning deep thought as she fluffed up his curls. "Alright, name your price then. What’s the going rate for Harry Styles' patience?"

"Dunno yet," Harry mused, watching her in the mirror as she worked. "But I’m thinking something that involves me not running up and down the stairs after your lost causes."

Lou grinned. "Well, it must’ve been worth it if you’re still thinking about it. So tell me, did he sleep naked?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue but closed it just as quickly. He scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Why do you even care? Hoping for details?"

Lou smirked, tilting her head. "Just trying to confirm what we all already suspect."

Harry rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply. "Let’s just say you weren’t wrong to send me up there. But next time, send someone else. I wouldn’t be surprised if Louis murders me, if I every do this again."

"Knew it!" Lou let out a laugh, shaking her head. "but come on, Harry, admit it—it wasn't as bad as you make it sound. You two have this whole banter going, it's quite cute to watch."

Harry scoffed. "If by banter you mean me dealing with his tantrums before breakfast, then sure, it’s a blast."

"I don’t know… looks like you don’t mind it as much as you claim," Lou smirked, adjusting a curl with deliberate precision. "just saying!" she added with her arms put in defeat.

Harry sighed, eyes flickering back to his reflection. Lou wasn’t wrong—something about the whole exchange with Louis was gnawing at him. There was something strangely fascinating about seeing Louis like that, stripped of his usual armor, vulnerable in a way Harry wasn’t used to. It felt way to private, like Harry shouldn't have seen that look on Louis face, and somehow, it left a strange, lonely feeling in Harry's guts.

But Lou didn’t need to know that. No one did.

For the world, Harry was with Taylor. That was the image. The safe, expected narrative. And so, he leaned back, forcing a smirk as he glanced at Lou. "Careful, Lou. If Taylor heard you insinuating whatever it is you're insinuating, she wouldn’t find it very funny."

Lou raised an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. "I'm sure you and Taylor have a nice relationship, you two are like siblings with each other." she gave Harry a knowing look. "See, people change, Harry. They lose touch, they grow apart, they find someone... uhm, new - happens all the time."

Her voice was casual, but something about the way she said it made Harry’s stomach twist uncomfortably. Harry rolled his eyes. "Brilliant insight. Really."

She smirked, dusting powder over his skin. "But hey, what do I know? I’m just the one making sure you look camera-ready."

Lou watched him for a second longer before turning her attention back to his hair. "You know, I’ve seen a lot of things working in this industry," she mused. "And one thing I’ve learned? Sometimes, people are the last ones to realize what’s right in front of them."

Harry gave a short, dry laugh but didn’t say anything more. His stomach twisted again, and he absently pressed a hand against his abdomen.

Lou narrowed her eyes slightly. "You alright?"

"Yeah, fine. Probably just too much food, too early," Harry said quickly. Too quickly.

Lou gave him a long, knowing look. "Right. Too much breakfast. Got it."

Before Harry could respond, Louis finally appeared, looking like he was still caught somewhere between sleep and reality. As he shuffled into the room, Lou raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, an amused smirk already forming on her lips. He still looked half-asleep but at least freshly showered. Droplets of water clung to his hair, rolling down his temples and dripping onto his collarbone before disappearing beneath the loose shirt he had haphazardly thrown on. The fabric clung to his skin in places, revealing glimpses of lean muscle underneath. His jaw was shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, giving him a slightly rougher, sleep-heavy look that made him seem both entirely unbothered and frustratingly effortless. His face was slightly flushed from the heat of the water, his eyelids still heavy, making his blue eyes look even larger than usual. His clothes looked as if he had grabbed them blindly—his shirt slightly askew, the collar loose, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone and tattoo. It was a look that shouldn’t have worked on Harry, and yet, somehow, it did.

Harry tried to shake off the image from earlier, but his mind kept circling back to the look Louis had given him—the softness in his eyes before it had disappeared in an instant, replaced by something else, maybe anger or annoyance.  He clenched his jaw and focused on Lou, who let out a laugh at the sight of Louis slumping into the chair beside Harry, grumbling incoherently.

"You’re a menace in the mornings, Tomlinson," she joked, brushing some powder off her hands. "I don’t know how anyone deals with you, but at least you're cute when you're that defenceless."

Louis only let out another tired groan in response, rubbing his face. Lou cocked her head, eyeing Louis up and down. "Where did you even get those clothes? We were starting to think you didn’t bring any of your own and were just planning to live off the film crew’s wardrobe."

Louis grunted, stretching his arms over his head with a lazy yawn. "'Course I brought clothes," he mumbled, but the way he scratched his neck and blinked slowly, still groggy, didn’t exactly inspire confidence.

"Uh-huh, sure," Lou teased.

Louis tried to think of a witty comeback, but another yawn overtook him mid-sentence, turning whatever he intended to say into a half-groaned mess of syllables. Lou let out a laugh, shaking her head. "Wow, you’re truly at peak performance this morning."

Harry, for some reason, felt a twinge of something uncomfortably close to sympathy. Ugh. Pity. For Louis Tomlinson. Gross.

Harry sighed, standing abruptly. "For fuck’s sake," he muttered before heading toward the kitchen. Within moments, he returned, shoving a steaming cup of coffee into Louis’ hands.

Louis blinked up at him, his large blue eyes momentarily stunned, as if Harry had just done something completely out of character. His fingers hesitated before wrapping around the cup, briefly brushing against Harry’s—just a fleeting touch, warm against his skin, but somehow it sent a sharp jolt through him, unexpected and unwelcome. Harry stiffened, willing himself not to react.

"Thanks," Louis murmured, voice thick with sleep, low and scratchy in a way that made the word feel strangely intimate. He cradled the coffee in both hands, letting the steam rise between them, his gaze lingering on Harry for just a second too long, as if searching for something.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. They just stared at each other, the silence stretching, something unspoken lingering between them. Harry’s stomach gave an uncomfortable twist again, and he cursed internally - stupid breakfast

Harry huffed and flopped back into his chair, pointedly looking anywhere but at Louis, trying to shake off whatever weird tension had crept into the air. But then, from the corner of his eye, he caught Lou’s smirk, the way she was clearly far too entertained by all of this.

Snapping himself out of it, Harry cleared his throat. "Alright, Tomlinson, pull yourself together. Try being professional for once. If we don’t get this done before sunrise, we’ll be stuck on this damn island for another day."

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically, catching Harry’s gaze through the mirror. "Oh no, another day in paradise. How awful."

Lou chuckled and got to work on Louis next, while Harry pushed himself up and stepped outside onto the terrace. The fresh air hit his face, cool and crisp, but it did little to settle the uncomfortable feeling curling in his stomach.

Hopefully, his body would stop acting up soon—he really had no interest in spending any more unnecessary time here with Louis. The warmth of those eyes, even tired and barely awake, stuck to him like honey—heavy, cloying, impossible to ignore.

Louis POV:

As Lou worked on his hair, gently fluffing the damp strands to bring some volume back, Louis felt the warmth of the coffee spread through his chest as he took another slow sip. The bitterness grounded him, pulling him out of the lingering haze of sleep. But his mind, damn it, was still stuck on the moment he woke up.

Fuck. Had he really thought—for even a second—that Harry Edward Styles was in his bed? That he'd been there, close enough to touch, like it was the most natural thing in the world and even worse, that he felt good with it? What a ridiculous dream - actually a real nightmare. Louis' fingers tightened slightly around the cup. He could only hope Harry hadn’t picked up on anything, hadn’t noticed the way he’d looked at him for that split second before reality had come crashing in. Maybe, just maybe, Harry hadn’t understood what Louis had mumbled when he’d first woken up. Maybe he had realized how fucking disoriented Louis had been.

His dream had been absurd. Completely and utterly stupid. But it had felt good - obviously because it's fantasy. He and Harry… together? As in, actually together? He must have lost his damn mind. And yet, of all possible moments, Harry had to wake him up right then? The universe had a twisted sense of humor. Life was a comedian—a really, really bad one.

Sure, Harry still looked good—annoyingly so. Maybe that whole ‘frog face’ comment Louis used to make about Harrys look wasn't entirely accurate anymore. But that didn’t make Harry boyfriend material. He was still an arrogant, posh, self-important prick who knew exactly how good-looking he was. The fact that Louis' subconscious had the audacity to conjure up such nonsense was beyond irritating.

And then the coffee? What was that about? Harry bringing him coffee like they were suddenly the kind of people who did nice things for each other? It didn’t make any sense. There was no reason for them to be exchanging pleasantries, let alone thoughtful gestures. The whole situation was weird, and Louis didn’t like it one bit.

His gaze drifted absentmindedly out the terrace doors, settling on Harry’s back as he stood outside, facing the ocean. The early morning light painted golden edges along his silhouette, his shirt shifting slightly in the breeze, exposing a sliver of tanned skin where it had ridden up. It was almost too cinematic, too annoyingly picturesque. The wind ruffled his curls, tousling them effortlessly. The broad line of his shoulders, the way he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the waves like he had something profound on his mind…

Louis clenched his jaw and looked away. Nope. Absolutely not. Not doing this. Harry Edward Styles is an absolute prick. He is posh, arrogant, and annoyingly dumb!

Whatever was happening in his head, whatever this was—it needed to stop. Now.

Lou’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "Alright, dream boy, go put on your outfit before Kathryn has a meltdown."

Louis groaned but complied, stretching his arms above his head with a long, exaggerated sigh, trying to shake off the thoughts clinging to his mind like cobwebs. He needed to snap out of it. Now.

Dragging himself toward the wardrobe area, he found the outfit they had picked for him—a sporty yet sleek set in a deep midnight blue. The material was lightweight but structured, draping perfectly over his frame. It felt expensive, effortless in a way that made him roll his eyes. Of course, everything about this shoot had to look polished, even if they were meant to appear rugged and adventurous.

As he slipped into the clothes, he glanced at his reflection. The color suited him better than he wanted to admit, emphasizing the sharp angles of his features. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly, as if to undo just a fraction of the effort Lou had put into making him look presentable.

Before he could dwell on it, Kathryn strode in with purpose, clapping her hands together to get their attention. "Alright, we need to get moving. We’re still on schedule, but time is not our friend today," she announced. "The film crew is already at the site, and the setup is complete. We need to leave now."

Harry, who had just stepped in from the terrace, leaned against the glass sliding door, his arms crossed as he listened intently. His brows were slightly furrowed, his expression focused as Kathryn laid out the plan. He didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod, as if mentally preparing himself for the long day ahead.

Louis barely had time to process her words before she gestured toward the door. "Harry, Louis, Lou—SUV, now. Transport is ready."

As they made their way out, Louis rubbed a hand over his face, still feeling the lingering exhaustion from the morning. Just as they reached the entrance, Simon appeared at the top of the stairs, descending with slow, measured steps, exuding his usual air of authority. Louis immediately straightened his posture, as if that would somehow make the encounter any less unpleasant.

"Good morning," Simon said, though there was no real warmth in it. His gaze flickered over Louis’ outfit, assessing. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Look at that. Turns out you can dress like you belong in Formula One."

Louis clenched his jaw but said nothing. He knew better than to take the bait, knew that any remark would just prolong the exchange. Instead, he kept his expression carefully blank, though his hands curled into fists at his sides.

As Simon passed, he slowed just enough to lower his voice, just enough so that the words hit with the intended weight. "Remember what I told you, Louis. You know how this works. Don’t make me clean up a mess I don’t have time for." His tone was smooth, but there was an edge beneath it, a silent warning that made Louis’ stomach tighten. He didn’t have to elaborate; the message was clear.

Simon continued walking, leaving behind a suffocating silence. Louis inhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself to stay composed. Think of Lottie and what she said, he reminded himself. Just let it go.

His shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled, watching Simon disappear down the hall. "Fantastic start to the day," he muttered sarcastically, shaking his head. "Simon’s definitely in the running for world’s kindest PR manager."

As he turned toward the door, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Harry stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His gaze flicked over Louis, assessing, but he didn’t say a word. Louis met his eyes, something uneasy stirring beneath his skin, too many emotions tangled together—exhaustion, irritation, and something else he refused to name.

He let out a sharp breath and forced a smirk. "So, Styles, does it still look like a fucking walk in the park to you?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, sharp and biting, but there was something else beneath it, something that made his stomach twist.

Harry’s expression remained still, unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—something Louis couldn’t quite place. Was it recognition? Pity? Frustration? He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to see anything in Harry’s face that made this moment feel heavier than it already did.

Louis didn’t wait for an answer. He let out a scoff, rolling his shoulders back as if shaking off the weight of the morning. "Didn’t think so," he muttered under his breath before shoving past Harry, his shoulder brushing against him with just enough force to make it deliberate. His jaw was tight, his pulse annoyingly loud in his ears.

Just keep moving. Don’t think about it. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Without another glance back, he strode toward the SUV, needing distance—needing space to breathe before his own thoughts consumed him whole. He pulled open the door and slid into the back seat, immediately turning his head to the window, watching the early morning light stretch over the horizon.

Lou slipped into the middle seat beside him, humming softly as she buckled up. "You look like you're having the time of your life," she teased lightly, nudging his arm.

Louis let out a slow exhale, resting his elbow on the door. "Yeah, just a dream come true."

At least Harry was on the other side, far enough away that Louis didn't have to acknowledge his presence. That was one problem he could push to the back of his mind, at least for now.

With everyone in place, the SUV pulled away from the villa, the road winding ahead toward Pico do Arieiro. Louis focused on the passing landscape, ignoring the tension still coiled tight in his chest, pretending that none of it mattered.

Harry’s POV:

Harry climbed into the SUV, settling into his seat as the vehicle pulled away from the villa. The morning air outside was crisp, and the faint glow of dawn painted the sky in soft hues of deep blue and gray. Inside the car, however, it felt stiflingly quiet. He leaned his head back for a moment, staring at the roof of the vehicle before turning his gaze to the window, watching as the rugged landscape of Madeira stretched endlessly before them, bathed in the super dim light of early morning that made it all look a little dull and grey.

He hadn’t meant to hear the exchange between Simon and Louis. Really, he hadn’t. But standing in the doorway, it had been impossible to ignore. The sharp tone of Simon’s voice, the way Louis had stiffened under it, his usual sharp tongue momentarily subdued—it all left a strange taste in Harry’s mouth.

Louis Tomlinson was a pain in the ass, no doubt about it. He was reckless, loud, and had the tact of a sledgehammer. But Harry had always thought he was untouchable in his own way, so confident in himself that nothing and no one could shake him. Yet Simon’s words had sliced right through that exterior, and for the first time, Harry had seen Louis fold in on himself, even if it was just for a second.

Harry’s fingers drummed idly against his knee. He knew Simon wasn’t exactly the easiest manager, but there was something about that conversation that didn’t sit right with him. What exactly did Simon have over Louis? What did he mean by ‘cleaning up a mess’? And why the hell did it bother Harry at all?

Maybe because he knew what it was like to have people try to mold you into something more palatable. To shape you into whatever version of yourself was easiest to sell to the world. He had spent years perfecting the art of giving just enough, of smiling at the right time, of making people believe they knew him without ever actually letting them in.

And with the thought of Louis and Simon came the inevitable comparison to Nick and him. Nick, who, despite his pushiness and occasional stubbornness, always had his back. Nick wanted what was best for him, even when they clashed. He fought for him, not against him. But Simon—Simon didn’t sound like someone looking out for Louis. That wasn’t concern. That was control, laced with quiet menace, wrapped in professional niceties. And the worst part? Louis had just taken it. Had swallowed it down like it was nothing, like it was normal.

Harry exhaled sharply, fingers tightening against his knee.

And suddenly, it hit him—did he understand Louis fucking Tomlinson? Who would have thought?

God, that was worse than he wanted to admit. Worse than he wanted to feel. He shifted in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face as if that could wipe away the uncomfortable realization settling deep in his chest.

Understanding Louis meant acknowledging something he’d been avoiding—Louis wasn’t just reckless and annoying. He wasn’t just the loudest voice in the room or the sharpest tongue in an argument. There was more there, something raw beneath the confidence, something Harry had never bothered to see before. And now, after hearing Simon talk to him like that, watching Louis take it, it was impossible to ignore.

Maybe—just maybe—Louis wasn’t as different from him as Harry had always assumed. They were both playing a game, just with different strategies. Where Harry had learned to blend in, to smile at the right moments and let people think they knew him without ever truly seeing him, Louis had chosen to be loud, to push back, to carve his own space with sharp words and reckless defiance.

Two different sides of the same coin, handling the weight of expectation in opposite ways. And fuck, wasn’t that an unsettling thought? Like realizing a song you hated actually had a melody that stuck with you. Like recognizing a reflection you didn’t quite expect to see staring back at you, a realization that clung to him, persistent and unrelenting.

His gaze flickered across the SUV. Lou was in the middle seat, chatting about something lighthearted with Kathryn, her voice a steady hum against the quiet tension. Outside, the landscape blurred past them—steep cliffs plunging into the endless ocean, the waves crashing rhythmically against the rocks below. The road wound sharply through the rugged hills, patches of mist clinging stubbornly to the peaks. The sky remained cloaked in deep shades of blue and indigo, the first hints of dawn barely pressing against the horizon. A soft mist clung stubbornly to the rugged cliffs, swirling gently as the SUV wound its way along the narrow, curving roads of Madeira. Below, the ocean stretched out endlessly, its surface a vast, inky black expanse, barely touched by the coming light. The few scattered villages they passed were still shrouded in darkness, only the occasional flicker of a streetlamp or the distant glow of a window cutting through the quiet gloom. The world felt suspended in time, caught between night and morning, as if it too were holding its breath before the day truly began.

It should have been breathtaking, something to marvel at—but Harry barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere.

Louis, on the other side of the car, hadn’t said a word since getting in. He sat stiffly against the door, head tilted toward the window, his jaw clenched as he stared at the passing scenery. Harry could see the reflection of his face in the glass, the furrow in his brow, the tension in his features, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh as if he was trying to keep something at bay. There was something unsettling about seeing Louis so still, so quiet. It wasn’t like him. Louis was all motion, all noise, all unfiltered chaos. And yet, here he was, folded in on himself like he was trying to disappear into the seat.

Harry exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. He told himself he didn’t care. That whatever was going on between Louis and his PR team was none of his business. That it wasn’t his problem to fix.

And yet, as he watched the jagged peaks of the mountains loom ahead, the winding road stretching toward Pico do Arieiro, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than what met the eye. More than just a manager being an asshole, more than just Louis brushing it off like it was nothing.

As they finally pulled into the parking area near the Pico do Arieiro, the darkness had begun to soften, the deep blues of the sky bleeding into the first whispers of dawn. The world was waking up around them, the mist shifting as the morning air grew warmer, but Harry still felt like he was stuck in the night, his mind tangled in everything that had already happened.

For it being barely half past six in the morning, a hell of a lot had already happened today. And somehow, Harry had a gut feeling—it wasn’t over yet. If anything, the day was just beginning.

As they arrived at Pico do Arieiro, the sky had begun its slow transformation, the deep blues and purples of the night giving way to the soft, golden streaks of approaching dawn. Wisps of mist curled lazily around the jagged peaks, reluctant to release their grip on the mountains as the first hints of sunlight stretched across the horizon. Below them, the valleys were still blanketed in darkness, the low-lying clouds rolling like waves against the cliffs.

The air was cool and sharp, carrying the crisp scent of damp stone and earth, mingled with the distant salt of the Atlantic. Every inhale felt fresh, untouched, like the kind of morning that only existed in places like this—where the world still held a quiet kind of magic before the day fully arrived. For a brief second, Harry let himself take it in, the stillness of it, the vastness. But it wasn’t long before reality pressed back in, reminding him that he wasn’t here to admire the view.

Kathryn wasted no time. Clapping her hands together, she gathered them around. "Alright, we’re still in perfect timing for the light we want. The film crew is already set up. First sequence is simple—you two will walk side by side up the path while the drone captures the shot. Nothing dramatic, just steady and strong. Think focus, think determination."

Louis stood beside Harry, arms crossed, his posture stiff as he listened. The tension was rolling off him in waves, and Harry didn’t miss the way his shoulders were locked up tight, as if he were bracing for impact. Kathryn must have noticed too, because she let out an exasperated sigh and fixed him with a pointed look.

"You alright, Louis?" Her voice was casual, but there was an undercurrent of expectation, the kind that made it clear she wasn’t just asking for the sake of it.

Louis gave a short nod, but Harry could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched slightly before curling into fists. Kathryn didn’t push, just studied him for a second longer before lifting her hand to adjust her headset.

The cameras started rolling, and the director’s voice crackled over their earpieces. "Alright, gentlemen, we’re starting with the ascent. Keep it natural—strong strides, but nothing exaggerated. We want a balance between intensity and effort. Let’s go."

They stepped forward onto the trail, the crunch of gravel beneath their boots filling the quiet air. The drone hummed above them, moving in steady arcs to capture the symmetry of their movements. The mist curled around the jagged cliffs, making the path ahead seem both endless and suspended in time. Harry focused on his breathing, on the rhythm of his steps, but he could feel the tension still radiating from Louis beside him.

Kathryn’s voice cut through the static. "Louis, relax your expression a bit. You look like you’re about to commit murder, and that’s not exactly the image we’re going for. Rivalry is great, but let’s not scare the audience."

Louis exhaled sharply, adjusting his posture, but his face was still tight. Harry could practically see his frustration, the way his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. The tension was so thick it was practically tangible, and Harry knew exactly what that meant.

This isn’t going to work, Harry thought. Not like this. If Louis kept up that energy, they’d be here all day reshooting, stuck in an endless loop of Kathryn telling him to ease up and Louis gritting his teeth harder in response. And that would mean only one thing: coming back tomorrow morning before sunrise and doing this all over again. 

Another 4 AM wake-up. Another trek up this damn mountain. Another full day stuck in Madeira when all he wanted was to be done. Absolutely not. Nope not gonna happen! 

He needed this shoot to wrap up today. And if that meant getting Louis out of his own head, then so be it. It wasn’t about him, not really. It was just practicality—nothing more. The sooner they got this done, the sooner they could all leave. He was doing this for himself, for the sake of efficiency.

And maybe, just maybe, because he had the slightest shred of pity for Louis Tomlinson. But that didn’t mean anything. It wasn’t personal. Not in the way Lou seemed to think, not in the way his own thoughts were trying to twist it. He was just being smart about this, nothing else.

So, he did the only thing that made sense—he decided to piss Louis off.

"Why so tense, Tomlinson?" Harry mused, voice deliberately casual, letting the words roll lazily off his tongue. "Did the five-star pillows not meet your working class standards, or did you just toss and turn thinking about me all night?"

Louis said nothing at first, but Harry caught the flicker in his eyes, a telltale sign that the comment had landed. Oh, he heard that.

Encouraged, Harry let his grin widen. As they strode up the trail, he subtly increased his pace, just enough to be noticeable. The ground beneath them was uneven, loose stones scattering under their boots, but the incline was steady.

Then, just as they reached a flatter stretch, Harry shot forward without warning. "What’s wrong, mate? Legs too short to keep up?"

That did it.

Louis’ head snapped up, and the irritation in his expression sharpened into something else entirely—something competitive, something alive. His lips twitched before he scoffed. "You wish. I’m the fastest man in the world."

And just like that, he took off.

Harry barely had time to react before Louis was already a few strides ahead, moving with surprising speed and agility. Shit, he’s fast.

A surge of adrenaline kicked in, and Harry instinctively pushed himself harder, his breaths coming in measured puffs as the crisp mountain air burned in his lungs. The drone followed overhead, capturing the rising momentum—the tension turning into action, the slow, deliberate ascent shifting into a full-blown race.

Kathryn’s voice crackled through their earpieces, excitement lacing her tone. "Oh, hell yes. That’s what I’m talking about! Keep going, this is gold!" The camera crew adjusted, tracking their pace, the drone dipping and rising to capture the spontaneous energy between them.

By the time they reached the top, both of them were breathless, but something had shifted. The tension that had clung to them all morning had finally loosened its grip. Louis’ shoulders had dropped, his expression no longer tight with frustration but open, easy. His blue eyes, usually filled with sharpness and challenge, held nothing but unfiltered joy. There was no restraint, no guarded exterior—just Louis, looking utterly free, like the weight of everything had momentarily lifted. The wind had tousled his hair into an even wilder mess, and when he turned to Harry, grinning wide, it was the kind of look that made it impossible not to smile back.

His grin stretched wide as he nudged Harry with his elbow, a spark of something mischievous flickering in his eyes. It wasn’t tense or calculated, it was just natural. Friends. Easy. Harry felt lighter than he had in a long time.

"You didn’t actually think you could keep up with me, did you, Harold?" Louis teased, his breath still uneven but his voice light, filled with something that felt suspiciously like joy.

Harry, hands on his hips as he tried to catch his breath, let out a short laugh. "I thought I had a chance. Didn’t realize you had freakishly fast legs for someone so short."

Louis barked out a genuine, uninhibited laugh and clapped a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, the warmth of it grounding, steady, like it belonged there. The contact lingered, but for once, neither of them seemed in a hurry to break it. Harry should have shrugged it off, should have thrown out some sharp remark to restore their usual rhythm—but he didn’t. Instead, he just grinned, wide and unguarded, the corners of his mouth betraying him before he could think better of it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking at all. Neither of them looked like they wanted to be anywhere else. The rivalry had faded, replaced by something looser, something that made the morning air feel lighter. They weren’t just two athletes being filmed for a campaign, weren’t two competitors trying to outdo each other—they were just two people, laughing, pushing each other, feeling alive.

Just before the edge, they came to a halt, standing side by side, their breaths still heavy, their bodies buzzing with the aftershock of adrenaline. The wind whipped through their hair, cool and strong, as they both turned toward the horizon. Beneath them, a thick layer of clouds stretched endlessly, rolling like an ocean of white, while above them, the sky burned in soft pinks and golds as the sun crested over the distant peaks.

Kathryn’s voice crackled through their earpieces, barely containing her excitement. "That’s it! That’s perfect. Stay there—this is stunning! The drone is picking up every detail. I want wide shots of you both looking out at the landscape. Just take it in. Don’t overthink it."

Harry barely registered her words. For once, it wasn’t hard to follow directions. There was something about the moment, standing there on the edge of the world, that made everything else fade. He let his eyes drift across the vastness in front of him, the way the golden light spilled across the rocks, how the peaks stood strong above the clouds like something out of a dream.

Louis stood beside him, equally still, equally absorbed. His usual restlessness was gone, replaced by something softer, more settled. The Rolex on his wrist caught the light, its sleek surface gleaming in the morning sun, a perfect match to Harry’s own. The symbolism was almost too on the nose—two men standing at the peak, watching the dawn of a new day, time stretching infinitely before them.

Kathryn’s voice interrupted again, calmer this time. "I want some close-ups now. Individual shots. Louis, stay where you are. Harry, take a few steps away and just look out at the horizon. Think strength, think quiet confidence."

Harry did as he was told, shifting slightly away, letting the camera frame him against the landscape. He kept his gaze on the horizon, trying to settle into the moment. The cool wind brushed against his face, the distant peaks standing strong above the rolling clouds. It should have been easy to focus, but his mind buzzed with the remnants of adrenaline, the ghost of laughter still clinging to his skin.

"Alright, Harry, that’s great. You’re done for now. Louis, your turn," Kathryn’s voice called through the earpiece.

Harry stepped aside, exhaling as he rolled out his shoulders, his body finally starting to relax. He turned his head slightly, meaning only to glance at Louis—but he couldn't look away.

Louis moved into position, rolling his neck before settling into the stance Kathryn wanted. And for the first time, Harry wasn’t looking at him as a competitor, wasn’t watching him through the lens of rivalry or exasperation. He was just... watching him.

The golden morning light caught on his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his jaw. His chest rose and fell steadily, his hands resting loosely on his hips, his entire posture at ease in a way Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. The usual chaotic energy, the constant edge that Louis carried with him—it was gone. In its place was something quieter, something almost serene. His eyes, usually filled with challenge or sharp amusement, held nothing but calm, reflecting the vast openness in front of them.

Harry swallowed, forcing his gaze back toward the horizon. It’s just the lighting, he told himself. Just the setting.

Then, just as the thought settled, Kathryn’s voice echoed through the earpiece, her excitement still evident. "Great, you did fantastic! That was exactly what we needed. Now come back, you two!"

Harry exhaled, rolling his shoulders back, the tension from earlier completely drained. He turned his head slightly toward Louis, intending to make some remark about how at least they didn’t have to do another take, but before he could open his mouth, Louis was already looking at him.

Their eyes met, and for a beat, Louis held his gaze—his lips curling, mischief sparking in his expression. The kind of look that Harry had seen countless times before but, for some reason, felt different in this moment.

Before he could process it, Louis took two quick steps forward and—

Pinched him. In the ass.

Harry jolted, a sharp gasp escaping before he could stop it, his entire body going rigid. "What the—?!"

Louis bolted down the trail, his laughter ringing through the crisp morning air. He didn’t even look back, just ran full speed ahead, absolutely pleased with himself. "Last one to the parking lot has to buy pizza for the whole crew!" he called over his shoulder, voice full of challenge.

Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face before shaking his head, a breathless chuckle slipping out despite himself. So much for the cinematic moment, the peaceful ending to an exhausting morning. Of course Louis couldn’t let it end like that—he had to turn it into a game, a challenge, something reckless and ridiculous.

Still, as he started his descent after Louis, he realized he wasn’t actually annoyed. Not really. If anything, he felt lighter than he had in weeks. There was something stupidly contagious about Louis’ energy, about the way he could turn even the most breathtaking sunrise into a race downhill. Harry shook his head, laughing under his breath as he picked up speed.

Harry knew there was no catching up to Louis—not when the so-called "fastest man in the world" was already halfway down the trail. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he picked up a steady jog, more out of principle than any real hope of winning.

By the time he reached the parking lot, the sun had fully risen, casting warm golden light across the landscape. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of morning that promised a perfect day on Madeira. Louis was already there, casually leaning against the SUV, looking effortlessly at ease. But even in his relaxed stance, the evidence of his run remained—his chest still rose and fell slightly faster than usual, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, making his skin glow golden under the morning sun. His damp hair stuck up in unruly waves, tousled from the wind, giving him a look of wild exhilaration, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He was mid-conversation with Lou, laughing at something she had said, but the moment he spotted Harry approaching, his grin widened, mischief flashing unmistakably in his bright blue eyes. He pushed off the SUV with exaggerated ease, stretching his arms above his head like he hadn’t just sprinted down a damn mountain. "Took you long enough, Harold," he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. "Guess that means you're covering pizza for everyone. Fair’s fair."

Harry rolled his eyes, breath still a little uneven, but he couldn’t quite suppress the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Next time, I’m tripping you before you get the chance to cheat." 

Lou let out a loud, delighted laugh. "Oh my god, I think I love this dynamic. Harry Styles, contemplating foul play? What happened to your treat people with kindness philosophy?"

Harry shot her a deadpan look. "It doesn’t apply to people who cheat their way down a mountain."

Louis gasped dramatically, clutching his chest, still a smirk clearly visible. "I did no such thing! I simply utilized my natural talent and superior strategy. This deeply hurt my feelings, Harold!"

Harry couldn't suppress a laugh. Kathryn, standing nearby, let out a long-suffering sigh but couldn’t quite hide the amusement dancing in her eyes. "Alright, alright, as much as I’m enjoying the entertainment, let’s get back on track. First of all—thank god you two made it down that mountain in one piece. Second—" she clapped her hands together, "—I’ve reviewed some of the footage, and let me tell you, we got everything we needed. It looks absolutely incredible. You both did fantastic."

Harry exhaled in relief, running a hand through his windswept curls, a smirk still tugging at his lips. Could he actually be enjoying this whole thing? The realization hit him like a jolt—sharp, unexpected. For once, he wasn’t thinking about how long he still had to be here, wasn’t mentally calculating the hours until he could be somewhere else. Instead, he felt present, grounded in the moment. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one that settled strangely in his chest, warm and weightless all at once.

It didn’t help that Louis was still grinning at him, all easy arrogance, eyes glinting with the satisfaction of someone who knew he had won—not just the race, but the entire morning. Harry should be annoyed. He should be rolling his eyes, biting out some sharp retort. But instead, he just shook his head, chuckling to himself.

Maybe, just maybe, they weren’t trying to tear each other apart anymore. Maybe, against all odds, they were figuring out how to exist in the same space without feeling like every interaction was a battle waiting to happen. And maybe, Harry thought with a reluctant smile, that wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

"Now," Kathryn continued, bringing them back to reality, "we’ll head back to the villa for a few hours. Get some rest. You’ve earned it. The last scene is in the afternoon—swimming in the natural pools. That should be easy compared to this."

Louis shot Harry a look, smirking. "Easy? You say that now, but let’s see who survives longer in the cold water."

Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. "I don’t need to survive, Tomlinson. I just need to last longer than you."

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically. "Oh, sure. Big talk for someone who just lost a race to me."

Lou laughed, nudging Louis. "Oh, I like this bet. And Harry, since you already owe us pizza, might as well throw in dessert, too."

Harry groaned, shaking his head. "I hate all of you."

"You say that," Louis mused, tilting his head, "but I think you love being part of this. It’s endearing, really."

Harry pointed a finger at him, eyes narrowing. "I will push you off the nearest rock formation."

Louis gasped, clutching his chest. "Such violence. Lou, did you hear that? He’s losing his composure."

Lou wiped away fake tears. "Heartbreaking. Truly."

Kathryn let out a sigh, shaking her head. "Alright, enough. Into the SUV, all of you. Before we lose daylight and my sanity."

As they left the mountain, the landscape stretched out behind them, bathed in golden light. The cliffs, valleys, and winding trails looked even more striking now that the sun had fully risen, casting long shadows over the rugged terrain. The ocean in the distance shimmered under the morning sun, waves rolling gently against the shore far below. The rhythmic hum of the engine blended with the sound of tires crunching over the winding road, a steady backdrop to the moment of quiet settling over the car.

Harry leaned back against the window, letting his head rest against the cool glass as he watched the world blur past. His body was finally winding down, the adrenaline from the morning fading into a pleasant, sluggish exhaustion. Somewhere in the front, Lou and Kathryn were chatting, their voices a soft murmur, but Harry wasn’t really listening. His focus drifted instead to the voice coming from beside him.

Louis was talking, animated as ever, recounting something to Lou, his words rolling together smoothly, punctuated by occasional laughter. Harry wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying, but there was something about the sound of it—the easy rhythm, the accent—that made his eyelids grow heavier. The gentle swaying of the car, the warmth of the sunlight filtering in through the windows, and Louis’ voice all wove together into something almost hypnotic.

His limbs felt heavier, his muscles finally relaxing as the exhaustion settled in properly. He stretched his legs out slightly, already anticipating sinking into his bed before tonight’s shoot. His smirk lingered faintly as he shut his eyes, the last thing he registered being the low timbre of Louis' voice, steady and unbothered, lulling him toward much-needed rest.

For the first time in what felt like months, he felt at ease. He was looking forward to the shoot in the afternoon.

Chapter Text

Louis POV:

Louis woke up with a groggy exhale, his body stretching lazily against the cool sheets of the bed. The midday sun filtered through the sheer curtains of his villa room, casting warm, golden light across the polished wooden floor. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed stone through the open balcony doors, the distant sound of waves lapping against the cliffs below a steady rhythm in the background.

He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented by the unfamiliar quiet. No shouting, no arguments, no tension lacing the air. Just stillness. A strange feeling crept in—the absence of responsibility. Back home, he was always looking out for his sisters, making sure they were okay, taking on more than he probably should have. Here, in this villa, with no one relying on him, it felt almost unnatural. A part of him missed them already, even if he’d never admit it out loud. But that was just how it was—whether it was for Formula One or before that in IndyCar. Whenever he was away, he found himself missing the chaos of home. It was the natural rhythm of someone who had grown up in a big family, always surrounded by noise, always looking out for someone. The silence, while peaceful, felt almost too empty.

Louis had managed to get three hours of sleep, and now it was two in the afternoon. He turned his head and reached for his phone on the nightstand, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Time to go through his messages—starting with the pleasant ones.

Lottie had sent a picture in the family group chat: Phoebe and Daisy, both looking far too pleased with themselves, standing in the middle of what could only be described as utter chaos. The kitchen table was covered in arts and crafts supplies, scissors dangerously close to the edge, and—Louis squinted—a very lopsided chunk missing from Daisy’s fringe. Next to them sat a pile of cut hair, and in the background, a very guilty-looking, huge chocolate brown Labradoodle—Clifford, the neighbor’s dog.

Lottie: Before you ask—yes, they did it themselves. Yes, it was an accident (according to them). No, the dog did not willingly participate.

Before Louis could even type a response, a second message popped up—this time from Phoebe herself.

Phoebe: Okay, but in our defense, Clifford looked way too warm, and we thought a summer trim would help.

Daisy: And I think I actually did a decent job on him!

Louis groaned, rubbing his forehead. Please tell me you at least left the poor dog with some dignity?

Lottie: Depends on your definition of dignity. I might need to call Jim and offer free dog treats for a month. Not sure yet.

Louis snorted, shaking his head before moving on to his other messages.

A message from Eleanor: Hey, when you’re back, up for a coffee? Miss you xx 

He typed a response, telling her he wasn’t sure how long the shoot would last, but that he’d reach out once the private jet home was scheduled.

And then—to his dismay—the last message, or maybe the worst of them. Simon.

Simon Cowell: Had to leave already. There was an issue I needed to handle. Next meeting is already scheduled, where we’ll finalize the PR plan for Rolex. Stick to the agreements until then.

Louis exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. A typical Simon comment, laced with a thinly veiled warning. At least he was gone. That meant for the rest of the day—maybe even for the remainder of the trip—he had a little more breathing room.

He tossed his phone aside, letting it land on the mattress. His mind drifted back to the morning, to the surprising ease with which he and Harry had existed in the same space. Maybe Harry had pitied him after Louis' rushed interaction with Simon, squeezed in between the villa door and the car waiting to take them to the shoot. Simon hadn’t even tried to be subtle, his frustration spilling out in clipped words and thinly veiled threats - and it so happened that Harry must have heard it. It wasn’t sympathy he wanted, not from Harry. He didn’t trust it with him, nor could he say he even liked him. Sure, they had managed a truce, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry was still a rich, arrogant fucker. Louis snorted to himself. He wasn’t about to walk into this situation blindly.

Still, as his thoughts churned, frustration simmering beneath the surface, he exhaled sharply, willing himself to let go of the tension. It wouldn’t help to dwell. His body, however, had other concerns. The heat pressed against his skin, thick and stifling, like an unwelcome weight settling over him. It clung to him, suffocating, dragging him out of his thoughts and back into the present moment.

The summer in Madeira was relentless, and while Louis had seen his fair share of warm weather, this was something else. His shirt clung to his skin in all the wrong ways, the air in the room thick and heavy.

Rolling out of bed, he padded over to the balcony doors and slid them open completely. The view was breathtaking. The infinity pool stretched out before him, its deep blue water blending seamlessly into the horizon where the ocean shimmered under the midday sun. Beyond the glass railing, rugged cliffs jutted into the water, the villa perched like a hidden paradise above them. The outdoor lounge area below was lined with plush white sofas, a wooden table at the center holding a bowl of fresh fruit and glasses half-filled with condensation from the heat.

He rested his hands on the railing, inhaling deeply as the salty ocean breeze played with his hair. Below him, the waves crashed lazily against the cliffs, the deep blue of the water stretching endlessly toward the horizon. The heat pressed against his skin, heavy and relentless, but out here, with the wind on his face, it was bearable. Almost pleasant.

For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the world exist around him. No pressure, no expectations, just him and the open sky. His fingers tightened around the cool metal of the railing, and then, almost as if the thought had come out of nowhere, a grin tugged at his lips.

Why not do something reckless for once? Simon was gone—who was left to scold him? The idea lit a spark in his chest, mischief unfurling like a firework. He rolled his shoulders back, exhaling slowly, then peeled his damp shirt off, letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

His gaze flicked to the sturdy wooden table on his balcony. Perfect. Without hesitation, he climbed onto it, his bare feet pressing into the smooth surface as he balanced himself. The wind was tugging at his hair, making the moment feel even more electric. He bent his knees slightly, steadied himself—and then launched offtucking into a perfect cannonball. The water rushed up to meet him, and with a loud splash, he disappeared beneath the surface.

The impact sent water surging in every direction, drenching the pristine lounge area and anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby.

When he resurfaced, laughter bubbled from his lips, the cool water a stark contrast to the scorching heat. He ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking out the excess water, before blinking up at the sky. The world felt sharper, more alive, as if the shock of the cold had jolted something loose inside him.

He wiped the droplets from his face—only to be met with the sight of Harry and Lou, both standing at the edge of the pool, looking less than amused. Water dripped from their clothes, their hair clinging to their faces, the pristine lounge chairs behind them now thoroughly soaked.

Harry was blinking through the water dripping from his curls, lips parted in shock, while Lou gaped at him, her arms held out as if she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Louis grinned triumphantly, flicking some water in their direction just for good measure. "Hello, lovebirds. Enjoying the pool?"

Harry wiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply, his usual composure slipping just enough to reveal his exasperation. "You’re an absolute menace, you know that?"

Louis only laughed, paddling backward with lazy strokes. "Yeah, well, at least now you both look properly refreshed. You can thank me later."

Lou laughed loudly, wringing the ends of her dress. "I literally hate you."

"You’re welcome," Louis shot back cheekily, floating on his back as the midday sun bore down on them. He let himself drift for a moment, savoring the cool embrace of the water, the sound of the waves crashing in the distance. His eyes trailed up to the villa, its towering glass windows reflecting the golden light, the pristine outdoor furniture now slightly disheveled from his stunt. The outdoor lounge, which had once looked straight out of a design magazine, now bore the evidence of his antics—damp cushions, a trail of water glistening on the sleek stone floor, and a few scattered pillows knocked out of place. From up here, the balcony where he had launched himself into the pool looked even higher, a reminder of the sheer spontaneity that had gripped him just moments ago.

Despite himself, despite the unpredictability of whatever this fragile ceasefire with Harry was, he felt good. Light, unburdened. For the first time in a while, he wasn’t overthinking. He was just here, enjoying the moment.

Letting out a content sigh, he stretched his arms behind his head and allowed himself to sink further into the cool embrace of the water. The heat from the sun pressed against his skin, but the contrast with the gentle, lapping waves of the pool made it feel indulgent rather than oppressive.

Just as he was about to fully relax, Lou’s voice cut through the warm afternoon air. "Louis, sunscreen. Now. If you get sunburned today, I swear it won’t end well for you. We have another shoot tomorrow, and I doubt you want to be bright red like a tomato. Rolex won’t be happy about that either."

Louis laughed, pulling himself up the pool steps and strolling into the villa’s living area, where he grabbed his sunglasses and a bottle of sunscreen. Back outside, he dropped onto a lounge chair, flipped open the cap, and began rubbing the cream over his tattooed arms and torso. When he was done, he held up the bottle and glanced at Lou. "My back?"

Lou sighed, took the bottle from him, and started spreading the sunscreen over his shoulders with practiced ease. "Honestly, without me, you’d be a sunburnt mess somewhere."

Louis grinned. But before he could respond, he felt a stare on him. His gaze flicked toward Harry, who was watching them over the edge of his book, his green eyes narrowed in silent judgment.

Louis raised a brow, shifting on the lounge chair as he smirked. "Should I be worried about you murdering me with that death stare, or is that just your usual face?"

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, flipping a page. "Yeah, well I was thinking about it. But if I do, I promise to make it quick."

Louis scoffed, dramatically clutching his chest. "Oh, how considerate of you. And here I was hoping you’d at least make it look like an accident."

Harry finally looked up again, lips twitching. "Drowning in the pool after an ill-advised backflip? I think people would believe that."

Louis gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you, I am incredibly graceful."

Harry hummed, noncommittal, his gaze drifting back to his book. "Sure. Keep telling yourself that."

Louis rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. It was stupid banter, but it was easy. And maybe, just maybe, that made it the best part of the afternoon.

Louis chuckled, shook his head, and grabbed his inflatable mattress again. With a sigh of satisfaction, he slipped back into the pool, drifting lazily on the water’s surface.

Lou watched him, unimpressed, before grabbing a sun umbrella, unfolding it, and placing it firmly beside the pool. "You better stay in the shade. I’m not dealing with you being fried tomorrow. Honestly, Louis, why can’t you take a page out of Harry’s book? He’s behaving like a model human—no broken necks from jumping off balconies, no sunburn risks because he actually knows how to stay in the shade."

Louis turned his head toward where Harry was lounging comfortably on a cushioned chair under a large white sun umbrella, his toned body stretched out with the ease of someone who had nothing to prove. His swim shorts clung low on his hips, the defined lines of his V-shaped abs disappearing beneath the waistband. The golden light cast soft shadows over his skin, accentuating the sharp angles of his collarbones, the smooth expanse of his chest. With his book held lazily in one hand, fingers idly brushing over the pages, he looked like some Greek god indulging in an afternoon of leisure—untouchable, almost statuesque in his stillness.

Louis scoffed. "Yeah, well, with how pale he is, I’m honestly surprised he doesn't burst into flames. You sure you don’t sparkle in the sunlight, Harold?"

Harry finally looked up from his book, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

Louis snorted. "Right, so that’s a yes."

Harry smirked, flipping a page. "Guess you’ll have to keep watching to find out."

Louis rolled his eyes, but the grin stayed, small but stubborn. He let himself drift, the water lapping gently around him as he occasionally flicked his gaze toward Harry. He wasn’t sure why, but watching him—so unbothered, stretched out in complete ease—felt oddly grounding. It was a rare moment of peace, where neither of them was trying too hard, where the silences weren’t awkward or filled with sharp edges. The teasing faded, replaced by something softer, something easy. Only the rustling of Harry’s pages and the distant crash of waves remained, steady and unintrusive, like background noise to something unspoken but understood.

"Louis, get in the shade!" Lou groaned, hands on her hips as she shot him a pointed look.

"Yes, mum," Louis smirked, floating lazily on the water. "You gonna make me a drink? Maybe read me a bedtime story?"

Lou rolled her eyes. With a dramatic sigh, Louis eventually did as she asked, shifting under the umbrella as if it physically pained him. As he leaned back, letting the cool shade mix with the lingering heat on his skin, he had to admit—begrudgingly—maybe Lou had a point. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. He let himself sink deeper into the float, the gentle motion of the water lulling him into a state of pure relaxation. For once, he decided, he’d let Lou have this victory. Mostly because arguing took energy, and at the moment, he had none.

Time slipped away, the minutes stretching and folding into one another, thick with summer heat and salt-tinged air. The shade was cooler than he'd expected, the faint breeze carrying the scent of the ocean, the distant hum of cicadas filling the spaces between. Every so often, he glanced toward Harry again, watching as he turned a page with slow, deliberate movements, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement at whatever he was reading. It was strangely... nice. Almost domestic in a way he wouldn’t dare admit aloud. The villa, with its endless balconies and pristine pool, felt less like a set and more like a pocket of time suspended between reality and something else entirely. And, surprisingly, he didn’t even mind that Harry was here too. It should have irritated him, the constant presence, the effortless ease with which Harry existed in his space. But somehow, it didn’t. For once, Louis was more than happy to exist within this strange, fleeting moment.

Eventually, as the afternoon stretched on, the quiet was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Lou strolled toward them, clipboard in hand, her expression a mix of amusement and mild exasperation.

"Alright, Louis, enough lazing around. Go shower—we need you fresh for makeup."

Louis groaned, reluctantly paddling toward the pool’s steps. Before climbing out, he let himself sink under one last time, emerging with a dramatic shake of his head that sent water flying in every direction. Lou took a step back just in time, but Harry, still reclined on his lounger, was not as lucky. He slowly lowered his book, blinking at Louis through dripping lashes.

"Great. Just what I needed," Harry muttered, wiping his face with slow, deliberate movements. "I thought this was supposed to be an adults-only vacation."

Louis grinned, tilting his head as he eyed Harry. "Oh, believe me, if this were truly an adults-only vacation, I’d be expecting a lot more than a cocktail and a palm leaf from you." His smirk turned deliberately suggestive, eyes glinting with mischief.

With deliberate slowness, Harry snapped the book shut, arching an eyebrow, unimpressed—but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. "Dream on, Tomlinson."

Louis chuckled, leaning back into the water. "Oh, I do, Styles. I do."

Lou let out a long, suffering sigh. "Unbelievable. You have enough energy to be a menace, but not to get up and go shower? Priorities, Louis."

Louis stretched leisurely, draping his arms behind his head. "I’m pacing myself."

Lou crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Well, pace yourself straight into the villa before I personally haul you there. And I won’t be gentle."

Louis groaned but dragged himself toward the steps, muttering, "You’re ruthless, you know that?" He climbed out of the pool, rolling his shoulders before wringing out his hair, making a show of shaking the excess water off. "What about him?" he asked, nodding toward Harry, who had already gone back to his book.

"We’re taking him straight to makeup. Waterproof products only today, so don’t complain—it won’t be that bad," Lou replied, scribbling something onto her clipboard. "Hair stays as is. And you’re both getting your swim shorts prepped. Consider yourselves lucky—no ridiculous costumes today."

Louis pressed a hand to his chest in mock relief. "Finally, a shoot that’s actually my style. No tight suits, no stupid props? Someone pinch me."

Harry, without looking up, flipped a page. "Tempting."

Louis huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he headed inside, already thinking about how much longer he could push Lou’s patience before she completely lost it.

He headed upstairs to his room, peeling off his damp trunks as he stepped into the shower. The cool water was a relief against his sun-warmed skin as he quickly showered off the chlorine and sweat. He barely had time to enjoy it before he was stepping out again, towel-drying his hair as he spotted the swim shorts the crew had left for him. He grabbed them, holding them up with a skeptical look.

"Seriously?" he muttered to himself, while tugging them on. The shorts were... brief, to say the least. Snug in places that felt a little too intentional. He turned in the mirror, eyeing the fit critically. "Fantastic. Just what I need—ass-hugging trunks while standing next to Mr. Sex Symbol of Formula 1."

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a fresh towel, draping it over his shoulder before heading back downstairs. When he reached the prep area, Harry was already done with hair and makeup, lounging in his own set of swim shorts—similarly tight-fitting.

Louis’ gaze flicked over him before a slow smirk spread across his face. "Well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one whose dignity is being sacrificed for fashion. Didn’t take you for the ‘painted-on swimwear’ type, Styles."

Harry, utterly unfazed, lazily lifted his gaze. "Says the guy who just spent five minutes posing in front of the mirror."

Louis scoffed, folding his arms. "It was barely thirty seconds."

Harry tilted his head, as if considering. "Right. And I suppose you weren’t flexing either?"

Lou, who had been walking past, let out an amused snort. "Oh my God, I don’t even want to know how you know that, Harry."

Louis threw up his hands. "Unbelievable. Can a man not perform a casual quality check before being forced into international humiliation?"

Harry’s lips twitched as he grabbed his towel. "Sure, let’s call it that."

Before Louis could retaliate, Kathryn’s voice rang out from the other room, sharp and to the point. "Alright, enough flirting! Get moving."

Harry smirked at Louis as he stood, adjusting his swim shorts with deliberate ease. "You heard her. Let’s go, barely-there chic."

Louis huffed but followed, muttering under his breath, "Ridiculous. At least mine leave something to the imagination. You, on the other hand, might as well be naked."

Once Lou finished Louis make-up and both of them were ready, they piled into the car and drove toward the Lava Pools. The ride was quiet, save for the soft hum of music playing through the car speakers and the occasional teasing remark from Lou about their 'high fashion' swimwear. The golden light of the setting sun cast long shadows over the winding coastal road, the sea glistening in the distance, waves crashing rhythmically against the jagged shoreline. As they neared their destination, the landscape transformed—lush greenery gave way to rugged volcanic rock, carved by time and the ocean’s force, now home to the famous Lava Pools. The contrast between the stark black rock and the crystal-clear, aquamarine water was mesmerizing, nature's raw beauty at its finest.

Louis leaned against the car door, letting out a slow breath as they pulled into the parking area. The pools stretched before them, an intricate labyrinth of natural basins, shimmering under the pastel hues of the sky. The warm glow of the sunset painted the horizon in fiery oranges, pinks, and purples, blending seamlessly into the deepening blue of the evening. It was the kind of view that didn’t need words to be appreciated.

Harry stepped out beside him, hands resting on his hips as he surveyed the scene. The breeze ruffled his curls, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it in—his toned arms catching the last light of the sun, the sharp lines of his jaw softening in the golden glow. His pink lips curved slightly, and his green eyes shimmered with excite- nope, stop it, we're not gonna think that way, Tommo. Louis reminded himself.

Harry exhaled slowly before finally speaking, his voice carrying the slightest hint of awe. "Alright, I’ll admit it. This is worth squeezing into tiny shorts for."

Louis let out a small chuckle, pushing off the car. "Yeah, yeah. Just try not to look too much like a model when we get in. Some of us still have reputations to maintain."

Harry smirked, rolling his shoulders before stretching his arms lazily above his head, his toned stomach flexing under the movement. "No promises."

Louis huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as they started walking. "Unbelievable. Next thing I know, you’ll be posing for Vogue in the middle of a rock pool."

Harry threw him a sideways glance, eyes twinkling. "Nah, already posed for them, not in a pool, and definitely not in swim shorts—more like in a dress."

Louis came to an abrupt halt, nearly tripping over his own feet as he turned to stare at Harry, mouth slightly agape. "What??"

Harry took a few more steps before realizing Louis was no longer beside him. He turned back with an easy shrug. "Clothes are meant to be fun, something to experiment and play with. It’s always the same—if you start drawing lines around yourself, you’re only boxing yourself in."

They continued walking, making their way toward the rocky cliffs overlooking the pools below—the spot where they were supposed to jump. The higher they climbed, the more breathtaking the view became, the deep blue of the ocean stretching endlessly before them. Louis could hear the distant crash of waves against the volcanic rock, the scent of salt thick in the air.

But even as the scenery demanded his attention, he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Harry. The way he carried himself, the confidence, the ease—was this really the same Harry Styles he thought he knew? The cocky, too-rich, too-perfect golden boy of Formula 1? Because right now, he seemed like something else entirely. And Louis wasn’t sure what to do with that realization.

Louis shook the thought away. Focus, Tommo.

Ahead of them, the rocky edge of the cliff loomed—their jumping point. The ocean below churned with a rhythmic pulse, waves crashing against the jagged black rocks. The water looked impossibly clear from up here, but it was the height that made Louis' heart pump faster. A thrill. A challenge. A reason to act like the competitive bastard he was.

Kathryn’s voice rang out from below, giving them the go-ahead. They could jump.

Louis instinctively stepped forward, ready to launch himself off, but something made him glance sideways. Harry was still rooted in place, staring down at the drop with a look that wasn’t excitement—it was hesitation.

Louis tilted his head, suppressing the amused smirk threatening to spread across his lips. "Ohhh," he drawled. "You’re scared."

Harry tore his gaze away from the water to glare at him, but the usual sharpness wasn’t there. "I’ve launched myself off curbs higher than this."

"Right, right," Louis said, crossing his arms. "And yet, here you are, still standing. Looking like you’re about to write your last will and testament."

Harry inhaled through his nose. "I’m not scared. I’m just... evaluating."

Louis let out an exaggerated gasp. "Evaluating your odds of surviving? Damn, Styles, didn’t take you for the overthinking type."

Harry rolled his eyes, but his feet still hadn’t moved. Louis nudged him with his shoulder, voice dripping with playful mockery. "Tell you what—we go on three, yeah? You and me. Same time."

Harry hesitated again, his jaw tightening. Louis could practically see the internal battle raging inside him. Oh, this was too good.

"C’mon, Styles," Louis pressed, grinning now. "I didn’t know you were this soft. Thought you were fearless, a real daredevil. Or was that just for show?"

That did it. Harry’s head snapped toward him, green eyes flashing with determination. "Fine," he bit out. "But if you push me, I swear to God, I’m dragging you down with me."

Louis' grin widened. "Wouldn’t have it any other way."

He squeezed Harry’s hand, gave him one last challenging look, and then counted off. "One… Two… Three!"

The wind rushed past them, the weightlessness of free-fall lasting only a heartbeat before they plunged into the glittering water below. The shock of the cold was immediate, sending a jolt through Louis' body, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins made it exhilarating rather than unpleasant. As he resurfaced, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, he turned to see Harry breaking through the surface beside him, sucking in a breath.

"Alright, I’ll admit it—that was decent," Harry said, pushing his hair back before breaking into loud, genuine laughter. He tilted his head back slightly, the sound carrying over the water as he looked at Louis, his green eyes gleaming with exhilaration.

Louis blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by how carefree he looked. But he quickly recovered, smirking. "See? Not so bad. Thought I’d have to drag you off that cliff kicking and screaming."

The cameras were rolling, capturing everything—the droplets of water clinging to their skin, the slow-motion arc of their jump, the way the light of the setting sun painted golden streaks across the ocean. It was cinematic, larger than life, the kind of scene that would sell a fantasy of effortless confidence and untouchable coolness. Louis felt the buzz in his limbs, the rush of adrenaline making him feel weightless, untethered.

As they swam, Kathryn’s voice rang out from the shore, giving them cues. “Alright, we need more underwater shots. Stay controlled, keep the watches in frame.”

A cameraman in a wetsuit floated nearby, adjusting his position, while a drone hovered above them, capturing every movement from the sky. The water sparkled beneath the golden haze of the setting sun, turning their skin into something almost unreal—glistening, statuesque. They were supposed to emerge from the water like gods, Rolex watches catching the last rays of daylight, droplets cascading from their bodies in slow motion. Louis found it absurdly over-the-top, but he held his tongue. He had to admit—he was having fun.

The first few takes were professional, their movements smooth and precise. Harry pulled through the water with strong, controlled strokes, his expression unreadable, while Louis swam just beside him, adding just enough energy to make it look natural. But as exhaustion set in, the carefully choreographed movements became looser, their laughter slipping through the cracks of professionalism.

As Louis felt himself losing concentration, Kathryn’s voice cut through the sound of the waves. "Perfect, lads, we've got everything. You can come out of the water."

The drone above shifted position before pulling back, signaling the end of filming. The cameraman in the wetsuit had already begun his slow swim back to shore, the cameras finally turning away. And that’s when Louis spotted his opportunity.

His smirk widened as he swam a little closer to Harry, careful not to give himself away. Harry was still catching his breath, his focus already shifting toward the shoreline. Too easy.

Without hesitation, Louis darted a hand underwater and grabbed Harry’s foot, yanking hard.

Harry disappeared beneath the surface with a surprised splash, surfacing only seconds later, spluttering. “What is wrong with you?”

Louis snickered. “Oh, lighten up, Styles. Thought we were making this fun.”

Harry’s glare was sharp, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You want fun?” Without warning, he sent a wave of water straight at Louis’ face, the spray catching the golden light of the setting sun as it hit him square on.

Louis let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, wiping his face. “You did not just—”

Before he could finish, Harry lunged at him, hands gripping his shoulders as he shoved him underwater. The world flipped for a second, the muffled silence beneath the surface engulfing him before he kicked back up, breaking through with a gasp. He coughed, shaking his hair out of his eyes as he locked onto Harry.

“Oh, now it’s a fight?” Louis growled, voice playful but competitive.

They lunged at each other again, arms tangling in the water, each trying to get the upper hand. The water churned around them, ripples spreading outward as their bodies collided in playful combat. Laughter echoed between the cliffs, their competitiveness on full display as they wrestled like two kids who had no regard for the high-end campaign they only filmed seconds ago.

Then, suddenly, it wasn’t just a game anymore.

Their movements slowed, the pushing and shoving fading into something else entirely. The space between them shrank, their laughter dying down into the steady sound of their breathing, heavy and uneven. Water dripped from their hair, trailing down their faces. Louis felt it first—that shift, the sudden weight pressing in around them, thick as the salty air.

Harry’s green eyes locked onto his, intense, unreadable, a flicker of something neither of them was prepared for passing between them. The setting sun turned his wet skin to gold, his lips slightly parted as if he were about to speak. Louis felt his own breath hitch, caught somewhere between anticipation and denial.

For a fraction of a second, neither of them moved. The world had narrowed to just this—just the water, the heat of their bodies so close together, the electric charge humming beneath the surface.

Harry exhaled, his gaze flickering to Louis’ mouth.

What? No. No. No. No. Absolutely not. Louis felt his stomach tighten, something hot and foreign curling in his chest. He wasn’t about to let this happen—not here, not now, not fuckin ever. Before the moment could settle, before the tension could snap into something irreversible, Louis did the only thing that made sense—he shoved Harry underwater.

Harry resurfaced seconds later, coughing and cursing, eyes flashing with something between frustration and disbelief. “You absolute—”

But Louis was already swimming back toward the shore, forcing his heart to calm, pretending like nothing had happened. “What? Thought you were way to dry, mate.”

His voice was too tight, his limbs too tense as he pulled himself onto the rocks, snatching the towel someone handed him and rubbing it over his hair with unnecessary force.

Harry pushed past him without a word, but the movement wasn’t just silent—it was charged. An unspoken aggression pulsed between them, the kind neither of them knew how to name. The brief moment in the water had shifted something, tipped the balance from playful to sharp-edged and uneasy. Louis' chest tightened, his breath coming short as he forced himself to focus on drying off instead of acknowledging the frustration still simmering in his veins.

From the shore, no one had seen what had happened in that split second between Louis and Harry. To everyone else, it had just been another splash, another moment of competitive roughhousing. But the shift in their behaviour was noticeable for the whole crew. Something was off. The teasing and laughing between them had disappeared; it was as if they were back to square one. As if they couldn't stand each other anymore.

Kathryn, ever the professional, crossed her arms and surveyed them both, her sharp gaze flicking between them. "Well, I suppose it’s a good thing this shoot is about rivalry. No one could have played that better than you two." She exhaled, shaking her head with a knowing smirk. "One more day, lads. Just keep it together until then."

Louis let out a slow breath, forcing a casual shrug. "Yeah. Shouldn’t be too hard."

Lou, ever the fixer, clearly sensed the tension but was determined to override it. She clapped her hands together and beamed, her voice deliberately upbeat. "Okay! That was incredible! Seriously, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you two actually enjoyed yourselves out there. And the slow-motion stuff? Absolute magic. You both looked like bloody gods rising from the water."

She wiggled her brows, but when neither of them reacted, she pressed on. "And more importantly—Harry, you still owe us all pizza. I, for one, have never looked forward to anything more."

"Alright, alright, I get it," Harry said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I’ll order the damn pizza. But if any of you orders pineapple on it: I won’t pay for that sin!"

Lou gasped dramatically. "You wound me. Pineapple is an elite topping, Styles. But fine, we’ll let you have your boring, flavorless pizza."

Harry smirked. "Gosh I’ll have to reconsider your mental health."

Lou chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, divas, I’ll put in the order. What do you want then?"

"Funghi for me," Harry answered immediately. "And make sure nothing weird ends up on it."

"Funghi and ham for me," Louis chimed in lazily, casting a glance at Harry. "And make sure his doesn’t have any extra seasoning or spice. He’s got the palate of a child."

Harry rolled his eyes. "At least I can eat pizza with a knife and fork, Tomlinson."

Lou groaned. "Oh my God, you two. Can we at least have dinner without the bickering?" She shook her head and waved them off. "I’ll handle it, but if I hear one complaint when the food arrives, I swear I’m eating all of it myself."

Harry's POV

Back at the villa, Harry stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He raked a hand through his damp curls, pacing like a caged animal. How fucking stupid could he be? It had been a moment—just a fleeting, reckless moment—but in that weightless ease, in the rush of adrenaline, he'd felt something. For Louis Tomlinson. And that was unacceptable. Jesus Christ, he needed to get a grip.

It wasn’t real. It was the heat of competition, the high of the cameras rolling, the forced proximity—nothing more. That had to be it. Because the alternative was something he refused to even entertain. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked off his trunks, tossing them carelessly to the floor, and stepped under the scalding water of the shower, bracing his hands against the cool tiles. He let the heat sting his skin, willing it to wash away not just the salt and exhaustion but the intrusive thoughts that had been threatening to take root in his mind.

After a long moment, he shut off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist, exhaling sharply. This was nothing. He was making it into something bigger than it was, and that was his own damn fault. Time to shake it off and move on.

Pulling on a fresh outfit—a lilac knit set, the sleeveless top hanging loose over his frame, the matching shorts sitting snug on his hips—he gave himself one final once-over in the mirror. The color made his green eyes stand out even more, a striking contrast that felt almost too noticeable. The look was soft but confident, bold yet effortless. He sighed - whatever weird shit was happening in his head, he’d lock it away. Bury it. With a roll of his shoulders and a practiced smirk, he turned on his heel and left the room.

As he descended the stairs and stepped into the living area, the sheer grandeur of the villa washed over him once again. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed an uninterrupted view of the glistening pool and the ocean beyond, the water reflecting the golden hues of the fading sun. The open-concept space was bathed in warm light, the beige and earthy tones of the plush sofas and armchairs adding to the effortless luxury. Modern chandeliers hung from the towering ceiling, their soft glow contrasting against the twilight sky. A sleek dining table stood to one side, set impeccably as if awaiting a feast that might never come.

Lou shouted from the kitchen, waving a piece of paper. "Harry, I’ve got the pizza wishes of everyone! We can order now for about an hour from now. What do you think? Then it'll be 8 PM, the perfect time for dinner."

Harry made his way to the kitchen, rolling his eyes playfully. "Fine, fine. For me, it’s funghi pizza, please. And just as long as none of you do anything stupid with the toppings. I swear, if I see olives anywhere near my pizza, we’re fighting."

Lou smirked, tapping the notepad. "Noted. No olives for the diva. You’re covering it, right?"

Harry scoffed, "Yeah, yeah, I’ll pay. Just as long as nobody even thinks about ordering pineapple."

"We will be discussing your tragic taste later, Styles," Lou shot back, but she was already making the call. Then she glanced at the list again, pausing. "Louis wants a Regina, by the way."

Harry snorted. "Of course, he does. Basic."

Lou grinned. "Says the guy who’s scared of olives."

Harry pointed at her. "That is a reasonable fear. Olives ruin everything."

Lou rolled her eyes dramatically, bringing the phone up to her ear. "Right, whatever you say, Captain Olive-Phobia. Just sit tight, food’s on its way."

Harry snorted and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the strange energy lingering in his body. He grabbed a bottle of water from the counter, taking a long sip before making his way back into the living area.

His gaze landed on Nick, sprawled comfortably on the plush sofa like he had no care in the world. Laptop perched on his lap, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, he looked effortlessly in control—like he was exactly where he was supposed to be. He wore a crisp linen shirt, the top few buttons undone, his tanned skin catching the soft glow of the chandeliers. His hair was styled with just enough messiness to look intentional, and his expensive watch gleamed subtly in the low light—a quiet but constant reminder of the world they operated in.

Nick glanced up as Harry approached, a knowing smirk creeping onto his face. "Look who finally decided to rejoin the land of the dry."

Harry huffed a small laugh, unscrewing the bottle cap of his water. "Needed to get the salt out of my hair."

Nick leaned further into the sofa, crossing his arms. "Simon’s already left. Something urgent, apparently. Rolex stuff, most likely. But everything’s running smoothly. The PR events for the rollout campaign are almost all set." He exhaled, stretching his legs out, looking as if he had all the time in the world. "Kathryn showed me some of the footage from yesterday’s and today’s shoot. She’s thrilled. Says you and Louis have something special on camera. The energy, the tension—it’s exactly what they wanted."

Harry took a sip of water, feeling something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. He forced a chuckle, shrugging. "Guess we’re just really good at getting on each other’s nerves."

Nick hummed, amused, but his gaze stayed sharp. "Yeah? Because from what I saw, it didn’t just look like that." He paused, letting his words settle, then continued in a lighter tone. "Gotta say, didn’t expect you two to play off each other that well. Changed your opinion on him yet?"

Harry furrowed his brows slightly, shaking his head. "He’s still a pain in the ass."

Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "Thought so." But then his smirk faded, his posture shifting just slightly. "Listen—" his voice dropped an octave, losing its casual edge, "—it’s good that you’re getting along for the cameras, but don’t take it beyond that. A bit of rivalry? Great. A bit of friendship? Fine. But if I hear anything about you and Louis getting too... close—that’s where it becomes a problem."

Harry tensed, jaw tightening. "Excuse me?"

Nick sighed, tapping his fingers against the laptop. "Come on, mate. You know exactly what I mean. I don’t care who you spend your time with outside of this world, but it will not be him. You need to keep your head in the game. Louis is here to fix your image, not complicate it. If you mess this up, it won’t just be bad for you—it’ll be bad for both of you."

The air in Harry’s lungs felt heavier. The conversation had turned so quickly from relaxed to suffocating. He shifted, gripping the water bottle a little too tight. "You’re making it sound like something’s happening. There’s nothing to worry about. We’re just two drivers doing a campaign together, we’re not even close to friends, just... civil. That’s all."

Nick’s gaze lingered, his expression unreadable. Then, with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he pushed himself off the couch and clapped Harry on the shoulder—friendly, but firm. "You’re handling this well, mate. Seriously. Keep it up."

Harry gave a stiff nod, his grip tightening around the bottle of water. "Yeah."

Nick stretched, rolling out his shoulders. "I’ve already eaten, so I’m gonna wrap up some work and then turn in for the night. Enjoy your pizza."

Harry didn’t reply, just watched as Nick strolled toward his room, his presence leaving a weighted silence in his wake.

He exhaled slowly. Fuck. He had a lot to deal with. The weight of everything pressed in on him—the expectations, the scrutiny, the warning that still echoed in his ears. It was suffocating, clawing at his ribs, making it hard to breathe. He needed something to take the edge off, something to quiet the pounding in his skull.

His thoughts drifted back to the shoot, to the water lapping around them, to the golden glow of the sunset and the ridiculous way everything had felt so easy—until it hadn’t. It had been one second too long, one look too deep, one breath too held. And if something had happened—if—what a fucking disaster that would have been. Colossal, career-ending, life-ending shit. He squeezed his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell was wrong with him?

The whole thing was pathetic. He didn’t want to kiss Louis Tomlinson. He didn’t. Just because the guy was suddenly capable of being decent for five minutes didn’t mean Harry had to fall at his feet like some lovesick idiot. How weak was he, seriously? One fleeting moment of whatever the hell that was, and suddenly he couldn’t get his head straight?

And it wasn’t just about that. Even if—God forbid—he had wanted it, what would it have meant? The cameras, the people watching, the headlines if anyone had seen. His entire life, shredded apart in a second. And Louis—

Louis, who clearly hadn’t even considered it. Who had shut it down so fast it was almost laughable. Of course, he had. He wasn’t interested. Thank God.

Harry let out a sharp breath and clenched his jaw, rolling his shoulders back. Get your head straight, Styles. This is nothing. Just rivalry, just adrenaline, just a bunch of misplaced energy. Nothing more.

Pushing off the couch, he strode toward the kitchen, his movements tense. He found the wine cabinet, his fingers curling around the neck of a bottle as he pulled it out and uncorked it with practiced ease. The deep red liquid sloshed into the glass, and he took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through his limbs, dulling the edges of his thoughts.

Glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, he stepped outside onto the terrace, where the crew was already gathered, sprawled across the lounge area. The terrace itself was an oasis of modern luxury, a seamless blend of comfort and elegance. White cushioned sofas and armchairs were arranged around a nice huge coffee table. The firepit crackled softly next to the lounging area, casting flickering shadows against the sleek patio furniture. A stack of pizza boxes sat on the low table, their warmth still rising into the cool evening air. Low stone walls and lush greenery enclosed the space, adding a sense of intimacy despite the open view of the ocean in the distance. The scent of saltwater and woodsmoke intertwined, carried by the gentle breeze rolling in from the sea.

Harry settled onto one of the plush couches, exhaling as he took another sip of wine.

The atmosphere on the terrace was lively, voices overlapping as boxes were opened, slices handed out and drinks poured. Someone had actually put one olive in Harry’s pizza box, and the moment Harry saw it, the betrayal hit hard.

"Whoever did this," he muttered, staring at the offensive fruit atop melted cheese, "I hope you know I will never forgive you."

Laughter erupted around him as Lou leaned over with a smirk. "Oh come on, Haz, it's just one olive. Be brave."

"Brave? This is treason," Harry shot back, flicking the olive off his pizza with exaggerated disgust. It landed on the table, and someone immediately picked it up and made a show of eating it. More laughter followed, especially when Lou snatched another olive from her own pizza and dramatically offered it to Harry as a peace treaty. "Take it, Haz, embrace the dark side."

Harry recoiled. "I’d rather eat a shoe. A sweaty, post-race, fireproof boot."

"You’re so dramatic," Lou sighed, shaking her head. "It’s just a tiny fruit."

"It’s an abomination," Harry countered. "It taints everything it touches."

"Right, and yet you’re completely fine with whatever weird concoction you drink before a race? That green sludge? What even is that?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "That is a carefully formulated hydration mix. This—" he gestured at the offending olive, "—is evil incarnate."

Lou cackled, clearly enjoying his suffering. "We should start sneaking them into your food. Build up your tolerance."

"Not happening" Harry said flatly, picking up his slice of pizza with exaggerated care, scanning it for any more intrusions. "You lot are cruel, truly. Unforgivable."

"You’ll survive, Styles" someone teased, clapping him on the shoulder.

Harry sighed dramatically, but even he couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at his lips. He reached for his wine glass, taking a long sip before finally taking a bite of his funghi pizza. The warmth of it eased his nerves, smoothed out the sharp edges of his thoughts. He was content to let the conversation happen around him, chiming in occasionally but mostly just being—until Louis arrived.

From the corner of his eye, he saw him step out of the villa, still slightly damp from his shower, hair tousled and curling at the edges. He wore a white tanktop, showing off his tattoos on his arms, and relaxed shorts that made him look effortlessly comfortable.

Harry’s entire body tensed, a reflexive reaction he couldn’t control. His grip on his wine glass tightened as the last time they had seen each other replayed in his mind, vivid and unshakable.

He should have had better control over himself. The whole thing had been so fucking stupid. He had let the situation, the adrenaline, the ridiculous ease of that one moment lull him into something reckless. And for what? So he could now sit here feeling like a complete idiot while Louis, apparently completely unaffected by the entire ordeal, strolled in as if fuckin' nothing had happened?

Harry pressed his lips together, forcing himself not to tense up even more. Maybe Louis had truly forgotten. Maybe it hadn’t even mattered to him. Maybe Harry was the only one still stuck on it, still thinking about that almost-moment in the water. It was one thing to let the rivalry simmer, to keep up the banter, to let things get under his skin. But that moment in the water? That had been a whole different kind of stupid.

Get yourself together and be civil, Styles - just fuckin' civil. You can do that.

Nick had made it explicitly clear—Louis was not an option. There was no fucking way that anything could ever happen there. Like Nick hadn’t just drawn a line but had carved it into his skin.

Why was he even thinkin’ about Louis, it was just as absurd to him as it was to everyone else.

Speaking of the devil, Louis sat down right next to him. Of course he did! Casually, unbothered, in that stupidly effortless tank-top and those shorts that were way too relaxed for someone who had driven him up the wall all day.

Without hesitation. Without a second thought.

And—because fate had apparently decided Harry hadn’t suffered enough—Louis sat the way he always did. Legs spread wide, arms draped lazily, his entire posture exuding confidence and comfort. And in doing so, his knee—bare skin against bare skin—brushed against Harry’s.

Harry tensed immediately. The contact was subtle, barely anything, but it sent an annoying jolt up his spine. And Louis? He didn’t even acknowledge it. Didn’t shift, didn’t adjust, just stayed there like he owned the damn space.

Harry clenched his jaw, lifted his glass, and took a long sip as if the wine could somehow change the way his skin felt in this moment. It was stupid. All of this was stupid. He needed to pull himself together. Act normal. Just—be normal.

He forced his shoulders to relax, his breathing to steady, even as the warmth from Louis’ leg pressed lightly against his own. He could move—he should move—but doing so would make it obvious that he’d noticed. And he refused to give Louis that satisfaction.

So he stayed still. Ignored it. Ignored the way his pulse was beating just a little too fast. And he waited for the night to feel normal again.

Louis, however, had no intention of letting that happen. The moment he sat down, he clapped his hands together, grinning at the group. "Right, which one of you legends saved me a pizza? And if the answer is 'none,' I hope you know I will be holding a grudge."

Someone shoved a box toward him, and Louis accepted it with exaggerated reverence. "You are a saint, truly. I’ll be naming my firstborn after you."

"God help that child," Lou quipped, smirking over the rim of her beer.

Louis shot her a look as he popped open the pizzabox. "Hey now, I’d make an excellent dad. I mean, I already am one in a way. Have you met my sisters? Absolute chaos, every single one of them. I swear, Lottie thinks she runs my life, Fizzy disappears for days without warning, and the twins? I love them, but they’re a menace. They once convinced me they had a pet tarantula just to watch me freak out. Turns out, it was just a toy, but still—traumatized."

Lou snorted, shaking her head. "Sounds like karma for whatever havoc you caused as a kid."

"Havoc? Me?" Louis gasped in mock offense. "I was an angel. A role model. A beacon of wisdom and restraint."

"Sure you were," Lou deadpanned. "Which explains why you think climbing balconies is a valid life skill."

Louis smirked. "First of all, it is a sport. Secondly, agility training is important for a growing child. And thirdly, those girls could probably outsmart half the people in this industry. If anything, I’m just making sure they’re prepared for life. Survival of the fittest."

Laughter rippled through the group as Louis leaned forward, reaching for a beer instead of wine.

"Now that's proper," he muttered to himself, twisting off the cap with practiced ease. Harry, still leaning back with his wine glass in hand, watched the whole exchange, his gaze trailing over Louis as he spoke so easily, so animatedly, the center of attention as always. It was annoying, really. How effortless he made it look. "Never understood you wine people. All fancy sips and swirls." He shot a glance at Harry, smirking. "How’s your overpriced grape juice treating you, Styles?"

Harry, still leaning back with his wine glass in hand, arched a brow. "Wonderfully, thanks for asking. You’d probably enjoy it if you ever developed taste."

Louis hummed, taking a slow pull from his beer. "Nah, I’ll stick to drinks that don’t require an instruction manual."

Harry exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as Louis turned back to the group, already launching into another story. This was easy - the way their banter fell into place. The teasing, the quick comebacks—it had always been part of whatever strange thing existed between them, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like something sharp-edged or dangerous. It really was just... comfortable.

He found himself relaxing into it, letting the tension ease from his shoulders. Maybe this was better. Maybe this was what they needed—to just exist in this space, surrounded by people, filled with laughter and stories.

This was fine. Everything was fine. Another sip of wine, another deep breath. He wasn’t thinking. He was just here.. He watched, quiet and observant, as Louis stole the spotlight without even trying, easily pulling everyone into his orbit.

"Oh, you think Formula One has its egos? Try having a teammate who was so superstitious he wouldn’t even let the engineers touch his car on race day—said it would ‘disturb the energy.’" Louis smirked, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink. "I’m not naming names, but let’s just say, in IndyCar, I had a teammate who genuinely believed the color of his socks determined his finishing position."

Laughter rippled through the group, drinks were raised, and even Harry couldn’t help the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. Louis leaned forward, energized by the attention, his hands moving animatedly as he continued.

"I kid you not—he had lucky socks for every race. If he got a podium, he wore the same pair again. If he crashed? Straight in the bin. One time, his luggage got lost on the way to a race, and I swear to God, this man was near tears because his ‘winning socks’ were in that suitcase."

"No way," someone laughed.

Louis nodded solemnly. "Dead serious. He made a crew member drive to another city to try and find the exact same brand and colour before qualifying. Didn’t find them—guy was convinced he was cursed."

"Did he finish the race?" someone else asked, grinning.

Louis grinned. "Nope. Retired on lap 12. Spent the rest of the weekend blaming it on ‘the universe being out of balance.’ Honestly, at that point, I half believed him. But then—plot twist—he actually won his next race. Full-on dominated it. And when he got back to the garage, all smug and convinced it was the socks, he took off his shoes and—boom. Wrong socks. Turns out, his assistant threw away the wrong pair. Man looked like his entire worldview had just crumbled. I’ve never seen someone have an existential crisis over laundry before."

The atmosphere was thick with warmth, with laughter, with the faint scent of smoke curling into the night air. Someone passed a joint around, and Louis took a slow drag, exhaling in a lazy stream before passing it on, his body relaxed, draped into the sofa, next to Harry. The glow of the firepit flickered across his features, the golden light catching on his sharp cheekbones, his fingers lazily tapping against his beer bottle - and Harry was watching him from the side.

Louis was the center of it all, like he always was. His voice carried over the others—animated, teasing, effortlessly commanding attention. The energy shifted around him, bright and alive, laughter bubbling at every remark, every exaggerated hand gesture. He had a way of weaving a story, of pulling people in, making them laugh at just the right moment, dragging them along for the ride. Even Harry, who wasn’t really listening, could still hear him. His voice stood out, smooth and certain, cutting through the haze of conversation like a familiar melody that was impossible to ignore.

Harry just sat back and let it happen. Let himself fade into the background, glass of wine in hand, listening without really engaging. One sip turned into another, then another. The slow warmth of it curled through his limbs, unraveling the tightness in his chest, making everything feel just a little softer, a little easier.

He let his head tilt back against the cushions, let the world blur at the edges, let the conversation melt into background noise. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t overthinking—just existing, just being here in this moment, in this haze of laughter and warmth and the distant lull of waves against the shore. 

Louis said something that made the group erupt into laughter, the sound vibrating through the night. Harry felt his own lips twitch, though he wasn’t entirely sure what had been said. His body was heavy, warm, his limbs pleasantly loose. The weight of the day, of everything, faded into nothing.

His eyes slipped shut, just for a second. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. The sounds around him blurred, voices fading into a distant hum, the warmth of the fire wrapping around him like a cocoon. The laughter, the murmurs, the clinking of bottles—it all softened, like a tide pulling away from the shore.

And then, he was gone.

When he startled awake, the first thing he noticed was warmth—comforting, steady. A slow, rhythmic movement beneath his cheek, rising and falling in sync with each measured breath. His brain, still foggy with wine and exhaustion, registered the weight of a blanket draped over him, the muted crackle of the fire, the distant hush of the waves. Everything felt still, settled, and for a second, he let himself linger in it, wrapped in the lingering haze of sleep.

Then, as he shifted slightly, something firm pressed against him. Warm skin. The scent surrounding him was familiar—smokey, rich with the lingering traces of tobacco and coffee, undercut by the deep warmth of cedar and worn leather. But beneath it all, there was something softer, something unexpectedly sweet—just a hint of vanilla, warm and grounding, like the last notes of a fading memory. It was comforting in a way Harry couldn’t quite explain, familiar yet disarming, like something warm he hadn’t realized he missed. His brows furrowed as his mind sluggishly tried to piece it together. His fingers twitched against something solid—something he hadn’t expected to be there.

Without thinking, he shifted slightly, his hand drifting toward the warmth, seeking it out. He wanted to stay there, to press in just a little closer, to sink back into that easy warmth. For a second, his body leaned into it, into him—until realization struck like a lightning bolt.

Wait - him?

His stomach dropped.

Blinking against the dim light, he glanced downward—and saw inked skin. A tattooed forearm, the edges of faded designs barely visible in the flickering glow.

Reality hit him in an instant.

He had fallen asleep on Louis.

His body tensed before his brain could even catch up, and he sat up abruptly, the movement making the world tilt slightly around him. His heart thudded in his chest, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of waking up there—against him.

Louis didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge him at first. He just sat there, one leg pulled up, a cigarette between his fingers, the tip glowing softly in the dim light. Smoke curled lazily into the air, his expression was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance, as if the world around him didn’t require his immediate attention.

Harry barely had time to process it all before his gaze drifted to the other end of the terrace. Lou was curled up in an oversized chair, wrapped in a blanket, fast asleep. Tucked in so neatly it almost looked deliberate. Her arms were folded close to her chest, her legs pulled up, her face peaceful in the flickering light. Like a cat, snug and undisturbed.

The terrace was empty now—just the three of them, wrapped in quiet and the lingering warmth of the fire.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep.

Louis turned his head slightly, finally acknowledging him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Didn’t take you for a cuddler, Styles. Should I be flattered?"

Harry blinked at him, still too hazy to form a proper response. Louis just chuckled, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He exhaled leisurely, the smoke curling lazily into the air, his expression unreadable as his gaze drifted back toward the dark horizon.

Harry leaned forward, reaching for his glass on the table. He wrapped his fingers around the stem, lifting it slightly, peering through the deep red liquid as he studied Louis in the dim light, his expression unreadable. Then, lifting a brow, he muttered, "Didn’t know you smoked."

Louis, still staring ahead, exhaled a slow stream of smoke before answering, "Didn’t know you drank wine like it’s water."

Harry let out a short, breathy laugh before taking another deep sip, savoring the warmth of it. "Guess we’re both learning new things."

Louis leaned back slightly, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. "I don’t smoke that much, actually. Only started about a year ago. Trying to cut back. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself."

For a moment, his gaze flickered downward, landing on Harry’s hand wrapped tightly around the wine glass—his fingers tense, not just holding, but gripping, as if it were an anchor. Harry knew that look. Too well.

"Does it help?" Louis asked, his voice quieter now, almost casual.

Harry blinked, tilting his head slightly. "What?"

Louis lifted his cigarette, tipping it in Harry’s direction, a silent gesture toward the half-empty bottle beside him. "That."

Harry considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I could say the same about that." He nodded toward Louis' cigarette.

Louis took another slow drag, letting the smoke drift lazily upward. His voice, when he spoke, was steady. "You unfortunatelly get used to it."

Harry’s gaze sharpened. "The smoking or the thing you’re running from?"

Louis let out a quiet scoff, followed by a wry chuckle. "Funny. I could ask you the same thing."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the ocean filled the space between them, waves rolling gently against the shore. Harry turned his glass in his hands, the muscles in his jaw shifting like he was debating something. Then, he set it down, leaning back, his gaze drifting toward the stars.

"You know what the best thing about alcohol is?" he murmured. "For a few hours… everything just feels a little lighter."

Louis glanced at him, then slowly turned the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember glow before he stubbed it out in the ashtray. "Yeah. Until you wake up and remember why you started."

Harry let out a bitter laugh, almost self-deprecating. "Cheers to that." He lifted his glass in a half-toast before taking another sip. Then, after a pause, he exhaled and let his head tip back against the couch.

Louis leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, his voice quieter than before. "Why do you really drink, Harry?"

Harry hesitated. The truth hovered there, close enough to touch, but instead of reaching for it, he just shook his head slightly, his voice barely above a murmur. "Maybe because it’s the only thing that makes me forget that I’m not who everyone expects me to be."

Louis held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded—like he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe more than Harry realized. He reached for another cigarette, turning it between his fingers like he was debating lighting it. But then, after a moment, he simply placed it back in the pack and pocketed it instead.

His voice was quieter when he spoke again, almost like he was speaking more to himself than to Harry. "I’ve spent the last year just trying to keep going. After my mum… I didn’t have a choice. Had to be strong for my sisters, for my career. Just keep moving. Keep pushing forward. But it’s hard, when you don’t even know where you’re running to."

Harry looked at him then—really looked at him. And for the first time, he wondered if Louis, the person everyone always saw as effortless, as unshaken, was just as lost as he was.

His voice was quieter now, softer. "I’m sorry."

Louis exhaled, a small, tired shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah. Me too."

Silence settled between them, heavier this time. Not uncomfortable, not tense—just there, stretching in the flickering glow of the firelight. For the first time, there was no rivalry between them, no sharp edges. Just two people sitting in the quiet, seeing each other in a way they hadn’t before.

After a moment, Harry reached for the bottle again, but as his fingers curled around it, he hesitated. He looked down at the deep red liquid, rolling it slightly in his grip, then exhaled sharply and set it back down.

Louis watched him, then reached for the water bottle he had grabbed earlier, twisting off the cap and holding it out toward Harry. "Try this instead. Not as fun, but at least you won’t regret it in the morning."

Harry studied him for a second, then, without a word, took the bottle and drank. Louis leaned back, stretching his arms over his head before he grabbed an olive from a dish on the table and, with pinpoint accuracy, flicked it straight into Harry’s empty wine glass.

Harry stared at it. Then at Louis. His lips twitched into something halfway between amusement and disbelief. "You’re such a dick."

Louis grinned, taking a slow sip from his own bottle of water. "Just stating facts."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. And for a fleeting moment, everything did feel lighter. Like the weight of the night, the weight of everything, had eased just a little. Like maybe, somehow, despite everything, they were… okay.

Louis yawned, stretching lazily before standing up. "Alright, I’m off to bed—now that I’m no longer being used as a pillow."

Harry smirked, running a hand through his hair. "Thanks, by the way."

Louis shrugged. "No big deal. Happens when you grow up with four little sisters—you get used to being the designated pillow."

He took a step back, then paused, tilting his head slightly as he glanced toward Lou, still curled up in her chair, deeply asleep. "Make sure you wake her up before you go in, yeah? Otherwise, she’s going to murder both of us when she wakes up out here."

Harry snorted. "Noted."

Louis flashed him one last grin, something light and teasing but softer than usual. "Night, Styles. Try not to get too existential without me."

And then he was gone, disappearing into the villa, leaving behind only the faint scent of smoke and something unshakably Louis.

Harry exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing toward the firepit, watching the embers glow softly. His mind turned over the conversation, the ease of it, the honesty that had slipped in so naturally.

Had that really just happened?

Had they just… had a normal conversation? A real one, with no biting remarks, no hidden daggers? Had they just managed something almost resembling… friendship?

Harry leaned back into the cushions, staring at the night sky, the flickering warmth of the fire dancing in his peripheral vision. The thought was strange, unfamiliar. But somehow, it was nice.

Maybe, just maybe, they could actually do this.

Chapter Text

Louis POV

The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the polished wooden floor of Louis’ room. The air was thick with the lingering scent of salt and warm linen, and somewhere in the distance, waves crashed lazily against the cliffs. He lay still for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, his body heavy with sleep but his mind already stirring.

Last night.

His fingers twitched against the sheets as the memories settled in—hazy but clear enough to make something in his chest tighten. The fire, the smoke curling lazily in the air, the weight of quiet honesty pressing between him and Harry. It had been different. For the first time, there had been no sharp words, no deliberate attempts, no calculated distance. Just conversation. Just… understanding.

Must’ve been the joint. That was the only explanation. It had made everything feel lighter, easier, like his mind had finally taken a break from all the usual bullshit. And yet—when Harry had leaned into him, when he had felt the weight of him relax against his shoulder—Louis had been completely still, completely at ease. That was just the weed too, right?

Probably.

And yet… watching Harry sleep, seeing him without the constant edge of competition and arrogance, had done something to him. Fucking ridiculous. His whole stance on Harry had been built over two years of irritation, and now, because of one quiet night, his brain was suddenly trying to rewrite the narrative? Get a grip, Tomlinson.

Still, there was a thought he couldn’t quite shake. What if Harry wasn’t just the arrogant, rich asshole Louis had always painted him as? What if his own pride had made it easier to see Harry as the villain, rather than acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t as different as he wanted to believe? Two years of sharp words and silent resentment—wasn’t that enough? Christ, am I actually considering this?

And then there was the other thing, the thing Louis hadn’t expected to linger so stubbornly in his mind. Harry’s drinking. Louis hadn’t thought much of it before, chalking it up to Harry being a fancy, wine-drinking, high-maintenance prick. But last night, something about the way he clung to that glass, how he drained one after another without a second thought, had stuck with him. It was easy to joke about, easy to brush off, but Louis had seen that grip before—tight, almost like a lifeline. Fuck. Should I even care?

Louis sighed, dragging a hand down his face before pushing himself upright. His body felt heavier than it should, not with exhaustion, but with something else. Something he wasn’t ready to name. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet pressing into the cool wooden floor as he sat there for a moment, staring at his own reflection in the floor-length mirror across the room.

His hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, evidence of a restless sleep. His skin was sun-kissed from the days in Madeira, a slight flush still lingering from long days under the sun. But it was his eyes that held his attention—slightly hooded, unreadable even to himself. He tilted his head, watching the way the early morning light caught on the tattoos that lined his arms, tracing over familiar ink that felt like pieces of a past he hadn’t thought about in a while.

What the fuck was last night?

Could they start over? Could they, if nothing else, just be normal with each other? Because, if Louis was being honest with himself, Harry’s presence wasn’t as suffocating as it used to be. In fact… it was kind of nice. And wasn’t that just a mindfuck? Could they actually be friends? Could he want that? And if he did… was that a mistake?

He shook his head, pushing himself to his feet and walking toward the bathroom. Maybe a shower would clear his head. Maybe, by the time he stepped out, the weight in his chest would make a little more sense.

But even as the hot water ran over his skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and the lingering scent of salt and smoke, his thoughts didn’t quiet. Last night had been too easy. Talking to Harry had been too easy. Louis had expected tension, sarcasm, that usual push and pull that kept them on opposite sides of whatever this was. But it hadn’t been like that at all. It had just… flowed. Since when the fuck does talking to Harry Styles feel natural?

And the worst part? He didn’t hate it.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as he stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him, unreadable, his hair still damp, droplets clinging to his collarbones. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at himself.

Get your shit together, Tomlinson.

He got dressed quickly, pulling on a faded rust-colored oversized T-shirt and a pair of crisp white shorts, finishing the look with some casual white sneakers. Comfortable. Easy. Like he hadn't spent way too much time overthinking last night. By the time he stepped out of his room and made his way to the terrace for breakfast, the sun was already warm against his skin. The entire crew was gathered around the table, chatting over plates of food and steaming mugs of coffee. The smell of fresh bread and coffee beans mixed with the ocean breeze, making the morning feel almost too peaceful for Louis’ liking. Harry sat there, his hair an absolute mess—sticking up in every possible direction, like he had just rolled out of bed and barely run a hand through it. The early sun highlighted the unruly curls, some flattened on one side, others standing on end in a way that made him look effortlessly disheveled. His green eyes, still heavy with sleep, caught the golden morning light, shining beneath the long sweep of his lashes. The faint shadow of stubble along his jaw made him look even more effortless, like he hadn’t quite shaken off the night before. He cradled his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his fingers wrapped loosely around the mug, radiating warmth. He looked… soft, almost human in a way Louis wasn’t used to seeing.

Lou, seated beside him, was rubbing the back of her neck with a dramatic groan. "I swear to god, that chair was designed to break people. My whole body hates me right now," she whined, shifting in her seat like even sitting upright was a punishment.

Louis smirked as he pulled out a chair and dropped into it. "That’s what you get for sleeping like a cat in a goddamn pretzel shape."

Lou shot him a glare, reaching for her coffee. "I didn’t choose to fall asleep like that, you little shit."

Harry huffed out a quiet laugh, his voice still thick with sleep as he mumbled, "Morning, Tomlinson."

No sarcasm. No tension. Just easy acknowledgment, like this was something they did every day.

And Louis liked it. He fucking liked it. Christ, he might as well throw up.

He reached for a slice of toast, trying to ignore the way Lou watched them both with an all-too-knowing smirk. She stretched, cracking her back as she stood. "I’ll go get my kit sorted. Try not to kill each other before I make you both look presentable."

Kathryn cleared her throat, glancing at her notes. "Alright, lads. Simple stuff today. We’re doing classic, elegant shots—white shirts, tailored trousers, sleek and timeless. This is for print campaigns, banners, all the big promo material. Shouldn’t take too long."

Louis groaned, tipping his head back dramatically. "So basically, we just stand there and look pretty. Got it."

Harry smirked behind his cup. "Reckon that’s harder for some of us than others."

Louis tossed a grape at him without hesitation, grinning when it bounced off Harry’s forearm. "Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your last day of peace before I’m back to kicking your ass on track."

Harry just shook his head, but there was something softer in his expression, something unreadable. The energy between them had shifted, and Louis wasn’t sure what to do with it. He wasn’t sure he hated it.

Lou, still rolling her shoulders, glanced between them. "Right... Last day. Let’s get this over with before someone starts getting sentimental. Harry, you comin' with me?"

Harry grabbed his coffee and stood, stretching briefly before following Lou into the villa. Louis watched them go, but didn’t immediately move. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, taking another slow sip of coffee, his gaze drifting toward the sea. The waves moved in their steady rhythm, the golden morning light dancing across the water. He took a bite of toast, chewing slowly as he let the moment settle. The air was warm, the sound of the crew chatting in the background familiar. And yet, something about this morning felt different. Like he was waiting for something—though he wasn’t sure what.

Finally, with a sigh, he stood and made his way inside.

By the time he reached the makeup station, Lou was just finishing up with Harry. He was shrugging on a crisp white button-up, fingers deftly working the buttons, his toned chest disappearing beneath the fabric with each movement. Louis wasn’t looking. Not really. Just… noticing.

Kathryn clapped her hands together. "Alright, Harry, you’re up first. We’ll head to the shoot location and get some solo shots done. Louis, you stay here and finish up with Lou. We’ll send for you when we’re ready."

Harry grabbed his jacket and headed out with the team, leaving Louis and Lou behind in the quiet space. Lou turned toward him, pressing her lips together as she studied him in the mirror. Her touch was light as she worked, but there was something almost thoughtful in the way she moved.

"You know," Lou said eventually, her voice softer than usual as she dusted a light layer of powder over his skin, "it’s kind of fascinating. The way you and Harry have changed these last few days."

Louis sat still under her hands, watching her in the mirror as she worked. "Dunno what you’re talking about," he muttered, even though they both knew he did.

Lou scoffed, reaching for a brow brush. "Oh, don’t give me that. I see the way you two talk now. How easy it’s gotten. You’re not even pretending to hate each other anymore. It’s adorable, really. Friends? Or maybe… more?" Her smile lingered for a beat too long, teasing but sharp, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Louis froze for a heartbeat, then barked out a laugh—just a bit too loud. "Absolutely not. That would be... horrifying," he said, tugging the white button-up over his shoulders. "Me and Styles? Please. He probably alphabetizes his sock drawer."

He began fastening the buttons with more focus than necessary, shaking his head as if to ward off the mental image. "And even if I were into emotionally repressed, annoyingly good-looking men with absurd cheekbones and a hero complex the size of Manchester—which I’m not—he’s still Harry bloody Styles."

Lou just raised an eyebrow in the mirror, clearly not buying a word of it. Louis caught her look and sighed dramatically. "Look, we’ve reached ‘non-violent coexistence.’ Even Friendship is way to strong of a word for that, kay?"

Lou smirked, stepping back to study his face. "Yeah? Well, strong words have never scared you before."

She moved on to his hair, fingers ruffling through the strands, styling them with practiced ease. The moment was quiet, filled only with the distant sounds of the crew moving around outside. Lou’s expression softened slightly as she smoothed a few stray pieces into place.

"You know," she said more thoughtfully this time, "it’s not a bad thing. Being friends with him. Might actually do you some good."

Louis exhaled through his nose, shaking his head just enough to make her sigh and fix the hair again. "Not everything needs to be so deep, Lou. Maybe we’re just tolerating each other better."

"Sure," she said, clearly unconvinced, stepping back and tilting her head as she gave him a final once-over. "Alright, you’re done. Go make the suit look good. And don’t mess up your hair before you get to set, or I will murder you."

Louis smirked, standing up and stretching slightly before heading for the door. The shoot awaited, but the weight of Lou’s words settled in his chest. Maybe friendship was a strong word. But something had shifted—there was no denying that. The sharp edges between him and Harry had softened, replaced by something else. Not quite ease, not quite comfort, but something real.

As he stepped outside, the sun had climbed higher, casting golden light over the set where the cars were already positioned. The morning air was crisp, the scent of the ocean lingering in the breeze. Harry was there, standing beside his car, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Louis just watched him—watched the way he moved, the way he held himself.

Then Harry turned, caught his gaze, and smirked.

Louis exhaled, shaking his head to himself. Whatever this was, whatever had changed between them, he wasn’t sure where it would lead. But for the first time, he wasn’t entirely against finding out.

The set was alive with movement. In the background, the dramatic cliffs of Madeira stretched toward the sky, rugged and untamed, a perfect contrast to the sleek luxury of the shoot. The ocean shimmered under the morning sun, its deep blue waves crashing against the shore below. In the foreground, the two cars stood like silent warriors—the same ones Louis and Harry had raced on their first day. The Jaguar, deep blue and gleaming, a reflection of Louis himself: sharp, stylish, unpredictable. And the green Mercedes, steady, grounded, effortlessly dominant—just like its driver.

Crew members adjusted the lighting, ensuring every angle was flawless, while stylists fussed over collars and cuffs. The metallic scent of hot engines mixed with the salty breeze, adding to the electric energy of the shoot.

Kathryn, clipboard in hand, turned as Louis arrived. "Good, you’re here. Alright, stand over by the Jaguar. Arms crossed, natural. Let’s keep it sharp. Harry—stay on the hood of the Mercedes, casual but engaged. I want that dynamic. We’re selling precision, not just luxury."

Louis smirked, rolling his shoulders back as he moved into position. "So, basically, just be myself?"

Kathryn didn’t even look up. "Exactly."

Louis shifted into position, letting his weight sink into his back foot, arms folding loosely across his chest. The sun warmed the fabric of his shirt, the cuff of his Rolex visible beneath the rolled sleeve. Across from him, Harry settled on the hood of his car, one hand casually running through his curls, the other draped over his knee. He looked every bit the composed champion, his green eyes sharp, his pink lips slightly smirking.

The camera clicked in rapid succession, catching the smallest shifts—Louis’ fingers absently trailing over the edge of his watch face, Harry’s wrist resting against the car door, his own Rolex catching the light with every movement.

"Alright, let’s pick up the energy," Kathryn called out over the hum of the crew adjusting lights and reflectors. "Harry, let’s see that watch even more. Louis, run a hand through your hair, but make it look effortless."

Louis huffed, raking his fingers through his fringe, voice dry. "Yeah, because everything about this is effortless."

Harry smirked, methodically rolling his sleeve up another notch, revealing the full face of his Rolex. "You sure? You make it look like you’ve got time wrapped around your little finger."

Louis cast him a sidelong glance, arching a brow. "Maybe I do. You keeping up, Styles?"

Kathryn snapped her fingers, pleased. "Yes, that—hold that energy. Stay in character."

The camera clicked away, capturing fleeting glances, the subtle tilt of a chin, the weight of a stance. Around them, assistants darted in and out, adjusting the angles, fixing the way the sunlight hit their watches just right. The shots were precise, calculated, yet the tension in the air was all their own.

Kathryn glanced at her notes, then looked up at the two of them. "Alright, I want more intensity. We need to push this last set. Louis, Harry—step closer. Hands up, right at the wrists. Like a battle of control, both of you pressing forward. The watches need to be clear, but I also want the tension—like neither of you are willing to give an inch."

Louis raised a brow but stepped in as instructed, lifting his hand to meet Harry’s. Their wrists pressed together, the cool metal of their Rolexes brushing in contrast to the warmth of their skin. Harry didn’t flinch, but Louis felt the way his fingers flexed slightly, adjusting to the pressure. Their grips weren’t tight, but they weren’t loose either—just enough force to make it feel like something unspoken was being fought over.

"Now," Kathryn continued, stepping back, "look at each other. Not just a glance—I want focus. Like you’re trying to outlast each other. The camera needs to see the push and pull."

Louis exhaled slowly and met Harry’s gaze fully for the first time that day. Close, too close. His green eyes caught the golden light, dark lashes casting faint shadows over his cheekbones. Louis hadn’t been this near to him in a long time—fuck, not since that night in the garage. Or the club. Nope, no, no, no, not going there, Tomlinson. He pushed the thought away, steadied himself.

"More tension," Kathryn instructed. "Harry, push forward slightly. Louis, resist—but don’t move back. Just hold it."

Harry’s fingers twitched against his, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he leaned in, pushing just a fraction more force into the contact. Louis held his ground, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Careful, Styles. You almost look like you’re trying."

Harry’s voice was low, even. "Just waiting for you to back down."

Louis felt his pulse jump, but he didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. Instead, he let the smirk curve wider, eyes flicking down to where their wrists met. "Not gonna happen."

"Louis, look Harry in the eyes" Kathryn grinned, stepping back. "That’s it. Hold."

The shutter clicked, over and over, locking them in place, frozen in that moment of almost—almost something, but neither of them giving in.

Kathryn finally exhaled. "That’s the one. Alright, I think we’ve got it. You can drop it."

Louis pulled back first, shaking out his fingers as if the contact hadn’t settled somewhere deeper. Harry rolled his shoulders, fixing his cuff, his face unreadable.

Kathryn clapped her hands together, and the crew followed with a round of applause. Assistants moved in to adjust equipment, voices blending into the coastal breeze. Louis exhaled, flexing his fingers, the tension of the last pose still buzzing under his skin. He glanced at his watch.

Not much time left before they’d be leaving Madeira.

He turned his head, finding Harry watching the ocean, the applause already fading into background noise. Without thinking, Louis smirked. "Reckon you’ve got one last race in you, Styles? Or are you too delicate after all this standing around?"

Harry blinked at him, brows furrowing slightly, before realization set in. Louis didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and sprinted toward the beach, laughing as he heard the unmistakable sound of Harry’s footsteps chasing after him.

The sand was warm beneath his feet as he reached the shoreline, the cool waves crashing against his ankles, the salty air thick in his lungs. Then—Harry tackled into him, not enough to send him sprawling, but enough to knock him off balance. Louis let out a loud, unfiltered laugh, shoving him back, sending a splash of water between them.

"Oh, now you’re competitive?" Louis teased, running a hand through his damp hair, flicking stray droplets toward Harry.

Harry grinned, shoving his wet curls back from his forehead. "Didn’t hear a countdown. Didn’t count."

Louis scoffed. "Sounds like something a loser would say."

Before Harry could fire back, another wave crashed against them, and suddenly the crew was there too—charging into the water like a pack of lunatics, the hesitancy of the first splash replaced by full-blown chaos. Water was flung in every direction, people tackling each other into the shallows, shirts soaked through in an instant. Louis cursed loudly as he took a wave straight to the face. Laughter rang through the air, blending with the steady rhythm of the tide.

Louis caught sight of Harry through the mayhem, knee-deep in the water, pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes, his chest rising and falling with laughter. The white shirt he still wore clung to his skin, soaked through and nearly translucent, outlining every line of muscle beneath. His collar was open, plastered to his collarbone, and the fabric curved around his torso like it was painted on. He looked unguarded, completely in the moment—and so fucking hot Louis had to glance away. He turned quickly, kicking up another splash at the nearest target—Kathryn, who shrieked and retaliated with full force.

It felt good. Reckless, free, like being kids again. No cameras, no staged perfection—just them, wild and soaked and breathless.

Eventually, when their muscles ached from laughing and their clothes clung to their skin with saltwater, the chaos started to settle. One by one, the crew waded back to shore, collapsing onto the warm sand to catch their breath. Louis flopped onto his back, arms sprawled, letting the sun dry his face. He could hear the ocean, the distant chatter, the occasional burst of laughter still lingering. He let himself stay there for a few minutes longer before pushing himself up, brushing wet sand from his arms.

They had a flight to catch.

Harry’s POV

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, rolling a T-shirt into a tight bundle before stuffing it into his suitcase. The villa around him was quiet, save for the distant hum of voices downstairs. He should have been relieved that the campaign was done, that these past few days —these weird days—were over. But instead, there was a strange tightness in his chest, an odd reluctance settling in his limbs.

A knock on the door. He barely had time to call out before Nick stepped inside, arms crossed. "Your dad wants to talk to you when you land in Manchester. Said it’s important."

Harry’s fingers stilled over the zipper of his bag. His jaw tensed, but he kept his voice even. "Right."

Nick lingered for a moment, eyes scanning Harry like he was assessing something unspoken. Then he sighed, shaking his head with something that was almost amusement. "You know, I gotta say—I expected more of a disaster with you and Tomlinson. But somehow, you managed to keep it professional. Almost... friendly."

Harry shot him a look, but Nick only smirked. "Relax, I’m not about to write a fairytale about it. Just saying, you did good. The ad is going to be great. Rolex is happy, and, for once, you didn’t make my job harder."

Harry let out a short breath, unsure whether that was a compliment or a backhanded remark. Probably both.

Nick’s expression softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. "Look, I know you hate all this branding bullshit, but you played it right this time. You handled yourself well, and it’ll pay off. Just—keep this up, yeah? Make my life easier."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No promises."

Nick exhaled, but there was no real annoyance in his face. "Figured. Anyway, I’m heading straight to London—got my own flight waiting. But you—" He tilted his head toward the door. "—are stuck on the jet with Tomlinson. Again. Try not to kill each other before Manchester."

Harry scoffed, zipping up his bag. "I think we used up all our murder attempts in Madeira."

Nick smirked. "Progress, then." He hesitated for a second, then pointed a finger at Harry. "Just—keep it that way, alright? I don’t need another PR mess. And whatever this weird ceasefire with Tomlinson is? Fine. Great. But that’s all it is. I only want to hear about ‘Harry and Louis’ in a professional context, understood?"

Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "You’re so dramatic."

Nick huffed a laugh, grabbing his bag. "Says the guy whose whole life is a media circus. Anyway, I’m off—enjoy your romantic private jet ride back to Manchester."

"Fuck off" Harry muttered, but there was no bite behind it.

Nick squeezed his shoulder and gave him a lazy salute before disappearing out the door.

Harry exhaled slowly once he was gone, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the tension curling through him. He finished packing, zipping the suitcase shut with a little more force than necessary before making his way down the stairs.

The terrace was bathed in golden light, the last remnants of their time in Madeira casting long shadows over the villa’s stone floors. The air smelled of salt and the lingering traces of sunscreen, the ocean breeze warm against Harry’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was the golden hour lighting or just the haze of exhaustion settling in, but everything around him felt more vivid than it should.

Louis was already there, locked in an over-the-top hug with Lou, who had both hands in his hair, ruffling it with dramatic flair as she groaned. "You better hire me for every campaign you do from now on," she declared, gripping his face between her hands as if she were scolding a child.

Louis smirked, tilting his head slightly, completely unfazed. "You act like you wouldn’t miss me if I didn’t."

Lou scoffed, shoving him back. "Miss you? Please. I’d miss the challenge of making you look presentable. That’s artistry."

Harry watched, lips twitching as Louis feigned offense, one hand pressing to his chest like she had gravely insulted him. "Unbelievable. And here I thought we had something special."

Lou rolled her eyes, then turned to Harry. Her expression softened as she stepped toward him, arms wrapping around him in a firm hug. "You’re a good one, Styles. Don’t let Formula 1 swallow you whole. You feel things deeply—I can see that. Don’t let that go."

Harry swallowed, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. He hesitated for a moment before nodding, offering her a small smile. "Thanks, Lou."

Kathryn was next, shaking his hand with a firm grip. "I’ll be reviewing the footage and working on edits. Rolex will probably be in touch soon. I have to admit, when I had that first meeting with Nick and Simon, I thought this would be a disaster. But you two? You surprised me."

Harry felt Louis glance at him, a flicker of amusement in his periphery, but he kept his gaze on Kathryn, nodding. "Glad we didn’t make your life too miserable."

Kathryn smirked. "Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself. But you did good. Both of you."

Louis was already heading for the car, dragging his suitcase behind him without a second glance, but just as he reached the door, he stopped. With a theatrical sigh, he spun on his heel, throwing both arms wide. "Well, it’s been emotional! Try not to cry too much in my absence, yeah?" he called out to the crew, grinning as he gave a dramatic wave.

Lou groaned, tossing a towel at him. "Get out of here, Tomlinson."

Kathryn just shook her head. "You’re impossible."

Louis smirked, clearly pleased with himself, before turning back toward the exit. As he did, his gaze flicked to Harry for half a second, something unreadable passing through his expression before he quickly covered it up with another smirk. "Waiting for you in the car, luv. We need to catch our flight for the honeymoon. Hope you packed something nice."

Harry’s lips parted slightly, eyebrows lifting in brief disbelief before he scoffed. "You’re insufferable."

Louis winked. "And yet, you’d be lost without me."

Harry rolled his eyes, exhaling sharply. "Pain in the ass," he muttered, but despite himself, his lips twitched upward. Because of course Louis had to have the last word. The guy couldn’t just leave quietly.

With one last glance at the villa, Harry sighed and followed him to the car. He wasn’t sure what the next few weeks would bring, but one thing was certain—things between them weren’t the same anymore. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a bad thing. He turned, letting his eyes sweep over the villa, the cliffs, the endless stretch of ocean beyond. He thought about the past few days—the racing, the banter, the arguments, the laughter. The person he had been here.

Lighter. Freer. A version of himself that didn’t always feel like he was drowning under the weight of expectation. A version of himself he wasn’t ready to let go of just yet.

But now, he was leaving it behind.

The drive to the airport was quiet, the private jet already waiting for them on the tarmac. As they approached the terminal, Harry noticed a small group of fans pressed against the chain-link fence, their phones raised, waving excitedly. His stomach twisted.

How did they always know? The thought unsettled him. They hadn’t even been in Madeira for a full week, and yet here they were—waiting, cameras ready, calling out their names through the gaps in the fence. Harry forced himself to stay neutral, keeping his expression unreadable. He’d been doing this long enough to know that reacting would only make it worse.

Louis spotted them too, but unlike Harry, he seemed entirely unbothered. He nudged Harry lightly with his elbow before raising a hand in a casual wave, flashing a quick grin. "They’re persistent, I’ll give them that."

Harry hesitated for a beat, then did the same, though the tightness in his chest didn’t fade. "Yeah. Feels like they’re always one step ahead."

Louis glanced at him, his expression amused but not dismissive. "That surprises you? We’ve been stalked through worse places than a bloody airport."

Harry let out a slow breath. "Doesn’t mean I have to like it."

Louis shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as they neared the aircraft steps. "You think too much about it. Just wave, move on. They’ll get their videos and blurry pictures, and we’ll be in the air before they can even post them."

Harry didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened slightly. Maybe Louis could brush it off, but Harry hated that he could never tell where the line was—how quickly admiration could turn into obsession. How easily it could turn into something worse.

As they walked toward the aircraft, Harry exhaled slowly. A quick moment, nothing more, but the unease still clung to him. Louis, on the other hand, already looked like he had forgotten about it entirely.

A flight attendant greeted them with a polite smile as they boarded. "Welcome back, Mr. Styles, Mr. Tomlinson. Let us know if you need anything during the flight."

Harry nodded, offering a small, tired smile, though his mind was already elsewhere. Louis, a step ahead, had dropped into one of the plush seats, sighing contentedly as he stretched his legs out. His fingers tugged at the sleeves of his sweater before he sank deeper into the chair, already making himself comfortable.

Harry sat opposite him, exhaling as he settled in, running a hand through his hair before resting his elbow against the armrest. The engines rumbled beneath them, the vibration humming through the floor as the aircraft taxied down the runway. A few moments later, the jet lifted off, the island of Madeira growing smaller beneath them.

Harry watched as the coastline disappeared, the cliffs and waves shrinking into nothing more than a dark blur against the blue. The sight made something twist in his chest—something he wasn’t quite ready to name.

"Weird feeling, huh?" Louis murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.

Harry turned his head, eyes flicking toward him. "What is?"

Louis cracked one eye open, regarding him for a moment before shrugging. "All of it. That it’s over. That it… kind of worked."

Harry let his head rest against the seat, exhaling slowly. "Yeah."

Neither of them elaborated, but Louis gave a small nod, like that was all he needed. He pulled a blanket over himself, adjusting it until he was cocooned in warmth. His shoes had been kicked off, one leg curled up beneath him, his body shifting until he was comfortably folded into the seat, almost cat-like in the way he tucked himself in. His blue eyes, still heavy with sleep, lingered on Harry, watching him through barely open lids, something quiet and unreadable in them. The edges of exhaustion softened his features, his hair an unruly mess from earlier. He looked like he was on the verge of sleep, but still, he watched, as if waiting for something.

The silence settled between them, not awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. Harry sat still for a moment, fingers drumming absently against the leather armrest, before pulling out his phone. He scrolled through social media without really seeing anything, his mind restless, waiting for something to break the monotony.

Then, a WhatsApp notification popped up.

Des: Call me as soon as you land.

His grip on the phone tightened.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his curls in frustration. His jaw tensed, fingers curling around the device as his stomach twisted with a familiar unease.

Of course.

His shoulders locked as his mind raced ahead to what the conversation would be. His father never wasted time with pleasantries—if he was reaching out now, it meant there was a problem. Or worse, that Harry had done something wrong.

He could already hear the disappointment in his voice. What the hell does he want now? The thought hit him like a weight in his stomach. His father never reached out unless there was something to criticize, something to fix. And Harry already knew—before even hearing the words—that whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good enough.

Across from him, Louis stirred slightly, shifting under the blanket, blinking at him sleepily. His blue eyes studied him with quiet curiosity, still hazy with exhaustion. "Everything alright?"

Harry inhaled sharply, forcing his expression into something neutral. "Yeah. Nothing important."

Louis didn’t look convinced. His gaze lingered, brows furrowing slightly as if he could see straight through the bullshit. His blue eyes, still heavy with sleep, stayed on Harry for a beat longer before he exhaled through his nose, shifting deeper into the seat. "Why do I even bother?" he muttered under his breath, voice rough with fatigue, before closing his eyes and pulling the blanket higher over himself.

Harry, however, remained awake. The tension from the message coiled tightly in his chest, refusing to ease. He reached for the in-flight tablet, scrolling through the selection of movies, not really caring what he picked as long as it was something to occupy his mind. Eventually, his finger hovered over The Idea of You—a film he’d heard about but never really paid attention to. He tapped play, adjusting his seat slightly as the screen flickered to life.

But after only a few minutes, he realized he wasn’t absorbing anything. The dialogue blurred together, the images on the screen moving without meaning. His mind kept drifting back to the message, to the weight behind those few words, to the inevitable conversation that was coming. He shifted uncomfortably, forcing himself to focus on the movie, but it was useless. The anxious energy in his chest wouldn’t settle.

His father’s voice was already forming in his head, the words cutting through his attempts at distraction. You’re too relaxed, Harry. Too distracted. That’s not how a world champion behaves. Bla Bla Bla

Frustrated, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He forced his eyes back to the screen, trying to focus on the movie, but it was useless. His mind wouldn’t stop spinning, wouldn’t stop replaying the message. He didn’t want to sit here, stewing in anticipation, waiting for the inevitable conversation that would happen the moment he landed. He needed to do something.

He glanced at Louis again. He hadn’t moved much, still curled into his seat, wrapped in his blanket like he didn’t have a care in the world. His blue eyes, heavy with exhaustion, had fallen half-shut, but he wasn’t fully asleep yet. There was something slow and observant about the way he watched Harry, like he could see straight through him but was too tired to bother saying anything.

Harry clenched his jaw and looked away, pressing his palm against his forehead. He needed to relax. Needed to not feel like someone had a grip around his chest. But Louis made it look so damn easy—just rolling himself up in his seat, eyes fluttering closed as if sleep was something he could just slip into without effort.

How the hell does he do that? Harry thought, half-annoyed, half… something else. Something warmer, something unsettling that he didn’t have the energy to unpack. He let his gaze linger a second longer than he should have. The way Louis curled into himself, blanket pulled up to his chin, his breathing slowing—it was almost frustrating how effortlessly he let go of the world.

Harry dragged a hand down his face, forcing himself to look away. Enough. He needed to do something, not sit here, waiting for his thoughts to consume him.

With careful movements, he unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed his laptop, and made his way to the back of the jet. No point in waiting. If his father had things to say, he might as well get it over with now.

He held his breath as the call rang.

Click.

"Harry."

The voice came sharp, precise—no warmth, no unnecessary pleasantries. Straight to business, like always. No "How was the shoot?" or "Everything go well?" Of course not. Harry exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple for a brief second before answering.

"Des."

His father wasted no time.

"I spoke with Nick."

Of course he did.

"The Rolex shoot went well, he says. You looked presentable. Charismatic, as always."

A compliment? That was rare enough to be suspicious.

"Yeah. It went well."

Harry kept his voice low, controlled. He risked a glance toward the front of the cabin. Louis was still curled up in his seat, arms tucked around himself, his hood pulled low over his face. He looked completely undisturbed, his breath slow and steady. Harry shifted slightly, angling himself away from the front. The last thing he needed was to wake Louis up and have him hear all of this.

"Good isn’t enough, Harry. It has to be perfect. You can’t afford more missteps after Amsterdam."

Harry’s jaw clenched involuntarily. Of course, Amsterdam had to come up. As if he could ever forget it. The headlines, the photos, the endless crisis meetings with Nick… it still followed him like a shadow he couldn’t outrun.

He forced himself to keep his voice even. "I know."

"Nick says you’ve straightened up. That’s a step in the right direction. But your reputation still isn’t where we need it to be. One ad campaign doesn’t erase months of bad press."

And there it was. That ever-present we, as if Desmond was sitting in the PR meetings himself, dictating every move. As if this was his career, not Harry’s life.

Harry let out a slow breath, biting back his irritation. "I’m sure you already have a brilliant plan."

His sarcasm was thinly veiled, but Desmond ignored it.

"As a matter of fact, I do. Red Bull."

Harry’s stomach twisted. He frowned, sitting up straighter. "What?"

"Red Bull wants you. Not just for a few clips, but a long-term partnership. Commercials, appearances, social media. They want you as part of their brand. The perfect ambassador for speed, adrenaline, and elite performance."

Harry blinked. He almost laughed. "This is a joke, right?"

"Not at all. It’s a huge opportunity. Think about it—Red Bull, the biggest name in energy drinks, associated with extreme sports, adventure, motorsport. It aligns perfectly with your image."

Harry let his head fall back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the jet. Red Bull. Fucking Red Bull.

Of all the sponsorships, all the brands, this was what his father was excited about?

"Des, I hate energy drinks."

"That’s irrelevant."

Of course it was.

Harry sat forward, rubbing his fingers against his temple. "I don’t drink that shit. It tastes like liquid battery acid. I’d rather pour motor oil down my throat."

Desmond let out a slow, unimpressed exhale. "Harry, this is bigger than your personal preferences. It’s about your career. They’re offering millions for this campaign, not to mention the exposure. Do you really want to throw that away because you don’t like the taste?"

Harry’s fingers curled around the edge of the table beside him, knuckles whitening. He inhaled deeply before answering. "It’s not just about the taste. It’s about the fact that it doesn’t fit me. I’m a Formula 1 driver. I’m not some adrenaline junkie who jumps out of planes or races dune buggies in the desert. And I don’t even drive for Red Bull, I drive for Mercedes. How the hell is that supposed to make sense?"

Desmond didn’t miss a beat. "They don’t care. As long as your face is on their brand, it works for them. And honestly, it would work for you too—considering the future."

Harry’s stomach dropped slightly. "What future?"

A pause. Then, calmly, like he was stating something inevitable, Desmond said, "Next season. Red Bull wants you."

Harry froze. The words hung in the air, pressing against his ribs like a weight. "What?"

"They’re interested. A seat might open, and if it does, they want you in it. This sponsorship would be the perfect setup for a transition. It would all fit together seamlessly. Red Bull branding, Red Bull car, Red Bull World Champion—sounds good, doesn’t it?"

Harry’s breath felt sharp in his chest. His grip on the table tightened. "Dad- I..."

Desmond sighed, a long-suffering exhale, as if Harry was being difficult on purpose. "You need to think about your career, Harry. This could be your shot at another title."

Harry let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "I already have a title and currently am working on my  second one —with Mercedes. Or have you forgotten?"

Desmond’s tone remained calm, calculated. "I haven’t forgotten. But you know as well as I do that things change. Opportunities come and go. You should at least consider it."

Harry shook his head again, jaw clenched. He felt like he was being backed into a corner. He was exhausted. Exhausted from these conversations, from having to constantly explain why he didn’t just do what he was told.

His gaze flickered back to the front of the cabin, to Louis. What would he say if he were awake?

Something sarcastic, probably. “Come on, Styles, maybe they’ll send you a lifetime supply. You can mix it with whiskey.”

Or maybe something brutally direct. “Tell him to piss off.”

And god, how much Harry wished he could do just that.

But instead—

"I’ll look at it."

It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either.

Desmond paused for a moment, then sounded satisfied. "Good. I’ll have Nick send over the details. Think about this carefully, Harry. Your image is your capital. Don’t waste it."

Click.

The call ended, leaving nothing but the dull buzz of static in his ears.

Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing his hands over his face. He sat there for a moment, his fingers gripping the edge of the table, his pulse still racing. The tension sat heavy in his chest, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

Slowly, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the stray curls that had fallen into his face. His pulse was still racing, a dull pressure behind his temples making it impossible to think straight. He inhaled sharply, holding the breath for a moment before letting it out in a slow, shaky exhale. The dark screen of his laptop stared back at him, but his father’s voice still echoed in his head, looping like a song he couldn’t turn off.

With a final sigh, he shut the laptop with more force than necessary, gripping the edge of the table for a second longer before pushing himself upright. His steps back toward his seat were slow, his body heavy with something he didn’t want to name. The weight of expectations, of decisions he didn’t ask to make, pressed on his shoulders as he eased himself down, head tipping briefly against the back of the seat.

His gaze drifted forward.

Louis was still curled up, completely undisturbed, his breathing deep and steady. At some point, his blanket had slipped down, pooling around his waist, leaving his arm exposed to the cool air of the cabin. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, his hair an absolute mess from how he had burrowed into the seat. He looked warm, comfortable—so effortlessly lost in sleep that it made something in Harry’s chest tighten painfully.

Without thinking, Harry reached forward and gently tugged the blanket back up over Louis' shoulder, making sure it covered him properly. His fingers lingered against the soft fabric for just a second before he pulled away, exhaling slowly. It was such a simple thing, but somehow, it made his own chest feel less heavy.

For a few days, he had felt that, too. That ease. That lightness. It had been laughter, stupid jokes, shared glances that weren’t heavy with competition. It had been easy.

And now, in just a few hours, they would land in Manchester, and it would all snap back to how it was before. The scrutiny, the pressure, the endless cycle of expectations. The brief escape that had been Madeira would be just that—brief. Temporary.

Harry exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake the thought away. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, his gaze lingering on Louis for a second longer before he finally let his eyes slip shut.

Maybe, just maybe, if he held onto this feeling long enough, he could pretend the weight of the real world wasn’t waiting for him when they landed.

Louis POV

The plane touched down smoothly on the runway, the hum of the engines changing pitch as they taxied toward the terminal. Louis blinked his eyes open, groggy from sleep, the unfamiliar weight of reality settling in as he stretched beneath the blanket. He wasn’t sure when exactly he had drifted off, but the last thing he remembered was Harry sitting across from him, staring at his phone with that deep, troubled look on his face.

Except now, as Louis shifted, rolling his shoulders to shake off the stiffness, he realized something—he had woken up at some point during Harry’s call.

At first, it had been the low hum of Harry’s voice that stirred him, words bleeding into the quiet of the cabin. But then, as his mind slowly surfaced from sleep, he realized it wasn’t just Harry speaking—there was another voice, crackling through the speaker. His eyes fluttered open just slightly, his vision hazy, but the glow from Harry’s laptop screen made it clear: he was on FaceTime.

Louis hadn’t meant to listen. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. But then he heard it—Desmond Styles—and every instinct told him to keep his eyes shut, to stay still, to pretend he wasn’t hearing every single word.

Fucking hell, he thought, already regretting that he was awake for this.

Harry’s voice was clipped, tense, laced with frustration, but it was nothing compared to the tone of his father. Desmond wasn’t just firm—he was cold, calculated, his words measured and precise, like he was speaking to an employee, not his own son. Louis could hear it all: the pressure, the control, the way Desmond made everything about strategy and image rather than, well… Harry.

Harry hadn't even really fought back. And that was what pissed Louis off the most. His voice had been low, not defiant but resigned, like someone who already knew resistance was pointless. Like someone who had given up long before the argument even started. Jesus Christ, mate, at least tell the old bastard to fuck off once in a while. But Harry hadn’t. Instead, he had let his father’s words roll over him like waves against a rock—steady, unrelenting, slowly chipping away at something unseen.

And yet, underneath it all, there was something else. Something close to exhaustion. Something that made Louis' stomach twist in a way he didn’t like.

And now, as they taxied toward the terminal, Louis still felt the weight of what he’d overheard sitting uncomfortably in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to know. Harry hadn’t wanted him to hear. That much was obvious. But now he did. And it left him with a feeling he couldn’t quite shake.

Not that he could say anything.

Harry hadn’t wanted him to hear. Louis knew that much. And he wasn’t in the position to ask about it—not really. You’re not his mate, Louis. You’re not his confidant. You’re just the idiot who got stuck on an island with him for a few days - don't think that meant anything. But for some reason, that thought left an uneasy feeling in his gut.

As they filed off the plane, the air hit them—a mix of lingering summer warmth and the crisp scent of recent rain. The damp pavement reflected the glow of terminal lights, and the sky was a murky shade of blue, somewhere between night and morning. It smelled like wet asphalt and fresh air, like a Manchester evening that couldn't decide if summer was ending or not. Louis found himself trailing slightly behind Harry, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

The arrivals terminal was bright, sterile, buzzing with the sounds of travelers, the echo of rolling suitcases, and the occasional announcement crackling through the speakers. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city was shrouded in the usual grey, damp from recent rain. The sharp contrast to the golden hues of Madeira sent an odd shiver down Louis’ spine.

Harry walked with purpose, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he was already bracing for the weight of whatever was waiting for him outside of this airport. And maybe that’s what felt weird about it all—because after the past few days, Louis had started to forget about that part of Harry. He had been lighter in Madeira, relaxed in a way Louis hadn’t expected. He had laughed, teased, let himself be part of the moment instead of constantly thinking five steps ahead. But now, watching him walk with that same stiff posture, Louis was reminded of the truth—Harry was always carrying something heavier than he let anyone see. And now, after overhearing that conversation, Louis understood a bit more.

They reached the baggage claim, standing in silence as the conveyor belt hummed to life. Louis shifted his weight from foot to foot, stealing a glance at Harry. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his green eyes, his fingers flexing impatiently at his sides. His hair was still a mess from sleep, and his usual sharp, polished appearance had softened at the edges. He looked—human. And somehow, that unsettled Louis more than anything else.

Their bags appeared, and they pulled them from the belt, making their way toward the exit. Waiting by the curb, two sleek black cars idled, drivers standing beside them, hands folded in front of them, waiting.

For the first time, Louis realized how strange it felt to be going in different directions again. It had been easy to exist in each other’s space these past few days. Easier than it should’ve been. And now, after everything, it felt almost abrupt to just… separate.

He wasn’t going to say that, obviously. That’d be ridiculous.

Instead, as they reached their cars, he glanced over at Harry, who was already pulling his suitcase toward the waiting Mercedes. There was a brief moment of hesitation—like neither of them quite knew how to handle this.

Louis smirked, breaking the tension first. "Well, this is awkward. We hugging or what?"

Harry huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reached for his car door. "Not a chance."

Louis clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. "Shame. Would’ve been a great farewell moment. Really emotional. Might’ve even shed a tear."

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was something lighter in his expression, something almost appreciative beneath the usual sarcasm. "See you in Barcelona, Tomlinson."

Louis smirked, gripping the handle of his own car door. "Yeah. Try not to let Red Bull steal you before then."

The words left his mouth before he really thought about them, and instantly, he saw the shift in Harry’s face. His green eyes widened just slightly, surprise flickering there as if Louis had just said something he shouldn’t have known. Fuck.

Louis ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose before stepping forward. "Look, I—shit, I didn’t mean to listen in. I woke up, and then suddenly your dad was just—" He gestured vaguely, knowing Harry understood exactly what he meant. "I know it’s none of my business, and we’re not—" He hesitated, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. "I mean, we’re not exactly friends, so…"

Harry raised a brow, arms loosely crossed over his chest. "So?"

Louis let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "So, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Just—your dad’s an asshole, and you don’t always have to do what he says. You do know that, right? You have a choice."

Harry blinked at him, like no one had ever said that to him before. He dropped his gaze, staring at the ground for a moment before finally nodding. "I’m not going to Red Bull," he muttered. "And if this gets out, I might as well dig my own grave."

Louis scoffed, shaking his head. "Like I’d tell anyone."

Harry didn’t respond right away. His eyes flicked up, searching Louis’ face for something—doubt, mockery, a reason not to believe him. And Louis got it. Of course Harry wouldn’t just take his word for it. Not after everything. Not after they’d spent the past months barely tolerating each other.

Louis let out a breath, rolling his shoulders before meeting Harry’s gaze again. "Look, I get it. You think I’d love to be the one to drop this bomb, right? Classic Tomlinson, making trouble? But I wouldn’t. Because this—" He gestured vaguely at Harry, at the weight in his shoulders, at the stress that clung to him like a second skin. "This isn’t something I’d screw with. I’m not that much of a dick."

Harry’s expression remained unreadable, but the hard edge in his eyes softened just slightly.

Louis sighed. "If it helps—God knows why it would—but if I were you, I wouldn’t want people knowing either. Not when it’s him controlling the story." He shrugged. "So yeah, I’ve got your back, Styles."

Harry’s brows lifted as if those words didn’t quite compute. His mouth parted like he wanted to say something, and then he just shook his head, exhaling. "Thanks."

Louis blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Not really. He shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "Ah, fuck it."

Before he could overthink it, he stepped forward and pulled Harry into a hug—not one of those stiff, awkward half-hearted ones, but a real, solid hug. Harry tensed for a split second before exhaling, his body slowly relaxing into it. Louis barely registered his own surprise at how natural it felt.

Harry smelled like expensive cologne, something woody and warm, mixed with the faintest trace of airport coffee and exhaustion. Underneath it all, though, was something uniquely him, something familiar in a way Louis refused to think too hard about. Then Louis felt the quiet vibration of Harry’s laugh against his chest.

Fuck. That was unexpected.

"Didn’t think you were the sentimental type," Harry mumbled against his shoulder, his voice laced with amusement, but also something quieter, something Louis couldn’t quite place.

Louis' grip tightened for just a fraction of a second before he abruptly pulled back, ruffling his hair as if that could shake off whatever that feeling was. Get a grip, Tomlinson.

He cleared his throat. "Don’t get used to it, Styles. Next time I see you, I’m kicking your ass on track."

Harry let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Looking forward to it."

Louis smirked, stepping back toward his car. "Yeah, yeah. Now fuck off, before I change my mind and start getting really emotional."

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, slipping into his car without another word. Louis watched as the door shut, the car pulling away a moment later, its taillights glowing red in the dim airport lighting.

For a second, he just stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring at the empty space where Harry had been. It was ridiculous really, how quickly they had gone from wanting to strangle each other to—whatever this was.

With a quiet exhale, he shook himself out of it, climbed into his own car, and headed home.

Chapter Text

Louis' POV

Doncaster welcomed him with a rare kind of quiet—the kind that only settled over the town once the sun dipped low and the streets finally emptied. Normally, it pulsed with the noise of kids on bikes, of market stalls shouting over one another, of memories rooted in every corner. But tonight, it breathed softly, like it remembered him, too. The summer clung to the air, sticky and thick, but there was a scent of rain on the breeze, fresh and faintly metallic. The asphalt was still damp, dark and glistening under the glow of the streetlights, like the town itself had just woken from a storm.

Louis exhaled slowly, his eyes drifting to his home—the Tomlinson house was tucked between its nearly identical neighbors. The red bricks, the slanted roof lined with moss, the crooked little white gate—it hadn’t changed. The grass on the front lawn had grown just enough to catch his eye, a silent reminder that he really needed to mow it again. The flowerbed beneath the living room window, though—it still bloomed. Wild and uneven, yes, but somehow still beautiful. No one had really tended to it in over a year since his mum passed away, and yet the flowers held on, stubborn in their own way. As if his mum was still there, welcoming him home. A quiet presence in every petal. And in the driveway, unmistakable even in the half-dark, sat his black Range Rover Sport—badly parked, front wheels half-eaten by the lawn like the car had tried to escape but gave up halfway through. Fizzy, he thought, smirking. Of course it’s her. No one else could turn a ten-second reverse into a full-on parking crime scene. Pretty sure the car’s embarrassed too.

He stepped out of the car, the low hum of the engine cutting off as his driver gave him a nod. "Good night, Mr. Tomlinson." Louis waved, "Good night" He lifted it from the boot. His fingers tightened around the handle as he turned toward the house. Home.

It was nearly midnight. Surely everyone was asleep by now. He slipped the key into the lock, twisting it with a practiced motion. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside. 

The soft blue flicker of the television glowed faintly down the hallway, casting dancing shadows along the walls. Lottie must still be awake. Of course she was, she would wait for him to come home, to tell everything.

He dropped his suitcase carefully by the stairs, kicked off his shoes with a muted sigh. His body ached from the drive, from everything really, but the idea of sleep felt impossible.

Louis moved toward the kitchen, each step soft against the worn floorboards. The air smelled faintly of dinner and citrus dish soap. Lived-in. Familiar.

He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled it with cold water, and drank slowly. The chill bit at his throat in the best kind of way, grounding him for a moment, pulling him briefly out of his spiraling thoughts.

But it didn’t last long.

Harry’s voice rose again in the back of his mind—the quiet strain of it when he spoke to his father. The conversation Louis wasn’t meant to hear. Not really. But the words had latched onto something inside him, refusing to loosen their grip.

He let out a breath, long and unsteady, and lowered the glass to the counter.

That’s when his eyes landed on the photo.

It was stuck to the fridge door with a fading magnet from their old trip to Brighton—a row of the town’s iconic beach huts, all painted in cheerful stripes of turquoise, yellow, and red. The ink was starting to peel at the edges. The photo beneath it showed him and his mum, arms wrapped around each other, her laugh frozen mid-breath. Her eyes sparkled with that unstoppable warmth, that knowing kind of love that never asked for anything back.

Louis reached out and let his fingers brush over the surface, the coolness of it grounding, but not soothing. For a moment, the kitchen fell away.

His real dad—biological, he corrected himself— Troy, had tried to crawl back into his life once the headlines printed his name. Once the money started coming in. As if success had unlocked some right to reappear.

Too late, Louis thought, jaw tight. You don’t get to come back just because I’m someone now.

The ache wasn’t for him. Not anymore. He’d stopped needing that kind of father a long time ago. He’d had his mum. That was enough. She’d been everything. A universe of patience and fierce, relentless love.

And yet...

The idea of fathers stuck to the inside of his chest like tar. Thick and clinging. His own dad’s absence was like a hollow echo, but now it tangled with something else—something newer. That voice. The one he’d overheard in the plane, tinny through Harry’s phone.

He hadn’t seen the man, only caught the strained tone through the Facetime call. But that was enough. The clipped demands, the passive-aggressive remarks, the way Harry’s whole posture had changed—shoulders pulled in, eyes on the seatback in front of him, like he was bracing for impact. Like he was used to it.

Controlling. Condescending. Like Harry owed him something just for being his son.

No wonder Harry flinches, Louis thought bitterly. No wonder he always tries to be good. Soft-spoken. Careful. Like he's trying to take up less space.

He hated the way it made his stomach twist.

And maybe that was what hurt the most—the reminder of what it felt like to need someone, to crave approval, and to brace yourself when it didn’t come. The ache was too familiar. Too close. It pressed against something raw in his chest.

He closed his eyes.

He hated how easily pain could overlap—how Harry’s father’s coldness brought up echoes of his own past, and how quickly that echo turned into longing. But not for what he never had. For what he had lost.

And there she was.

Not Harry this time, but his mum’s face. Clear as ever. Her warmth, her laugh, the steady certainty of her love.

He was so damn grateful for every second he'd had with her. For every word, every hug, every stupid little dance they’d done in the kitchen when no one was watching. And as he stood there in the low hum of the fridge and the faint blue light from the hallway, he hoped—truly hoped—that Harry had known that kind of love too. That at least his mum was gentle with him.

But even that hope hurt.

Mum, I need you more than ever right now, he thought. Because honestly? I’m drowning a bit.

The last few days had been a complete mindfuck. Confusing. Draining. That shoot had left something lingering between him and Harry—something unspoken and heavy.

God, Harry. Whatever this thing between them was—if it even was a thing—it felt like trying to read a map in the dark. Infuriating. Electric. Exhausting.

And always this pressure. From the team, the media, the world. McLaren wanted a star. Simon wanted a puppet. The fans wanted the next hero. And Louis? Louis just wanted a second to breathe without feeling like he was fucking it all up.

Fuck, I miss you, Mum, he thought again, sharper now. You’d know what to say. You always did.

He dragged a hand through his hair, the strands sticking slightly from the humidity. His shoulders dropped.

I'd kill for one of your late-night pep talks and a cuppa. Or at least a look that said, "You're being dramatic, love, go to bed." He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

He let the silence stretch for one last second, then pushed himself off the counter, glass still cold in his hand. Time to find Lottie.

She’d be there.

She always was.

The living room welcomed him like a memory. The soft hum of the television, the faint scent of fabric softener clinging to old cushions, the creak of the wooden floor beneath his socks—it all made something in his chest settle, just a little. One of the walls was painted deep green, the kind of shade that made you feel safe. Framed photos lined the shelves—some crooked, some dusty—snapshots of a life built on love and chaos.

A mess of empty mugs, a half-finished crossword, and a nearly melting tub of ice cream cluttered the coffee table. Love Island flickered on the TV—shirtless men flexing like they were auditioning for a protein powder commercial, and women with filler-slicked lips and lashes longer than their sentences, all wrapped in barely-there bikinis and even thinner personalities. The kind of show that felt like a fever dream designed in a marketing meeting.

Jesus Christ, Louis thought, dragging a hand down his face. How is this anyone’s idea of comfort television? It’s like watching mannequins flirt with each other for prize money.

Lottie was curled up on the big couch under a fleece blanket, her head tucked between a cushion and her shoulder, hair piled on her head like she’d wrestled with it and lost. She looked absurdly peaceful.

He eased down beside her, and like some internal sibling radar had gone off, she stirred instantly, blinking up at him with bleary blue eyes.

“Lou... you’re back,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

He smiled, soft and tired. Those eyes—his mum’s eyes—still knocked the breath from him when he least expected it.

The summer air clung to his skin, and Lottie sat up now, blinking the sleep from her face as she loosened the blanket around her waist, stretching slightly. “So... Madeira?”

Louis dropped into the sofa with a groan. “Hot. Gorgeous. Full of cliffs I was tempted to use for murder.”

Lottie blinked. “Do I want to ask?”

He gave her a look. “Simon mostly left me alone, thank fuck. The few times I saw him were already more than enough to ruin the vibe. But Harry…” He paused, smirking. “Let’s just say we had to race each other. For the ad. In real cars. And there were, like, six separate moments where I was mentally pushing him off a cliff. Or myself. Depends on the angle.”

Lottie’s brows rose. “You didn’t actually—?”

Louis shrugged. “Well, we jumped. Off a different one. Into the ocean. For the shoot. Not my proudest moment, but at least it was dramatic. And wet. And kind of amazing. Though, to be fair, Harry nearly bailed. He stood up there like he was about to give a TED talk on mortality.”

She snorted. “Oh my god. You’re both completely unhinged.”

“It was either shove him or sweet-talk him,” Louis said, smirking. “So I gave him a nudge—verbally, not physically, unfortunately—and he actually did it. Jumped right alongside me. Didn’t even scream. I was almost proud.”

He leaned back into the couch, his gaze drifting to the TV where some woman was now sobbing dramatically into a champagne flute over a guy named Brad or Chad or something equally tragic. Louis shook his head with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, his thoughts still on Harry, on the way he’d hesitated, on how he’d looked at Louis right before the jump. Honestly, how is this legal television?

Lottie cut through the quiet. “So... are you and Harry friends now?”

Louis tilted his head, pulling a face. “I mean... we’re not actively trying to kill each other. We’re ‘professionally tolerable.’ That counts for something, right?”

She gave him a long look. “You’re talking about him differently.”

He groaned. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Lottie. It’s too late at night.”

“Can’t help it. You sound like you actually like him.”

Louis didn’t answer at first. He glanced at the TV again, then back at her. “There were... moments,” he said quietly. “Strange ones. Not bad strange. Just... like something was there. Not something romantic or dramatic,” he added quickly, catching Lottie’s look. “Just... charged. Like something between us kept almost shifting, then snapping back. I don’t know. It’s like—every time it felt like we were close to something honest, it would blow off and go full into disaster mode.”

Lottie raised an eyebrow. “So... two idiots who like each other and are too stubborn to admit it.”

He groaned, flopping his head back against the couch dramatically. “Why are you like this.”

She grinned. “Born gifted.”

He chuckled, but the sound barely made it out before fading. "I heard him on the phone. With his dad. On the flight back. He didn’t know I was awake."

The grin vanished. His voice dropped low, like even saying it out loud left a bitter taste. "It was... brutal. Cold as hell. Like the guy was giving instructions to a fucking intern, not talking to his own son."

Lottie’s face changed instantly. She didn’t need details. She knew that look.

“Troy used to talk to you like that,” she said quietly.

Louis nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah. Same tone. Same weight. Like your worth’s hanging on how well you play along. It sticks to your ribs, that kind of pressure. Doesn't let go."

“You hated it when people felt sorry for you,” she said.

“I still do,” he muttered. “But this... it’s not about feeling bad for him. It’s more like—I know what that kind of silence feels like after you hang up. The one where you sit there questioning your own spine. And the worst part? He hides it. Really well. Too well.”

Lottie looked at him for a long beat. “You’ve changed the way you talk about him.”

Louis blinked. “Who?”

She gave him a look. “Harry. You Idiot. Used to sound like you were prepping to throttle him. Now you talk like—like you actually see him.”

Louis shifted, a bit caught off guard. “I mean… maybe I do. Or maybe I just stopped being an arsehole long enough to notice he’s not one either.”

Lottie raised a brow. “That is dangerously close to affection.”

“Oi,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth. I just—look, he’s going through shit. And I know what it’s like to carry that and pretend you’re not. I don’t need to make it harder for him.”

She watched him, half impressed, half teasing. “You’re… weirdly mature about this.”

Louis groaned, grabbing his glass and draining the last of the water. “God, kill me now. If I start journaling about my emotional growth, take me out back.”

She laughed. “You’re still a menace. Just one with... layers.”

“Like an onion,” he muttered.

“Like a cake, kinda sweet” she countered.

“Thanks,” he said dryly, rolling his eyes.

He stood, stretched with a groan, then let out a yawn so wide it made his eyes water. “Alright,” he muttered, rubbing his face, “I’m leaving you to your tragic little island of love and delusion,” he muttered through a yawn that nearly cracked his jaw. “Enjoy watching Adam sob because some girl he’s known for forty-eight hours did cheat on him.”

Lottie smirked, still curled under her blanket. “Tell him he deserves better.”

Louis snorted, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “He deserves therapy. And a mirror.”

He lingered there for a second longer, then straightened with a tired exhale. “Night, Lotts.”

“Night, Lou,” she murmured, a little softer now, like she knew he needed it.

He padded quietly down the hallway, the sound of one last dramatic sob echoing from the TV behind him. But the further he walked, the more it all faded—until only the silence remained, steady and waiting, and something in it felt like the start of a reckoning he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

The next few days passed in a blur of familiar chaos. Louis tried to ground himself in it—in home, in the noise, in the people who knew him before the headlines. The weather stayed stubbornly bright, the sun beating down on Doncaster like it was trying to compete with Madeira. Clifford, the neighbour’s oversized Labradoodle, lounged half in the garden, half on the pavement, like he owned the whole damn street. Louis greeted him every morning with a lazy salute and a muttered "alright, mate?" which Clifford met with a tail thump and a dramatic sigh.

Most of his time, though, he spent with his sisters.

The twins were relentless. All energy and noise and glitter glue. They made TikToks, dragged Louis into ridiculous dances—complete with chaotic camera angles, sparkle filters, and matching sunglasses—and kept trying to dye Clifford’s tail blue. Louis didn’t fight it. Not really. He grumbled, sure, but he let them pull him in, arms flailing and all. As long as no one broke a bone or dyed the dog key lime green, he figured it was fine.

One of the videos—him in the background, dramatically half-dancing while Phoebe led a fully choreographed routine and Daisy filmed it all, giggling—blew up overnight. Not because the dancing was good (God, no), but because he was in it. Screenshots landed on gossip accounts and lifestyle blogs within hours. Louis Tomlinson: doting brother or accidental TikTok star? ‘So wholesome!’: the F1 star melts hearts in chaotic garden dance with sisters.

He rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his brain. It was just a stupid video. A moment of joy with his sisters. And somehow that was newsworthy? Ridiculous.

Lottie was a steady presence. Coffee in the mornings, quiet sarcasm in the afternoons. She didn’t push, didn’t ask, just stayed close. Louis appreciated that more than he could say. Especially on the days when he was juggling his training schedule, meetings with Olli about car updates, and the constant noise of home life. Somehow, she always knew when to offer silence and when to throw in a sarcastic remark that made him snort mid-sip.

Fizzy, though... Fizzy was something else entirely.

She was snappy. Cold. One wrong look and she was rolling her eyes or biting his head off. If she weren’t technically too old for it, Louis would’ve sworn she was mid-puberty. It didn’t matter what he did—jokes, space, trying not to breathe too loudly—she was on edge, and he didn’t know why.

After the third slammed door that day, he finally climbed the stairs and knocked gently on her door. "Hey," he said, voice casual. "Fancy coming with me to ASDA? We need to restock the fridge."

After the third slammed door that day, he finally climbed the stairs and knocked gently on her door. "Hey," he said, voice casual. "Fancy coming with me to ASDA? We need to restock the fridge."

There was a beat of silence, then a noncommittal, "Fine."

Wow, Louis thought, deadpan. Doncaster's Ice Queen graces me with a yes—must be my lucky day. He kept the thought to himself, obviously. He wasn’t in the mood to get verbally assassinated on the staircase.

They didn’t say much while putting on their shoes. Fizzy pulled her hair into a high, messy ponytail and threw on oversized sunglasses, the kind that made her look like she was dodging paparazzi rather than just running errands. Louis grabbed the shopping bags, slipped on his own sunnies, and led the way to the black Range Rover Sport—still slightly muddy, bits of crisp packets under the seats, and a coffee cup rolling somewhere beneath the passenger seat. Lottie and Fizzy had been using it more than he had lately. Louis didn’t mind. He wasn’t precious about his car, not like some other drivers.

The day was bright and dry, a real summer gem in Doncaster. The pavement shimmered with heat, the sky a pale, washed-out blue. They passed rows of semi-detached redbrick houses, gardens full of washing lines and trampolines, the occasional barking dog echoing down the street.

Louis let the window down slightly, letting the warm breeze play with his hair. The radio crackled between pop songs and local chatter until a familiar riff kicked in—The Arctic Monkeys, 'Do I Wanna Know?'—moody and slow, dripping with tension. The kind of song that made everything feel cinematic, like even a trip to ASDA might end in heartbreak. Louis tapped the steering wheel in time with the beat, eyes flicking sideways to Fizzy, who still hadn’t said a word. Fitting soundtrack, really.

Fizzy was scrolling on her phone in silence, legs tucked up, her body turned slightly toward the window like she was trying to disappear into it.

ASDA was quiet enough when they arrived. Louis grabbed a trolley and they headed inside, the mundane buzz of supermarket air conditioning hitting them like a slap.

“Alright,” he muttered, scanning the list Lottie had texted. “Bread, milk, apples, dog treats. Do not forget the dog treats or Clifford will stage a protest.”

Fizzy snorted. It wasn’t much—but it was something.

They moved through the aisles with the ease of siblings who had done this a hundred times—half chaos, half choreography. Louis pushed the trolley like he was racing at Silverstone, swinging it around corners with exaggerated tyre-screeching noises until Fizzy grabbed the edge and hissed, “You’re going to take out a pensioner, you absolute gremlin!”

“Come on,” he grinned, “I’m giving them a bit of excitement. It’s called enrichment.”

She rolled her eyes, tossing a box of cereal into the cart over her shoulder without looking. Louis caught it mid-air with a dramatic gasp. “Blimey. You been training with the England squad?”

“Only if you’re the ball,” she quipped, giving him a smug little smirk.

He snorted, steering them into the frozen aisle where he picked up a pizza box and launched into an overly posh voice: “Made with hand-stretched dough and—wait for it—imported Italian tomatoes. My god, the luxury. I feel underdressed.”

Fizzy doubled over in laughter, wheezing. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet you keep showing up for the carnage,” he said, puffing his chest like he’d won an award.

“Yeah, because someone’s got to supervise your nonsense.”

Just then, she snagged a bag of frozen peas and, with theatrical precision, lobbed it into the trolley with a triumphant “Boom. Peas to glory!”

Louis clutched his chest like he'd just witnessed greatness. “Unreal. You’re like Doncaster’s Steph Curry, but for legumes.”

“Oh please,” Fizzy grinned, grabbing a bag of frozen chips and doing a mock sports commentator voice. “And now, stepping into the ring, the reigning champion of snack-based sharpshooting—Fizzy Tomlinson!”

Louis nearly dropped the pizza he was holding, laughing so hard he had to lean on the trolley. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re dramatic,” she shot back, tossing the chips in with a flourish. “Seriously, you act like reading frozen pizza labels is performance art.”

He put a hand to his heart. “Excuse you, I bring depth to the role of 'guy buying food for his sisters.'”

People were starting to glance over now, some with confusion, others with poorly hidden smiles. An old man near the fish counter looked vaguely alarmed. Fizzy noticed and whispered, “Ten points if you make the next old lady smile.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Twenty if she laughs.”

They grinned at each other, eyes shining with the kind of mischief they hadn’t shared in too long. It was loud. It was ridiculous. And it was them. The kind of chaos they’d always brought together. For a few golden minutes, it was like nothing had changed.

But the ease didn’t last.

They were in the bakery aisle when it happened—two girls around Fizzy’s age turned the corner, nearly crashing into their trolley. One of them gasped so loudly it startled the woman behind them picking up croissants.

“Oh my god, that’s Louis Tomlinson!” the taller one whisper-squealed. It wasn’t subtle. She elbowed her friend, who immediately started fluffing her hair and fixing her lip gloss like she’d just stepped onto a red carpet instead of aisle six.

Fizzy froze at Louis' side, her shoulders tensing.

“Hi,” Louis, for his part, smiled. Polished. A little tired. The kind of expression he’d worn a hundred times before. “Didn’t expect to get recognised next to the croissants,” he said, dry. “I was promised anonymity in the bakery section.”

The girls giggled like he’d just quoted Shakespeare.

.“We were in school with Fizzy, remember?”  the taller girl said to her friend, who nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah! You sat behind me in Mr. Carter’s class” the other girl said to Fizzy, her tone bright and sugary. “It’s so cool to see you again.”

Fizzy gave a tight smile. “Yeah. Hi.”

The first girl turned back to Louis. “We’ve started watching Formula 1 now, by the way. Because of you.” She batted her lashes—not subtly—and added, “It’s actually kinda interesting. I mean, I don’t understand half of it, but you look good doing it.”

Louis gave her a grin, the kind that was polite with just enough sass to keep it light. “Thanks, love. I try my best to distract from the fact I’m mostly just driving in circles.”

That got a laugh from both girls.

“Can we get a picture?” the second girl asked, already holding up her phone.

“Course.” He stepped back from the baguette shelf, smiling like he hadn’t done this a hundred times already this week. He placed a hand lightly on each of their shoulders, grinning for the camera. They squealed. He was polite. Present. A little bored. It took thirty seconds, tops.

“Thanks!” they chirped, but they didn’t move.

“Do you two still hang out much?” one of them asked Fizzy, like they were already part of the conversation.

“You should totally come out with us sometime,” the other added, glancing at Louis before back to Fizzy. “Girls’ night or something… like old times!”

Louis blinked. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying it: There were no old times. I’m 100% sure you’ve never even been in our house. But he didn’t.

Fizzy gave them a brittle nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Louis kept his expression easy, unfazed, but he clocked it—how the girls lingered, like maybe Louis would invite them to dinner, or backstage, or Monaco. How they didn’t really care about Fizzy at all, not until Louis had entered the picture.

“Alright,” he said, taking a small step back, “we should probably finish the shopping before we start signing baguettes.”

They laughed—again—and waved dramatically as they finally headed off in a giggle-cloud of floral perfume, already refreshing their socials, phones glued to their hands.

Louis turned to Fizzy, who was now staring straight ahead, face stony.

“Fiz,” he said carefully, “you okay?”

She didn’t look at him. “They weren’t my friends then. And they’re not now.”

He nodded. “Right. Thought so.”

“And I hate that this happens now,” she snapped. “We can’t even buy milk without you getting mobbed. Do you know how weird that is for me?”

Then she stomped off, silently. Louis followed, he wanted to talk to her properly which was not best done in ASAD.

By the time they reached the self-checkout, the silence between them had turned really dense. Heavy.  

And when they got back to the car, it snapped

Fizzy threw herself into the passenger seat with a force that made the door tremble. She crossed her arms, chin high, her sunglasses still perched on her head, even though the sun had started to dip. Her ponytail had come half loose, and her cheeks were still flushed from the heat—and the encounter.

Louis slid into the driver’s seat and glanced over at her. “Alright, what’s—”

“You just love it, don’t you?” Fizzy snapped before he could finish, her voice sharper than he’d heard it in a long time.

He blinked. “What?”

“All of it,” she said, her eyes flashing. “The attention. The photos. Being the centre of everything, always.”

Louis frowned, starting the engine. “Fiz, I literally just took a picture—”

“Yeah. And now half of ASDA knows I’m your sister. Again.” She stared hard out the window, arms folded tightly over her chest. “You used to just be my brother. Now you’re Louis Tomlinson. And I hate it.”

Louis’ grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening.

“And where are you the bloody rest of the time?” she continued. “When Lottie’s breaking under uni stress? When the twins are screaming at each other over nothing? When I can’t sleep because I swear I still hear Mum walking down the hall?”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going. “You just show up, take a few selfies, dance in the garden, and disappear. Like a guest star in our lives.”

Louis felt the sting settle somewhere behind his ribs. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” she shot back. “You weren’t here when I didn’t get out of bed for three days. When I skipped school and didn’t tell anyone. When Lottie cried in the kitchen because she thought she’d failed Mum just by trying to make peace between Daisy and Pheebs.”

His jaw tightened. “You think this is easy for me? That I want to be gone all the time?”

“I think you get to be the golden boy. The success story. The one who shines. While the rest of us are just—stuck.”

The words hung in the air, sharp and sour.

There was a pause. Fizzy’s hands had started trembling slightly in her lap.

“I can’t sleep, Louis,” she said finally, and her voice was barely above a whisper. “I have nightmares. I wake up thinking she’s there. And then I remember she’s not. And it’s like losing her again every single time.”

Louis looked over, properly this time. She wasn’t just angry. She was cracked straight through the middle.

“I feel like I’m failing everyone,” she whispered. “And I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine.”

Louis looks at her, his brows drawn, voice firmer now. “Oi. No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare think that you’re failing anyone.”

She blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.

“I know Mum would be proud of you. I’m proud of you. You don’t need to pretend with me, yeah? Not ever. And if I’ve made you feel like you’re alone in this, then I’ve screwed up. But it was never because I stopped seeing you. It’s because sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, and I didn’t want to pull you down with me. I thought—I thought if I smiled enough, kept going, it would be okay. For you. For everyone. But I’m hurting too.”

Louis reached across the console. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close. She didn’t resist. She curled into him like she had when they were kids, when thunder had scared her and Louis was there to whisper that it was just noise.

“I miss her too,” he whispered, and this time his voice cracked, barely holding itself together. “So much it aches. There are nights I lie awake just like you, Fiz, and I feel like I’m drowning in it. And I know I’m not her. God, I wish I could be—wish I could be half the parent she was to you all. I'm sorry. I’m trying”

His throat burned, squeezed her tighter. He dragged a hand roughly over his face, jaw tight. One tear escaped—he blinked it away like it was nothing. “I’m trying so fucking hard, Fiz,” he said, voice low and rough. “Every single day. For you. For Lottie. For the girls.”

He let out a sharp breath, like he was pushing back everything that threatened to crack open. “But I’m not a machine. I don’t have all the answers. Half the time I’m just guessing—keeping everything moving, hoping no one notices when I’m close to falling apart. I'm sorry."

She let out a breath that sounded like surrender, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, and her face crumpled.

"I’m sorry," she said, voice breaking properly now. “For what I said. I know you’re not leaving us. I know you’re doing everything you can. I didn’t mean it—not really. It’s just... sometimes I feel so alone.”

Her hands were shaking as she wiped her eyes. “You and Lottie—you’re always the older ones, always been holding it together, since Mum.... Phoebs and Daisy have each other, they’re twins, they get it. But me? I’m just... here. In between. And I feel sometimes like an alien, don't really know where i belong."

Louis stayed quiet, letting her speak, his chest aching.

“I miss Mum,” Fizzy whispered, pressing a hand to her ribs like the hurt lived there. “It doesn’t feel like grief anymore—it feels physical. Like something hollowed out a part of me and forgot to put it back.”

Her voice broke again. “But I don’t want you to give Formula one up, Lou. I know what you’re chasing matters. I’d never want you to throw that away just to sit in Doncaster with us. That’d be insane. That would be really dumb of you.”

Louis stared at her for a long second, then pulled her back in, his hand cupping the back of her head.

"You're not just 'here', Fizzy," he murmured. "You're everything. And I see you. I promise you, I see you. Always. I should’ve been there better.  You matter, Fiz. So fucking much. I love you."

They stayed like that for a long beat. The world outside felt suspended.

Then he leaned back, gently brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“If you ever need me—really need me—I’ll be there,” he said, his voice steadier now, but softer too. “I don’t care where I am. I don’t care if it’s race day or media day or a thousand miles away. I’ll drop it. I’ll be on the next flight, in the next car, whatever it takes.”

He gave a small, lopsided smile, like he knew how dramatic it sounded. “I mean... if I’ve got all this fame and privilege, I might as well use it for something that actually matters, right?”

His fingers tightened gently around hers. “No trophy, no podium, no championship means more than you.”

Fizzy let out a tearful laugh. “Such a diva.”

“Damn right.”

He gave her hand a squeeze, then started the engine and shifted into reverse, pulling out of the parking space.

But as he drove, his smile faded. Fizzy scrolled silently beside him, and Louis gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. Her words kept circling in his head.

You used to just be my brother. 

He was trying. God, he was trying. But maybe she was right. Maybe no matter how fast he drove, how many podiums he reached, some parts of him were always going to feel like they were a step too far behind.

Back at home, the house was quiet. The sky over Doncaster had shifted into soft gold, shadows stretching across the garden like reaching fingers. Louis carried the shopping bags into the kitchen, unpacking them with practiced movements—milk in the fridge, cereal in the cupboard, vegetables in the basket. Fizzy had disappeared through the hall, and when he peeked into the living room, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Phoebe and Daisy, all three of them hunched over a set of crayons and open sketchbooks. She looked calmer. Softer. He didn’t interrupt.

Once everything was put away, he grabbed a bottle of water and headed outside. The evening air was warm, slow, the kind that settled in your bones. In the back garden, the old wooden swing creaked gently beneath the tree, and Lottie was already there—one foot dragging through the grass, a cup of tea balanced in her hands like it held the weight of the day.

Louis dropped down beside her with a sigh, their knees bumping. The chains groaned under their weight.

“She really let me have it,” he muttered.

Lottie took a sip of tea. “Fizzy?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Said I’m never here. That I just show up, shine for a second, and vanish again. Like I’m not really part of any of this.”

Lottie was quiet for a moment. A breeze picked up, shifting a strand of hair across her face.

“Do you think she’s right?” Louis asked, softer now. “Do you feel like that too?”

She turned toward him, eyes sharp and warm all at once. “No. Louis, honestly—you’re here so much it’s borderline annoying.”

He huffed a small laugh.

Lottie leaned back, letting the swing move lazily. “Fizzy just feels everything deeper than the rest of us. Always has. We all miss Mum. But Fizzy? She carries that grief like it’s stitched into her. She doesn’t know how to leave it down.”

Louis nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “She said she feels alone. Like you and I are this team, and the twins have each other. And she’s just... floating somewhere in the middle.”

Lottie’s face pinched. “Yeah. I get that. It probably does feel that way to her sometimes. But she’s not alone, Lou. I’m here. And so are you. Maybe not every single day, but when it matters? You always show up.”

“She thinks I’ll leave. That I’ll choose the sport. That I won’t choose her.”

Lottie bumped his shoulder. “Then show her you won’t. And don’t go all brooding Donny poet on me. You're not a failure, Lou. You're not even close. You’re doing what none of us know how to do—and you're doing it under a spotlight.”

She tilted her head, smiling just a little. “Fizzy’s hurting, yeah. But she’s also the same girl who defends you the second someone even tries to say your name with the wrong tone. You think she’s angry because she doesn’t care? Nah. She’s angry because she loves you that much. We all do.”

Louis blinked down at his hands, letting her words settle. Lottie reached out and nudged his shoulder again, gentler this time.

“And you, with your suitcase always half-packed and your phone always ringing? You still find your way back here. To us. That’s not failure, Lou. That’s showing up—even when it’s hard. That’s being a brother.”

Louis blinked down at his hands, letting her words settle. Lottie reached out and nudged his shoulder again, gentler this time.

“I just don’t want to get it wrong,” he admitted, voice low.

“You won’t,” Lottie said without missing a beat. “And if you do—we’ll call you out, mock you to death, and then still love you anyway.”

Louis huffed a quiet laugh, one that sounded more like relief than amusement.

“And Niall helps, too,” she added casually, as if it were nothing.

He raised a brow. “You’re admitting that?”

“Tell him and I’ll burn your favorite hoodie,” she said flatly.

Then she bumped his shoulder, gentle. “You’re not alone, Lou. Not even a little bit. You’ve got us. Always. Even when you think you don’t. But you’re not the only one carrying this—none of us are alone in this. We’re a family, yeah? We’ve always figured it out together.”

She paused, eyes steady. “And just so you know—you’re not responsible for me. Or for Fizzy. We’re old enough now. You’ve carried us for so long, and you still show up like it’s your job. But it’s not. You’re our brother, Louis. Not our savior.”

He didn’t respond with words. Just leaned his head back, letting the swing creak beneath them, letting her words settle somewhere deep in his chest.

And for a while, they just sat there. Not talking. Just breathing.

And for once, the quiet wasn’t heavy. It felt like home.

And something in him—tight and brittle for far too long—finally eased.

Harry’s POV

London shimmered beneath a thin veil of late summer heat, the kind that softened the edges of everything—glass, steel, even memory. The city buzzed quietly under the weight of golden light, the air humming with distant traffic and the clatter of café cutlery. In Shoreditch, the streets pulsed with a rhythm of their own—graffiti walls blazing with colour, market stalls spilling over with fruit and vintage denim, and music drifting from somewhere unseen.

Harry walked slowly beside his sister, Gemma, down a narrow cobbled street that glinted in the sun. The air smelled of fresh sourdough, roasted espresso beans, and that unmistakable cocktail of summer sweat and warm asphalt. A combination he hated on principle, and loved on instinct—because it was London, and London was home. Sort of.

He wore a loose, cream-coloured shirt, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Green linen trousers and his worn-in loafers completed the look, somewhere between curated and careless. Gemma, all calm elegance, matched his stride in a flowing printed dress, her long brown hair braided loosely down her back.

They talked easily, like they always did when the world slowed down long enough to let them. About books. About old inside jokes that still made them laugh. About their father.

“He actually wants me to do a commercial with Red Bull,” Harry said, dragging a hand through his curls. “Red Bull, Gem. While I’m still driving for Mercedes.”

Gemma blinked. “He said what?”

“And that I should consider switching teams next season,” Harry added, voice flat. “He called it ‘a move toward legacy branding.’ Like this is a bloody chessboard and I’m his knight.”

Gemma groaned, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “He’s out of his mind.”

“I know,” Harry muttered. “Thing is... I like it at Mercedes. I’ve won a title with them, I’ve grown with that team. Yeah, the car’s struggling with aero right now, but we’re working on it. And I trust Toto. I trust the process. But Dad doesn’t care about any of that. He hears Red Bull and sees headlines. Sees image. Sees power.”

Gemma looked at him sideways. “And what do you see?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He kicked a pebble along the cobbles with the toe of his loafer. “Pressure. Noise. Him talking over me until I forget what I was going to say.”

She nudged him lightly. “Haz... he’s not in charge. Not of you. Not anymore.”

Harry huffed. “Tell that to my brain. Every time he walks into a room, I feel like I’m shrinking. Like I’m fifteen again, trying to guess which version of him I’m going to get.”

Gemma slowed a little, her expression softening. “Was this about the fight on the plane? On the way back from Madeira?”

Harry shook his head faintly. “There wasn’t a fight. Not then. He called during the flight. Said he had a plan for me—a brilliant one, of course. That Red Bull wanted me.”

“Yeah,” Harry said bitterly. “He also talked about how my image wasn’t what it needed to be after Amsterdam.”

Gemma winced. “Of course he brought up Amsterdam.”

“He always does. He said good isn't enough. That I have to be perfect. That I can’t afford more missteps. He made it sound like I was one photo op away from ruining everything he built. Like I was just a walking liability.”

Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “And you said…?”

Harry sighed. “I told him I'd look at it. I felt like I had no other choice. But then, when I got back to Manchester, I called him again. Told him I didn’t want it. Didn’t want Red Bull, didn’t want to leave Mercedes.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “And that’s when he snapped. Said I was weak. That I was too emotional. That I didn’t have what it took to stay at the top.”

Gemma winced again. “Seriously?”

“Said I was an embarrassment to the family name. That all the years of work he put into my career were being undermined by my 'sentimentality.' That Mercedes might not be the right fit anymore because I couldn't 'keep myself together.'”

Gemma stopped walking. Her voice was calm, but there was fire behind it. “That’s not criticism, Haz. That’s manipulation.”

Harry looked down at his shoes. “I know. I know that logically. But in the moment, I just... couldn't argue. He kept raising his voice. He said that I should be lucky anyone still wanted me on the grid at all. I swear, Gem, for a second I thought he was going to say he regretted ever putting his name behind me.”

Gemma shook her head slowly, her jaw tight. “He thrives on that. On control. But Harry—you don’t owe him your silence. Or your fear. Say no. Say it clearly. You’re not his pawn.”

Harry glanced at her, something raw flickering in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like grief for the version of his father he never got to have.

She reached out, took his hand, and squeezed. “You don’t need him to be proud of you. Mum is. I am. We are. Every damn day.”

Just as Harry was about to deflect Gemma’s painfully accurate insight with something snarky, a voice called out from his right.

“Harry?”

He turned—and there was Zayn.

Casual as ever. Black T-shirt, silver chain, cigarette between his fingers even though he didn’t smoke anymore. His hair freshly cut, his jaw lightly stubbled. In his gaze, that familiar blend of irony and something quieter, something that always made Harry feel like he was being read like a well-worn book.

Harry blinked, thrown for a second. "Zayn," he said, a little surprised, but not unwelcome.

Zayn stepped closer, flicking his cigarette to the side without lighting it. "Gemma," he added with a nod and a half-smile.

Gemma’s face lit up. "Zayn Malik," she said with mock-formality. "You’re a long way from Notting Hill."

Zayn smirked. "Gallery opening just around the corner. I slipped out when it started getting too pretentious."

"Too arty for Zayn Malik?" Harry teased.

Zayn raised a brow. "Even I have my limits. The final straw was a sculpture of a goat head covered in gold foil and neon tubing."

Gemma made a face. "God, Shoreditch."

"Exactly," Zayn said. "What about you two? Strolling for old time’s sake or plotting world domination?"

"Bit of both," Harry said, and Gemma laughed, looping her arm through her brother’s.

There was an easy rhythm between the three of them now, an undercurrent of familiarity. But then Zayn’s gaze slid sideways toward Harry, a little more focused, a little more careful.

"How was Madeira?" he asked, casual in tone but with a glint of curiosity that lingered just a moment too long.

Harry hesitated.

He thought of the sun-warmed stone of the villa, how the sharp edges between him and Louis had dulled into something... not quite soft, but no longer cutting. There had been moments that caught him off guard—Louis teasing him with a smirk while flipping pancakes, or elbowing him playfully during one of their hikes. And late at night, Louis had said things. Things that stuck. Like how Harry didn’t owe anyone a legacy. Like he could be his own damn story.

It had helped. More than Harry wanted to admit.

He remembered the crinkles by Louis eyes, the way his blue eyes caught the sun like saltwater, and how unbothered he’d looked in nothing but swim shorts, lean and careless and completely himself. Louis had a way of pulling him out of his head. Of making things lighter without even trying.

Something had shifted. That much he knew. But what it meant? He wasn’t ready to say.

Not even to himself.

And he certainly couldn’t say it to Gemma or Zayn—not after everything he'd told them about hating Louis. So he went for an understatement.

Harry cleared his throat. "It was... fine."

Gemma raised a brow. "That’s all you’re giving us?"

He shrugged, but his ears were pink. "It was chill. Louis and I didn’t kill each other. That’s already a win."

Zayn snorted. "Didn’t kill each other? That’s it? That’s your glowing review of the days?"

"Well," Harry said slowly, eyes narrowing with mock suspicion, "You already seem to know more than I expected. What? You been secretly texting Louis on my behalf?"

Zayn gave a crooked grin. "Mate, I haven't touched your phone since F2. Pretty sure you had a lock screen of your car and a cracked camera back then. Let's just say... word gets around."

Gemma looked between them. "Wait. Are we saying you two actually got along? Like... Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles are civil?"

Harry’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. "It was actually kind of cool. I don’t know. Easy. We had this weird sort of rhythm by the end of it. He didn’t try to push me, and I didn’t feel the need to fight him."

Gemma blinked. Zayn stared like he’d missed a chapter.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Not that it means anything. We’re not friends or anything like that. Just... coexisting without murder. That’s all."

Zayn gave him a look, somewhere between amused and suspicious. Gemma, meanwhile, narrowed her eyes in that way she always did when she knew Harry was hiding something.

"You’re being weird," she said plainly.

"I’m not—" Harry started, then stopped. Because yeah, he was.

And then he heard himself say, before he could stop it, "Do you have his number?"

Zayn tilted his head. "Louis?"

"Yeah. Just—" Harry cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask him about his suitcase. You know, the one he brought to Madeira? It was... kind of cool. Like, annoyingly cool. And I thought maybe I’d get the same one. Just—wanted to know the brand, I guess."

Even as the words left his mouth, Harry nearly groaned. What the hell, Styles? Cool suitcase? That’s what you’re going with?

Gemma blinked. "You want his number because of a suitcase?"

Zayn raised his eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. "That’s your story? The cool suitcase?"

Harry exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, well. Shut up."

Gemma let out a soft snort, shaking her head like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.

Zayn took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at Harry with the kind of skeptical amusement that said he wasn’t buying a word of it. But instead of calling him out, he tilted his head, lips twitching in a grin.

"Should I ask him if he's okay with giving out his number?"

"Yeah. I mean... only if he doesn’t mind. It’s not a big deal. Doesn’t have to happen," Harry said, maybe too fast.

Zayn nodded slowly, clearly entertained. "Sure. I’ll tell him."

There was a pause, then Gemma rescued him with graceful timing. "We were actually heading to get some food—wanna come with?"

Zayn smirked, already taking a step back. "Next time. I’ve got a hot date with someone who thinks spray-painted goat carcasses are the pinnacle of artistic expression."

Gemma laughed. "Sounds unforgettable."

They said their goodbyes, and Harry watched Zayn melt back into the crowd, cigarette tucked behind one ear.

As they kept walking, Gemma was quiet for a few steps. But Harry could feel her watching him.

"The suitcase, huh?" she said finally, voice light but laced with meaning.

"Shut up," he muttered.

She grinned. "I’m not saying anything. Just... I’ve known you your whole life, and you’ve never asked for someone’s number over a piece of luggage. Not even when you flew halfway across the world and your suitcase actually got stolen."

Harry didn’t answer. He had no idea what he was doing. But he knew he was doing it again—stepping closer. Even if it was behind the flimsiest excuse imaginable.

LOUIS POV

It was a Thursday night and Louis was half-watching Love Island with Lottie, Daisy, Phoebe, and Niall—complete chaos on screen that lead to complete chaos in the living room. This show was total nonsense but he and Niall had turned it into a game: one point for every dramatic sigh, five for anyone who said they were there "for the right reasons," and an extra drink every time someone dramatically walked out of the villa or shouted about loyalty. It was ridiculous, juvenile, and kind of perfect.

Until his phone lit up.

A message from Zayn.

Guess who ambushed me in Shoreditch yesterday? 😎

A second message followed right after.

Harry. Dead serious. Wanted your number. Said your suitcase was—quote—‘annoyingly cool’ and he wanted to know the brand. Swore up and down it wasn’t weird. Said I'd check with you first. 😏

Louis stared at the screen, lips twitching. What in the actual fuck was Harry Styles doing now?

He fired off a quick reply:

Tell him it’s Horizn Studios, limited edition. And yeah, fine. Give him my number. Guess the suitcase made an impression. 🙄

Zayn: Wow. Look at you. Letting Styles have your number without a death threat. Who even are you?

Louis: Shut up. Maybe I’m just evolving. Or maybe I’m bored. Or maybe I want to see what other bullshit excuse he comes up with next. 😇

He put the phone face-down on the couch, trying to wipe the smirk off his face, just as Niall leaned over, one eyebrow already cocked. "Alright, who texted? You’re doing that face—you know, the one that means you’re thinking too hard and don’t like the answer."

Louis scoffed, but it was half-hearted. "Zayn. Being nosy. Enjoying himself way too much."

Niall grinned. "Well, that checks out."

The evening carried on, loud and unruly, and Louis played along. But something lingered. A question.

What did Harry want from him?

Later, after the girls had gone to bed, Louis and Niall pulled on jackets and stepped out into the night. The streets were damp from a passing shower, glistening under flickering street lamps. Their shoes echoed against the pavement, a rhythm they both knew well from years of walking it side by side.

The pub was tucked into a familiar corner of the neighborhood, warm and worn like an old jumper. The sign above the door was half-faded, the windows a little fogged, but the moment they stepped inside, it felt like home. The walls were lined with mismatched picture frames, the kind no one had dusted in years, and the low hum of conversation mingled with the crackle of an old jukebox in the corner.

Joey, the bartender—gruff in appearance but soft where it counted—barely looked up before pulling two pints. He’d been tossing them out since they were sixteen, back when they’d snuck in with fake IDs and cocky grins. Now, he just gave them a knowing nod and slid the glasses across the bar.

Their usual table in the back still wobbled on one leg, but neither of them mentioned it. It was part of the charm.

They sat in a comfortable silence at first, the kind only long friendships allow. But as Louis leaned back, stretching his legs under the table, Niall studied him for a beat too long.

Niall took a long sip of his lager and studied him in that quiet, unshakable way only he could. "You’re tired, mate," he said after their second pint, voice calm, eyes steady. "So tired you’re not even pretending otherwise anymore."

Louis leaned back with a sigh, the weight of it all pressing down on his shoulders. "Yeah, well. Fizzy’s been... rough lately. Angry at the world, angry at me. Then there’s the shoot—Rolex, all eyes on us."

Niall tilted his head. "You mean the shoot with Harry?"

Louis huffed a laugh, low and tired. "We fought. A lot. Proper screaming match on day one. But then... something shifted." He scratched at the label of his pint glass. "There were moments. We laughed, even. And for a second, he wasn’t that rich, perfectly pressed arsehole he usually is. Just—"

"A person?" Niall offered.

Louis shrugged. "I guess."

Niall blinked. "So, wait—we don’t hate him anymore?"

Louis huffed a laugh. "I don’t know. It’s not like I want to braid friendship bracelets and tell him my deepest secrets. But something shifted. I saw a side of him I didn’t even know existed. Like the emotionally competent version of Harry Styles finally made a guest appearance— still annoying, but… human. Real. And yeah, maybe a little bit of a surprise punch to the gut."

Then Louis added, quietly—so quiet he almost hoped the pub would swallow the words—"Zayn asked me earlier if he could give him my number. I said yeah."

Niall choked on his beer. "What?! Are you mad?! I thought we hated him—for life! For the shit he pulled—what, two years ago? Or—bloody hell, the shit he pulled just a few months back, throwing you against that wall-*!"

Louis raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his Guinness. "Relax. I’m not planning to braid friendship bracelets and tell him all my secrets."

Niall stared. "Right. So what is the plan then?"

Louis gave him a crooked, too-casual grin. "Dunno. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Niall blinked, incredulous. Then slowly raised his glass.

"To... whatever happens next, I guess."

Louis clinked his pint against Niall’s. "To chaos."

They didn’t get a chance to go deeper. The third pint had just landed when the door burst open in a wave of perfume, heels, and high-pitched laughter.

Eleanor.

Louis recognized her voice before he even turned. And sure enough, there she was—flanked by her entourage of overdressed friends, all glitter and fake tan, zero subtlety. She spotted him immediately and began weaving through the crowd with practiced grace.

Niall groaned under his breath. "Of course."

“Louis,” she said with that too-familiar smile, already sliding into the booth beside him before he could react. Her hand brushed his arm in a way that was meant to seem casual, but Louis knew better. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hey, El,” Louis replied, voice clipped but polite. It wasn’t that he hated seeing her—he didn’t. But there was no part of him that had longed for this reunion. Not tonight.

Her friends clustered around the table, full of energy and high-pitched laughter. Niall’s posture shifted immediately, drawing in on himself like a warning shot. Louis could feel the tension crackling beside him.

"Girls’ night out," Eleanor chirped brightly, brushing an imaginary thread off his sleeve. "Didn’t think we’d run into you."

Louis offered a noncommittal nod. “Yeah. It’s been a long week.”

She tilted her head, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find something familiar there. “You look... well. Tired. But good.”

He didn’t respond, just took another sip of his pint. Every word she spoke was weighted, like she was trying to draw him back in with invisible threads. Louis could feel her trying to catch his eye, waiting for him to ask something, to lean in. And it was his own fault - he had let her back into his life, hadn’t he?

Niall made a noise in the back of his throat. Louis didn’t look at him, but he knew the exact face Niall was making.

“I’ve missed this,” Eleanor said, fingers grazing his sleeve again, lingering just a moment too long. “Just... us. Being around you.”

Louis shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “El—”

“You know, I still think your mum would’ve wanted us to work things out,” Eleanor said suddenly, her voice softer, like she thought she was offering something kind.

Louis blinked, not angry—just caught off guard. It landed wrong. His fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

“She never said much about you,” he said, careful. “She respected you. Because you were my girlfriend. But... she didn’t really know you. Not in the way people think.”

Eleanor looked confused, like she couldn’t understand why that wasn’t enough. “Still,” she said, “she liked me. I know she did.”

Niall scoffed, shaking his head with a sharp breath. “Right. Louis, come on. Darts. Now. Before I end up saying what we’re both thinking.”

Louis stood, not angry—just done. “Be right back,” he said quietly, offering her a polite smile—hollow around the edges.

They made their way to the dartboard tucked near the back of the pub, where the noise was muffled under the hum of an old ceiling fan and the occasional crackle from the ancient jukebox.

Louis picked up a dart and twirled it between his fingers before glancing over at Niall. The weight of that last exchange with Eleanor still pressed on his shoulders, but he kept his expression neutral.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” he asked, aiming loosely toward the board.

Niall didn’t look up. “Not dramatic. Just done.” He pulled a dart from the board and rolled it between his fingers. “She doesn’t get to bring up your mum like that. Not after disappearing the moment things got hard. Not after pretending like none of it happened.”

Louis threw a dart. It hit low—just outside the center ring. He didn’t respond immediately, just watched it wobble slightly in the cork.

“I don’t think she meant it badly,” he said finally. “But she didn’t know her. Not really. And she wasn’t there at the end. That says enough.”

Niall’s throw landed with a sharp, clean thud near the bullseye. “Yeah, well. Says enough for me, too.”

They went quiet again. Louis lined up his next shot, letting the silence settle. The pub noise drifted around them, distant and harmless now—laughter from the bar, the scrape of a chair, the low hum of a classic song neither of them could name.

“I don’t need her to understand,” Louis said, more to the board than to Niall. “Just... need space from the pressure. You know she gives me that.”

Niall let out a frustrated sigh, stepping back from the board. “I just don’t get why you even let her back in. She’s the worst, Lou. Always has been. You deserve better than someone who vanished when you needed people the most.”

Louis lowered his arm, dart still in hand. He didn’t argue. “Maybe. I don’t know. Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t they?” He shrugged, like he didn’t quite believe it himself. “I guess I just... don’t know what I’m doing.”

Niall scoffed. “Well, whatever you’re doing, let’s do something else now. Like darts. Proper, distraction darts. First to three bullseyes buys the next round, yeah?”

Louis let out a soft laugh and raised a brow. “You’re on.”

They fell into rhythm after that. Dart, sip of beer, snide comment, another dart. Niall teased him for his lack of precision, Louis fired back about Niall’s ridiculous throwing stance. The laughter came easier now, bubbling between the quiet thuds of darts hitting cork.

Back at the booth, Eleanor had gone quiet. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a pout that didn’t quite reach her eyes. One of her friends checked the time on her phone and tugged at her arm.

“Come on,” the friend said, already reaching for her purse. “Let’s go.”

Eleanor lingered for a moment, eyes trained on Louis like she could will him back. Then, heels clicking softly across the floor, she approached.

“Guess I’ll go,” she said with a breathy little smile. Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve. She leaned in, lips tilted toward his cheek.

But before she could reach him, Niall stepped forward like a brick wall in skinny jeans. “Night, El,” he said, voice far too cheerful to be genuine.

She flinched back half a step, blinking. Then, forcing a smile, turned and walked away.

Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A quiet chuckle escaped him, the kind that lived somewhere between amusement and gratitude. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re welcome,” Niall said, grabbing his pint.

“You’re a menace.”

“Damn right I am.”

Louis grinned as he lined up his next dart. The pub around them blurred into something golden—laughter, a forgotten song humming beneath the clinking of glasses, and the dizzy warmth of three too many pints bubbling in his chest. They were both drunk—properly, joyfully drunk. The kind that made the world spin a little, but in the best way. Louis felt free. Wild. Like himself.

They stumbled out of the pub not long after, arms slung over shoulders, howling bits of songs into the warm Doncaster night. The cobbled alleys echoed their laughter as they weaved down the narrow streets, Niall tripping over a loose stone and Louis catching him, both of them losing it completely.

Eventually, their paths split—Niall taking a shortcut back to his, while Louis turned off toward home alone. The streets were quieter now, softer somehow, lit by the orange glow of tired streetlamps. Louis moved with that kind of joyful clumsiness only too much beer could bring, humming under his breath as he made his way down the familiar walk.

He fumbled with the front door key, swearing quietly when it jammed. When it finally clicked open, he stepped inside and paused, heart pounding—from trying to be very quiet. The house was asleep. Fizzy would definitely murder him if he woke her.

Slipping off his shoes, he tiptoed across the floorboards, wincing at every creak. Then he began the climb up to the attic room, one careful step at a time. The staircase groaned beneath his weight, the bannister warm beneath his palm.

At the top, he cracked open his bedroom door and slipped inside, exhaling in relief. The slanted ceiling greeted him like an old friend.

Clothes hit the floor where they landed—t-shirt, jeans, socks kicked off with little ceremony. 

He collapsed onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and laughter, and let the room spin around him.

The bed was a welcome crash—mattress and duvet pulling him under like waves.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand.

He groaned, blindly reaching for it, half-ready to ignore it—until he saw the name.

Eleanor.

Shame we didn’t get to talk more. I was kind of hoping you’d come home with me tonight? Xx

A strange, sinking feeling coiled low in his chest. He stared at the message. Gosh, this thing—whatever it was—it needed to end before it began.

Another notification lit up the screen. A number he didn’t have saved.

He blinked.

Figured you’d want the pics too, dickhead.

His heart skipped.

Harry.

He tapped the message and a series of images popped up—grainy behind-the-scenes shots from Madeira. Louis with a slice of pizza mid-bite. Him cannonballing into the pool. One of Lou Teasdale fixing his hair with both of them mid-laugh. Another of him and Harry waist-deep in the lava pools, laughing, water droplets catching the sun like glitter. He smiled without meaning to.

Then the last one stopped him.

A selfie. Clearly taken from above. Harry in his kitchen, apron tied haphazardly around his waist, a single cupcake held up like it was a prize. His green eyes were bright, mischievous and Louis hated how good he looked—hair messy, shirt rumpled, pulling a face like he’d just realised baking was harder than it looked. He pointed at the tray with exaggerated disbelief.

The photo was stupid. Definitely sent by accident.

But Louis liked it. More than he should’ve.

He smirked, tapping the image to zoom in. Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his mouth twisted in a mock grimace—and God, Louis could see the exact moment he must’ve taken it, probably mumbling something sarcastic to himself while balancing the phone awkwardly.

What Louis didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Harry loved baking. Was actually really good at it. But to Louis, it just looked like another part of him that didn’t quite add up. Another piece of the puzzle he didn’t have the full picture for.

The room still spun faintly, the alcohol warm in his veins, but this—this picture—hit different.

His thumbs moved before his brain could stop them. A reply. Something dumb. A little wrong. Pure Louis.

Thanks for the pics. Even the cupcake one—accidental, my arse. They look decent though. Do I get some in Barcelona or what? x

He dropped the phone on the bedside table, the glow of the screen fading out.

Rolling to his side, he pulled the blanket over his shoulders. His head was spinning, but not in the same way as before.

When he closed his eyes, he saw Harry. In his kitchen. With cupcakes.

God, if only the guy could stay unbearable. That would make it so much easier not to like him.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The heat shimmered across the asphalt like a mirage, even in the early hours of the morning, as Harry stepped out onto the tarmac in Barcelona. The sun wasn’t merciful, not even now. Beside him, Liam stifled a yawn, rubbing his eyes and clutching a large paper cup of coffee like it was a lifeline.

Harry wore a cream-colored linen shirt, light and airy, the top buttons left undone almost scandalously low, paired with loosely tailored trousers. The fabric moved with him, soft and languid—an odd contrast to the taut anxiety coiling beneath his skin.

He was glad Liam had come along. With Taylor preoccupied by the whirlwind of her fashion label’s launch—interviews, fittings, her own mini-show—Harry had braced himself to face the weekend alone. Facing Nick alone. Not that anything had happened. Not lately. But the air between them still carried the echo of old conversations, unsaid things. And now, with the pressure of leading the championship standings, every gesture felt heavier, every glance more loaded.

But what truly kept him awake at night was the car.

For the last two weeks now, he and Jeff had chased the same ghost—an aerodynamic flaw that refused to be pinned down. They’d run simulations, debated angles, tweaked setups and sent Harry out on endless test laps, only to return to square one. No epiphany. No breakthrough.

Barcelona’s dry heat would only make things worse. The car’s balance shifted with temperature, the altered air resistance mucking up everything they thought they understood. He was walking into the weekend with a target on his back and a car that felt more like a gamble than a weapon.

He exhaled through his nose, lips pressed into a thin line as he and Liam approached the black SUV waiting to take them to the circuit.

"You good?" Liam asked, eyeing him sideways as they settled into the back seat. The SUV hummed to life, the air conditioning already battling the rising heat.

Harry gave a tired smile, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I’ve been sleeping like shit. That bloody aero issue’s been eating at me."

Liam let out a low whistle. "Sounds like a nightmare. Wish I could help, but you know I barely passed physics."

Harry laughed softly. "Yeah, you’re more emotional support."

"Exactly. I’m the emotional support himbo," Liam said, grinning.

Harry snorted. The laughter felt good—brief, but good. As Liam launched into a recap of his latest date with Kate, his voice took on a softness Harry hadn’t heard in a while. "We went to this rooftop place—real fancy, with candles and a view over the whole city. You know the type. But the waiter thought I was someone famous. Took three cocktails before he realized I wasn’t."

Harry chuckled.

"But Kate was laughing the whole time," Liam continued, a small, fond smile curling at his lips. "She’s... I don’t know, man. She makes things lighter. It’s not just that she’s funny—she sees through the bullshit. Makes me feel like I can breathe."

Harry glanced over, and he noticed that, for the first time in weeks, Liam didn’t look worn out. The shadows under his eyes had faded a bit, the tense edge in his posture less visible. There was color in his face, an ease in his movements. And Harry noticed something else too—subtle, but telling. The way Liam’s hand didn’t fidget. The way his gaze was steady.

"You look good," Harry said quietly. "Better."

Liam shrugged. "Kate helps. I’ve been trying to keep it clean lately. For her. For me too, I guess. Feels different this time."

Harry nodded, his chest tightening with a quiet kind of relief. He didn’t press further—he didn’t need to. It was written all over Liam’s face.

Liam leaned back into the seat with a grin. "You know what she did the other day? I was having a full-on meltdown because I couldn’t find my headphones—thought I’d lost them—and she just walked over, pulled them out of the fridge. The fridge, Harry. I’d put them there while grabbing a smoothie."

Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You put your headphones in the fridge?"

"Apparently," Liam said with mock gravity. "But the way she didn’t even make fun of me—she just looked at me like, 'Of course you did,' kissed my cheek and handed them over like it was the most normal thing in the world."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. "She’s got the patience of a saint."

Then Harry’s phone vibrated.

"She does," Liam agreed. "It’s terrifying how seen I feel around her. Like, I used to think that was a bad thing, but now... it feels kind of good."

Harry had nodded, ready to say something when the buzz in his pocket drew his attention. His heart gave a small leap—like it already knew.

Instinctively, he reached into his pocket, thumb sliding across the screen.

It was a selfie.

Of course it was.

Louis.

It had started the next day after Harry had accidentally sent Louis that cupcake picture meant for Taylor. Since then, they had fallen into a strange kind of rhythm—unspoken, effortless. Every day, without fail, Louis would send a photo, Harry would reply with one of his own. Snapshots of mundane or ridiculous moments of everyday life. Harry now had a whole collection: Louis mowing the lawn in neon crocs, loading a washing machine, cuddling a cute dog, spooning cereal into his mouth with a bewildered frown like he was questioning the entire concept of breakfast, and so on.

They didn’t text, not really. The conversation was all in the images. Nothing more. But somehow, not less either.

Today’s photo was no different—up close and slightly chaotic. Louis’s ocean-blue eyes were wide with exaggerated surprise, glinting with mischief. His tongue was sticking out, and on his forehead was a piece of masking tape with the word "Muppet" scribbled in block letters. In the background, just behind his shoulder, a McLaren engineer with red hair wore a look of utter despair—mid-reach toward Louis as if trying to reclaim both the tape and his dignity.

Harry stared down at the image, lips twitching. A huff escaped him first, then a soft, uncontrollable laugh that bubbled out despite his best efforts to keep it in.

"What?" Liam leaned over, eyebrows raised in curiosity, already grinning like he knew it had to be Louis.

Harry turned the screen toward him.

Liam barked a laugh. "He’s an actual menace."

Harry hesitated for a split second, then nodded with a half-shrug, suddenly aware of how easily his smile had come. Caught off guard, maybe. A little exposed.

Liam noticed, and he looked at him, eyes thoughtful. But it was the grin that said more.

"What?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Nothing," Liam said too quickly, his grin deepening.

Harry rolled his eyes. "We’re not even friends."

Liam tilted his head, clearly unconvinced. "Still... I’m really looking forward to finally meeting him. I’m curious about the guy who sends you fridge selfies and makes you smile like that."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Liam was already shaking his head with a laugh.

Still, Harry found himself glancing down at his phone again, thumb brushing across the screen as if the image might change. As if Louis might send something else.

-

Half an hour later, they arrived at the racetrack. The Motorhome stood tall and pristine, already buzzing with early staff and the low hum of logistical chaos. Harry and Liam exchanged a few words before splitting up—Liam vanished into his assigned room to unpack and unwind, claiming he needed to "mentally prepare for all the chaos." Harry, meanwhile, headed toward his own private mobile home—smaller than the main Mercedes hospitality unit, but comfortably his. It was parked just adjacent to the larger structure, offering a sliver of privacy amidst the chaos of a race weekend. Inside, the space was compact but thoughtfully designed: a huge bed, a wardrobe, a small kitchenette, and a window that overlooked part of the paddock.

He dropped his bag on the bed and stood for a moment in the stillness, rolling his shoulders. The quiet, though fleeting, was welcome. He ran a hand through his curls and glanced at his phone, thumb hesitating before he pushed it into his back pocket. There wasn’t time to settle in properly—Nick would show up soon, as he always did—but he wanted at least a moment to himself before the noise began.

A knock on the door.

Here we go

Nick.

He stepped in with a broad smile, the scent of his expensive cologne announcing him seconds before his voice. He looked freshly pressed.

"Morning, Harry," he greeted warmly, stepping in like he belonged there. "Liam made it too, yeah? How was the flight? Everything smooth?"

He gave Harry a quick once-over. "Ready to shine this weekend? You look... well. Rested, at least."

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug, which Nick seemed to ignore as he switched gears almost seamlessly—charm fading just a fraction. "Alright, so here’s where we stand. PR just leaked some behind the scene-shots of the Rolex shoot to the press—the ones with you and Louis. And as you might know, we also tipped off a few fans at the airport in madeira so they could catch you two together. The photos came out decent enough. Friendly. Like you don’t actively hate each other. Though, just between us, Harry... you still look like a deer caught in headlights."

Harry sighed. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"No offense," Nick said, not sounding even a little sorry, "but facial expressions matter. People want to see chemistry, not confusion. Still, the Louis thing—it’s working. The footage’s getting clicks, the photos are circulating, and the general vibe is... not disastrous."

"A glowing endorsement."

Nick narrowed his eyes. "The point is, your image is stabilizing. That shoot helped. But we both know good PR only lasts as long as the performance holds up. This weekend, you need results. If you can bring home a win, we might finally bury the Amsterdam headlines."

Harry exhaled through his nose. "No pressure. That’s familiar."

Nick didn’t smile. "You think I’m pushing you too hard? I’m pushing because I know what you’re capable of," he said, with a tone that almost passed for brotherly. Almost.

And that was Nick’s skill—sometimes he was warm, asking about Harry’s sleep, joking about breakfast, sending little gifts to the motorhome before a race. There were moments when he really did feel like an older brother, someone who had Harry’s back. But then came the gentle nudges, the carefully phrased expectations wrapped in concern. And beneath it all, the manipulation. A pressure that was always present, always dressed in the language of ambition.

"You have a gift," Nick continued, eyes locking on Harry’s. "And people expect to see it. Don’t give them a reason to look away. You’ve come this far. You’re not a kid in a kart anymore."

"I know that," Harry said, quieter now.

"Then show them. Put the doubts aside, sort the car, find a way. That’s what champions do. And you want to be remembered, don’t you?"

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Nick clapped him on the shoulder—not gently—and turned as if to leave, but the door opened before he could reach it.

Liam stepped inside, brow raised as he found Nick already in the room. His expression flickered—surprise first, then that subtle tension that always seemed to appear when Nick was involved. Still, he kept it civil.

"Nick," Liam said, offering a polite nod. "Didn’t realize you were already here. Everything on track?"

Nick’s smile returned, back in PR mode. "Absolutely. Just giving Harry a quick rundown. Good to see you again, Liam. How was the flight?"

"Smooth enough. Slept through the turbulence," Liam replied with a shrug, stepping further into the room and glancing toward Harry.

"Good, good," Nick said. Then he looked at his watch, as if just remembering. "Harry’s got a media tent appearance in eight minutes. Just keeping the schedule tight."

He turned to Harry again, and there it was—that flicker of calculation behind the smile. "You’ve got this, yeah? Keep that energy up."

Then he nodded to Liam, polite but brief, and exited with the same efficiency he’d arrived.

The moment the door clicked shut, Harry exhaled sharply.

Liam didn’t move for a second. Then he muttered, "He really is something else."

Harry gave a humorless snort, rubbing the back of his neck. "A real ray of sunshine."

Liam leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. The edge in his voice was sharper now, less hidden. "He tries to play the big brother, but all I ever see is pressure. Smiles while he pulls your strings. And you act like it’s normal."

Harry didn’t respond immediately. He just looked down at the floor, jaw clenched.

"You know he’s manipulating you, right? Phrasing everything like he’s helping, but always pushing his agenda."

Harry exhaled, slow. "Yeah. I know. But he also knows how this world works. How to play it. How to get results."

Liam shook his head, not angry—just tired of watching it happen. "That doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like you owe him everything. You’re not a product, Haz. You’re a person."

Harry gave a faint, crooked smile. "Tell that to the sponsors."

Liam stepped closer, voice softer now. "I just don’t like how he talks to you. Never have."

Harry nodded, running a hand through his curls.

But beneath the frustration, the lingering tension Nick always left in his wake, something else pulsed through him.

He was going to see Louis.

Here. Today. In person.

-

The media tent was already buzzing when Harry arrived—white canvas stretched wide with an industrial breeze from the AC units cooling the air inside. Rows of folding chairs held journalists, their badges swinging, coffee cups in hand. Flashbulbs sparked intermittently. The long front table bore placards for each driver, flanked by backdrops splashed with sponsor logos: Red Bull, Mercedes, Ferrari, McLaren, Rolex.

Seated already were Lewis Hamilton, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, and Max Verstappen. Louis sat next to Zayn at the far end, relaxed, one leg lazily crossed over the other, sipping from a water bottle. Harry took his seat beside him without hesitation. He greeted Zayn with a warm hug, and exchanged only a nod—cool, neutral, almost bored with Louis. 

The first questions were routine, the kind everyone had answered a hundred times before. Track conditions. Tire strategies. Adjustments for the unusually high temperatures.

The room laughed, tension loosening just a bit.

Then Max fielded a question about Red Bull’s long-run pace. His tone was short, but assured. "We’ve made good improvements since the last race. The setup feels strong. If the temperatures stay stable, we’re confident."

When the mic reached Harry, he gave his usual answer. Clipped. Composed. Carefully noncommittal. "The track's evolving fast. We’re still working on balance, but the team’s done a great job. We’ll see where we are in quali."

His words were fine. Perfectly rehearsed. But his voice carried a tightness that no one but maybe Liam would notice.

Louis, for his part, kept to his usual routine. His responses were dry, a touch sardonic, always with that air of casual indifference. Louis cracked a grin when asked about how he was handling the heat. "I think the track is fine," he said, brushing a hand through his hair, "but my hairstyle is definitely losing the battle. I might look like a tomato by Lap 20." Then he leaned back again as if the entire event was just another mandatory box to tick.

But even in his stillness, Harry could feel him there—close, steady, impossible to ignore.

Until someone asked, "So... Madeira. What exactly were you two doing there together?"

A hush rolled through the tent like a tide pulling back. Harry's fingers tightened around the edge of the table, his posture just a little too straight. For a second, no one spoke. Even the cameras seemed to pause.

Louis leaned forward, resting his elbows casually on the table, his tone so dry it was almost flippant. "We share a sponsor," he said, drawing out the pause just enough to make the silence linger. "There was a shoot scheduled. We both showed up. That’s it."

He looked out at the crowd of journalists, but not at Harry. Not even a side glance. And yet, his words were precise—measured to give away absolutely nothing.

The journalists scribbled notes, lenses zoomed in, hoping to catch a flicker of something beneath the surface. But Louis was unreadable.

Then, just as the moderator seemed ready to move on, Louis turned his head ever so slightly.

His eyes met Harry’s.

A second—maybe less.

But the current between them was undeniable. A flash of recognition, something unsaid but felt. It passed too quickly for the cameras, too subtle for headlines. But it lingered with Harry like the ghost of a touch.

Then it was gone.

The moderator, clearing his throat, offered a few closing remarks and thanked the drivers. Chairs scraped back, murmurs rose again. Reporters exchanged confused glances, as if they weren’t quite sure what had just happened. No outburst. No standoff. No tabloid-worthy tension.

Just a single look, and too many unanswered questions.

Louis stood up, nodded at the moderator, and left without another look.

Harry remained seated a moment longer, heart thudding, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. To speak.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Minutes later, the sun hit him like a wall as they stepped out onto the track for the scheduled walk-through. The heat shimmered above the asphalt, heavy and unmoving, while engineers buzzed around them with clipboards and tablets. Harry walked with Lewis, his engineer Jeff and the rest of the team, discussing problem zones, wind direction, and potential grip loss under the heat.

Liam followed alongside, quiet but observant. He tried to stay engaged, nodding at terms he barely understood. This wasn’t his world—he was a music producer, not a racer—but he wanted to be there for Harry. Even if all of this made about as much sense to him as a foreign language.

They were halfway through the main straight when the glint of orange caught Harry’s peripheral vision.

McLaren.

He kept walking, pretending he hadn’t seen them. But of course—of course—Liam had.

“Wait,” Liam said, squinting ahead, “is that—?”

Harry sighed quietly through his nose. “Yeah.”

Zayn’s unmistakable silhouette stood a few steps from the McLaren car, gesturing animatedly with a clipboard in one hand. Louis was next to him, crouched slightly as he squinted at a corner of the track. Then he straightened and said something over his shoulder that made a couple engineers laugh.

And Liam, naturally, veered straight off the path.

“Zayn!” he called out, already raising a hand in greeting.

Harry blinked after him, and hissed under his breath before turning to Lewis and Jeff. “I’ll catch up in a minute,” he said and jogged after Liam, heart thudding louder than necessary.

Zayn looked up at the sound of his name and his face broke into a wide smile. “Mate! No way,” he said, stepping forward, and the two men embraced like no time had passed. There were a few claps on the back, a low exchange of laughter—old friends slotting back into familiar rhythm.

Harry reached them just in time to catch the end of Liam’s greeting.

"Louis, right?" Liam said, friendly but neutral. "We haven’t met yet."

Louis turned, brows lifting just a little in curiosity. "That’s me," he said, offering a hand without hesitation. "And you are...?"

"Liam," he replied, shaking it. "Old friend of Harry’s. I used to tag along to a lot of the F2 weekends back in the day. Never raced—just kept him sane."

Louis quirked a brow, amused. "That sounds like a full-time job already—but I’m curious, what do you do when you're not acting as Harry’s unofficial pitlane therapist?"

"I’m a music producer," Liam said, with a loud laugh. "Studio work mostly, though I still tag along to race weekends now and then. Force of habit."

Louis’s grin widened. "Music producer, huh? That explains the vibe. I was starting to wonder if you were a very casual race strategist."

Louis glanced at Harry as he spoke, not just once but intermittently—his blue eyes flickering with something mischievous, like he was testing the waters and enjoying every second of it. "These track walks are wild, right? Like this weird parade where everyone pretends they’re not low-key spying on each other’s lines while acting like asphalt connoisseurs."

Liam laughed at that, and even Zayn let out a huff of amusement. Harry, meanwhile, stared a little too hard at the horizon.

Louis went on, casually swinging his water bottle. "And then there's you, Liam. Just strolling like you own the place while the rest of us melt under the weight of our team’s PR scripts."

"Trust me, I’ve got no idea what half of this is about," Liam replied, smiling. "I’m just here to keep Harry from combusting."

Louis snorted. "Then you deserve a medal already."

He threw another look at Harry—too sharp, too knowing—and added, "At least you admit when you’re out of your depth. Unlike some people."

Harry gave him a thin-lipped glance. "Miracles do happen."

It was light. It was playful. But under Harry’s skin, something itched.

He crossed his arms, jaw tight. It was all so relaxed—so easy. So why didn’t he feel easy? Why did it bother him, how naturally Louis fit in, how unbothered he seemed by the whole thing? Like this was normal. Like they were normal.

And they weren’t. Not really.

Why did it feel like something was slipping through his fingers?

He cleared his throat and nudged Liam. "We should get back."

As they walked away, Liam glanced at him sideways. "He seems alright."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don’t start."

"Not starting anything," Liam said, though there was a hint of something knowing beneath his tone. "Just... not what I expected."

Harry groaned. "For the five-thousandth time—we’re not even friends. We’re just... not fighting."

Liam smirked. "Uh-huh. That’s definitely what that looked like."

"Oh my God," Harry muttered, picking up his pace to get away from the conversation.

The day didn’t slow down after that. Meetings bled into strategy briefings, media obligations overlapped with technical run-throughs, and the sun climbed higher with every passing minute. By the time the first test run rolled around, Harry’s mind was already on edge—and it was about to get worse.

The test run began—and it went to hell fast.

The weather turned halfway through, the wind gusting suddenly across the straights. The car’s already unstable aerodynamics fell apart under pressure. Harry fought the steering like it was a wild animal, his voice sharp over the radio.

“Jeff, I’m losing the rear out of every medium-speed corner. It’s all over the place.”

Jeff’s voice came through, calm but clipped. “Copy. Try adjusting your entry line through Turn Seven. We need one more lap of clean data.”

But there wasn’t any clean data. The car bucked and twitched, the telemetry spiking in all the wrong places.

Back in the pit lane, Harry slammed to a stop, engine still ticking as he yanked off his gloves and helmet.

“Fuck, man,” he muttered, tossing his gloves onto the bench.

His race suit was soaked, clinging to him. He peeled down the top half and let it hang at his waist, dragging a sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Jeff was already there, tablet in hand. “Rear instability’s worse than yesterday. Crosswinds didn’t help, but the balance is completely off. Diffuser’s not generating consistent downforce.”

“We’ve adjusted that three times,” Harry snapped. “Every fix just moves the problem somewhere else.”

Jeff sighed. “I know. We’ll run aero simulations tonight, check flow patterns again.”

Harry paced. He could feel the tension in his calves, his shoulders, the tightness behind his eyes. It wasn’t just frustration—it was helplessness.

“I need to blow off some steam,” he muttered to Jeff, already tugging at the collar of his race suit. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Jeff nodded without protest. “Don’t go too far. We’ll regroup in about two hours — try to clear your head by then.”

Harry gave a half-hearted thumbs-up, then stormed out of the garage into the heavy afternoon air, lungs burning for something—anything—to release the pressure.

Liam was sitting outside Harry’s motorhome, laptop balanced on his knees, earbuds in, lost in whatever track he was editing. Liam looked up, removing one earbud. "Everything alright?"

Harry slowed as he approached, running a hand through his curls.

“Run with me?” he asked, voice already carrying tension.

“Mate, the last time I ran with you, I genuinely thought my lungs were going to collapse. You don’t run—you chase demons.”

Harry snorted. “Fair.”

He turned, stepping up into his motorhome, the door hissing shut behind him. Inside, the cool air hit his skin and he peeled off his fire suit the rest of the way, reaching for a fresh pair of running shorts and a fitted black training shirt.

As he laced his shoes, his thoughts drifted—uninvited and annoyingly persistent—to Louis.

He thought of Madeira.

Of how Louis had pinched him, laughed like a maniac, and dashed down the trail with the cocky confidence of someone who knew he’d win—because he absolutely hadn’t played fair.

Harry remembered the sound of Louis' laughter echoing through the trees. The effortless way he moved. That smug, gleaming grin when he looked back—already three steps ahead.

And how Harry had chased him anyway. Not because he wanted to win.

But because he felt free.

Without really thinking, Harry pulled out his phone. He hesitated only a second before switching the camera to front-facing and snapping a selfie: short running shorts, tight black athletic shirt, hair still damp and curling slightly from the test run, clinging to his forehead and temples.

You still think you’re the quickest man in the world?

He hit send before he could change his mind.

And then immediately regretted it.

Fuck. That was stupid. Stupid, impulsive, and clearly a product of no sleep and too much adrenaline. He shouldn’t have—

Too late now.

Louis was online, below Harry’s message—two blue ticks.

He’d seen it.

Okay, no turning back now, Harry exhaled, thumbs flying as he tapped in his live location and hit send. Might as well commit fully before he could talk himself out of it.

Harry reached the edge of the clearing, where the dirt trail widened slightly, bordered by dry grass and a few twisted olive trees. He stopped to stretch, arms above his head, trying to focus on the feeling of his muscles lengthening, the rhythm of his breath—anything but the phone that now sat heavy in his pocket.

The air was still warm but not stifling, carrying the promise of evening. Shadows stretched long across the path, dappling Harry's stride in flickers of light and leaves.

It should have been calming.

But instead, his pulse beat in double-time. His stomach twisted in knots he couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the idea that Louis might not come… or that he actually might. That he'd see him again. Just the two of them. No cameras, no teams. Just... whatever this was between them.

Did he even want that? Or was he chasing something he didn’t understand?

Five minutes passed. He was just about to give up and start running alone when he heard footsteps crunching across the gravel.

Louis.

In a tank top.

Of course he was wearing a tank top—light grey, snug around his shoulders and loose at the hem, the kind of shirt that looked like it had been made just to show off the golden stretch of skin beneath. The lowering sun caught the contours of his arms, casting a warm glow over his collarbones and making the fine hairs on his forearms shimmer like dust. His skin looked sunkissed, brushed in amber, like he belonged to this hour of the day.

And his eyes—God, his eyes. Blue like a breaking wave, catching the last light just right, too bright, too sharp. They found Harry’s, flickering with something between challenge and amusement.

Louis raised a brow as he approached, breath steady, expression cocky. “You ready, Styles? For your little revenge arc?”

He tilted his head. “Though, I’m not sure running in this heat is the best idea. But then again, maybe you just missed me.”

Harry huffed, shaking his head as he tried to hide the half-smile threatening his face. “Shut up and run.”

They fell into step beside each other, shoes hitting the gravel in tandem, their breathing syncing slowly.

For Harry, it was like shedding a skin. Every stride loosened something inside him—the tight coil of his shoulders, the constant pressure behind his eyes. The weight of the day didn’t disappear, but it dulled, like a radio turned down low.

Running beside Louis felt strange and familiar all at once. Their paces matched instinctively, their silences companionable. Their arms brushed occasionally—brief, passing contacts that were probably accidental. But each time, Harry’s skin lit up like it had been touched by static. The warmth lingered longer than it should have, a whisper of presence that refused to fade. He told himself not to pay attention, to focus on the run, on the rhythm of their steps. But his body betrayed him, holding onto every point of contact like a secret.

It felt good to move. To sweat. By the time they circled back toward the paddock, both of them were drenched. Skin flushed, shirts sticking to every dip and line of muscle. It should’ve been uncomfortable, but Harry felt lighter than he had in days.

Until Louis grabbed the hem of his tank top and wiped the sweat from his face.

And all that ease collapsed.

Harry’s eyes flicked—just for a second. The lift of the fabric, the sharp cut of his abs beneath golden skin, slick with sweat. The rise and fall of Louis’ chest. The way the light caught the line of his jaw, his lashes, the tension in his throat as he swallowed and Harry found himself staring.

Louis glanced sideways—and paused. He had caught him.

Their eyes met. And for a moment, the air around them seemed to still.

Then Louis turned his gaze forward, brow furrowed faintly. Like he wasn’t sure what he’d just seen.

Neither was Harry.

They slowed to a walk as the garages came into view, the silence stretching between them now heavier.

Louis cleared his throat. “I saw your run. Earlier. The car looked twitchy. Everything okay?”

Harry let out a breath, rubbing at his temple. “It’s the aero. Rear’s unstable. We’ve tried everything—diffuser, ride height, suspension tweaks—it’s still a mess.”

He dragged a hand through his curls, frustration leaking through. “We’re chasing clouds at this point.”

And then it hit him. Who he was talking to.

Louis.

McLaren.

Harry’s competitor.

His stomach dropped.

He stopped walking.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Louis slowed, then stopped beside him. His face was still—too still. The kind of still that didn’t signal calm, but calculation.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “You’re probably right.”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t smug.

Just quiet. Clipped. Like he was already somewhere else.

They kept walking, but something had shifted. Louis was beside him, sure—but his mind clearly wasn’t. His brow pulled tight, his mouth a thin line. Every few steps, his gaze dropped to the gravel, distant and unreadable.

Harry noticed it, and with each silent second, the weight in his chest grew heavier.

Why had he said anything?

Why Louis?

Of all people.

It had felt right in the moment—natural, even. Like something shared between... whatever they were. Like there was something unspoken building there, something fragile and maybe even good. But now, all Harry could think was how stupid he’d been to trust it. To trust him.

Louis was his rival. And he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to know internal Mercedes data.

Harry clenched his jaw, dragging a hand through his damp curls. This was exactly the kind of mistake his father warned him about. Don’t trust anyone. Not fully. Not ever.

By the time they reached the motorhomes, the silence had thickened around them.

Louis stopped at the path that led to his own. “Later, Styles,” he said.

No grin. No spark in his voice.

Just distance.

Harry stood still, watching him walk away. His gut twisted, the guilt setting in fast and hard—but tangled in it was confusion. Regret. And a flicker of something colder.

He didn’t know what Louis was thinking. And that terrified him more than anything else.

He swallowed hard, gaze fixed on the spot where Louis had disappeared.

God, he hated how much he wished he could take it back.

And even more, how much he wished he could have trusted Louis.

The door to his motorhome clicked shut behind him, sealing the rest of the world out. Harry peeled off his shirt on the way to the bathroom, his muscles heavy, his mind even heavier. Before he stepped into the shower, he grabbed his phone and shot a quick message to Jeff: Not gonna make it back to the garage tonight. Brain’s fried. I need sleep if I want any shot at surviving quali tomorrow. He didn’t wait for a reply.

The water was hot, almost too hot, but it grounded him, washing the sweat and tension from his skin even if it couldn’t scrub away the ache under his ribs.

After the shower, he found Liam sitting on the couch, controller in hand, some ridiculous racing game paused on the screen. "You alive?" Liam asked with a crooked smile.

Harry huffed a laugh and dropped down beside him, grabbing the other controller. "Barely."

They played a few rounds, the noise and the motion offering a brief distraction. But Harry’s focus was off. His timing was all wrong. He wasn’t really there.

Eventually, Harry dropped the controller into his lap and sighed.

"Run helped," he said quietly. "Cleared my head. A little."

Liam glanced over. "Yeah? You needed it. You've been like a coiled spring since we got here."

Harry gave a tired smile. "Still am, honestly. Aero’s a mess. Nothing’s working. I’m just... tired of it."

Liam frowned, turning slightly toward him. "You’ll get there. Jeff’s on it, right?"

"Yeah, but it’s like chasing ghosts out there. I keep thinking we’ve nailed it and then the next lap it all falls apart again."

Liam didn’t push, just let Harry speak, nodding every now and then.

Harry leaned back into the couch cushion, head tipping toward the ceiling. "Maybe I’m just being dumb about everything."

Liam was quiet for a beat. "You're not dumb. You're under pressure. And trying to do it all without letting anyone in. That's exhausting."

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t have one. Because the truth was—he had let someone in. Briefly. Stupidly. And it was already biting at the back of his mind like regret. He had told Louis. Louis, of all people. Trusted him with something he shouldn’t have shared. And now Louis walked away without a word. This was what happened when you let someone close. It only ever proved what his father had said all along. You’re better off alone.

“I’m wrecked,” he murmured instead, dragging a hand across his face. “Gonna crash early. Need to be semi-functional for quali.”

Liam smiled gently. “Sleep’s probably a good idea.”

Harry nodded, standing up slowly.

They moved to the door, and Liam glanced at him just before stepping outside. “You’ll be alright?”

Harry hesitated. "Eventually."

Liam bumped his shoulder gently. “Try not to spiral too hard. Get some sleep, yeah?”

Harry watched him disappear down the path toward the guest unit, then closed the door. The lock clicked a little too loudly in the quiet.

But sleep didn’t come easily.

He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The silence from earlier still echoed in his ears. The quiet between words. The way Louis hadn’t looked at him when he walked away.

Harry turned onto his side and shut his eyes, drifting off to an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the narrow slats of the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the cream bedding and the soft beige walls of Harry’s motorhome. The space was compact but well-kept—one of the newer models Mercedes provided for their top drivers. Sleek surfaces, built-in storage, everything in its place. A controlled environment, where nothing unexpected was meant to happen.

Except Liam, apparently.

He didn’t bother knocking properly—just pushed the door open with one hand while the other held up his phone.

“Mate,” he called, his voice a strange mix of disbelief and amusement. “You’re trending.”

Harry groaned from under the blanket and dragged a pillow over his face. “Kill me.”

Liam ignored the request, striding inside with far too much energy for Harry's liking. “Someone caught a picture of you and Louis running last night. It’s all over the Internet. Caption says: ‘Louis and Harry working out together. Best friend cooking?’”

Harry pulled the pillow down just enough to glare at him. “Seriously?”

Liam turned the screen so Harry could see. The photo was blurry and probably taken from a phone peeking over a fence, but it was clearly them—running side by side in the dusky light.

“You didn’t tell me you went running with Louis,” Liam said, his tone no longer amused. It was sharp now, laced with something that sounded dangerously close to irritation. “What the hell, Harry?”

Harry sat up slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “It wasn’t planned. I sent a dumb message and he showed up.”

Liam crossed his arms, the phone still in his hand. “You don’t just run with someone like him unless something’s going on. You hate letting people in. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’d be happy for you to find some new,” he raised his fingers in exaggerated air quotes, “friends.” 

Harry looked away. “It wasn’t like that.”

Liam didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched thin.

And then Harry sighed. “I fucked up.”

Liam’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I told him,” Harry said, voice low. “About the aero. About the rear instability. Not everything, but... too much.”

Liam blinked. “You told him? Jesus, Harry.” He shook his head, pacing a step. “Do you know how that looks? What if he says something?”

“I know.” Harry’s voice was flat. “I know. I just—I thought...” He trailed off. There was no good ending to that sentence.

Liam sat down on the edge of the bed, his brows still furrowed. “I mean... I don’t know Louis. Not really. But from what I’ve seen—he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d screw you over. Still, you can’t do shit like that, man.”

Harry nodded, the weight of it all sitting low in his stomach.

“Let’s get through quali first,” Liam added after a pause. “We’ll deal with the rest after. One mess at a time.”

Harry managed a faint nod.

The qualifying session felt like a slow descent into frustration. The sun was blistering above the circuit, the car twitchy and stubborn beneath him, and every lap felt like a losing game. He wrestled the wheel through every sector, trying to force something out of it that just wasn’t there.

Corner entries felt unstable, the rear kept stepping out in the mid-speed sections, and he had to fight to keep it balanced down the straights. Jeff’s voice crackled in his ear, throwing out adjustments and split times, but nothing clicked. It was like trying to run in wet sand.

When it was over, he pulled into the pit lane, chest heaving and jaw tight behind his helmet. He already knew.

P8. Fucking P8.

And Louis? P4. Smooth, confident, clean.

Harry had tried not to watch the replay on the screens in the garage, but he’d caught enough. Louis’s lines were tight, his braking late and calculated. The McLaren seemed planted in all the places Harry’s car had skittered like a skipped stone.

Of course he’d pulled a good lap. Of course he had.

It shouldn't have stung. But it did.

And Lewis—Harry’s own teammate—had managed P7. Barely ahead, but ahead nonetheless. Even with the same damn aero problems, Lewis had muscled something better out of it.

Harry knew he shouldn’t compare. But that didn’t stop the burn in his chest.

He was still standing next to the car in the garage, helmet in hand, discussing setup options with Jeff, his voice low and agitated, when Nick strolled in.

Because of course he did.

“Harry,” Nick said, all too casual. “Can we talk?”

Harry barely looked at him. “Busy.”

“It’ll only take a sec. Did you see the photos on Insta?” Nick asked, tone just on the edge of smug. “You and Louis. Running. Shirt clinging. It’s already making the rounds.”

Harry rolled his eyes, jaw clenching. “Yeah. I saw them.”

Nick didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, watching Harry with a stare that tried too hard to be neutral. But it wasn’t. His jaw was tight, the muscle ticking. His gaze flicked over Harry’s face, lingered too long on the curve of his jaw, the hollow beneath his eyes. It wasn’t concern. It wasn’t curiosity. It was evaluation. Like he was trying to detect evidence of something unspoken—something intimate. Nick had always been wary of Harry getting too close to anyone, always reminded him to “stay focused,” to “keep things clean.” But this—this was different. He was watching Harry like he knew there was something more. And he didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Then he exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “Please don’t make me regret pulling that Rolex deal together.”

Harry stiffened, his grip tightening around his helmet.

Nick leaned in a little, lowering his voice. “We needed the press. Still do. And if we didn’t, I’d say I made a mistake. One I should’ve seen coming.”

Harry frowned.

Nick’s gaze swept his face, slow and careful. “This thing with Louis—whatever it is, whatever it’s not—don’t let it become something that makes you stupid.”

There was an edge to it now, something suspicious, almost bitter. Not quite accusation. But not far off.

Harry bristled. “What are you implying?”

Nick didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“You wanted me to play nice with him,” Harry snapped, turning toward him fully. “You told me to make it work. And I did. Now it’s a problem?”

His voice echoed, sharp and raw. Jeff cast them both a glance but kept his mouth shut.

“If I don’t do what you say, you’re pissed. If I do, you’re still pissed. What the hell do you actually want from me?”

Nick exhaled slowly. “I want you to be smart. I want you to remember who you are—and who he is.”

Harry shoved a hand through his curls, the pressure behind his eyes burning now. “It’s never enough for you, is it?”

Nick looked at him, quieter now. “I know it’s hard. But you know what I expect from you, Harry. You always have.”

Then, as if flipping a switch, his tone turned cool and professional again. “Monday morning before the flight, you’ll see the final Rolex edit. Campaign image goes live that afternoon. In Monaco, the post-race gala’s locked in. Rolex will handle everything. You and Taylor will attend together.”

Harry let out a long, tired sigh. “Fine. Got it.”

He turned back to Jeff, who was still holding the notepad full of desperate setup tweaks.

“Can I get back to trying not to lose this race now?” Harry muttered.

Nick clapped him once on the shoulder. “Attaboy.”

And then he walked off—like nothing had happened.

Harry didn’t move for a moment, jaw tight, stomach in knots. He hadn’t realized how much he’d hoped for that stupid selfie until it didn’t come. It shouldn’t matter—not after the way Louis had walked away the night before. But it did.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as Nick disappeared around the corner. It vibrated just as his fingers brushed the screen. His heart kicked up—just a little. Just enough.

Maybe Louis had sent something. Maybe a dumb face or one of those blurry, half-lit photos he always managed to make charming.

But when he unlocked it, it wasn’t Louis.

It was Taylor.

Hey. Just checking in. How are you holding up?

Harry stared at the message for a second longer than necessary.

He felt... disappointed. And he hated that he did.

The moment passed, but the weight of it stayed. He slipped the phone into his back pocket with a quiet sigh and turned back to Jeff, who was already buried in his laptop, numbers scrolling across the screen.

They worked in silence. Hours slipped by as they adjusted setup simulations, compared sector splits, and chased ghosts through telemetry data. It was late. Too late. Jeff eventually leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes.

"Harry, we should call it a day," he said, voice hoarse. "You need sleep."

But Harry shook his head, stubborn. “We need something. Anything.”

He needed to feel like he had some kind of control. If the car wasn’t listening, at least he could keep himself sharp.

Jeff was halfway through packing up the data sheets when the garage door creaked open. The sound sliced through the quiet like a warning.

Louis stepped inside.

He looked like someone who had spent far too long arguing with himself about being here. His hoodie hung slightly askew, his hair a bit tousled, and the tension in his frame was unmistakable. He hesitated just inside the threshold, blue eyes flickering uncertainly to Harry before dropping quickly to the ground. His shoulders were drawn in, hands stuffed deep into his pockets—like he was shielding himself from the weight of the moment.

For a beat, no one spoke.

Then, Louis cleared his throat. “I, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Fuck. I think I have an idea.”

Harry straightened, blinking as if he’d misheard. “What?”

Louis stepped forward, fast—like if he slowed down, he’d lose his nerve. “Your car,” he said, eyes darting to Jeff and then back again. “The test laps, the quali—I’ve been watching. And it’s the spoiler. It’s catching air wrong on exit. I noticed it yesterday, but it hit me just now—if you change the pitch slightly, you might regain rear grip through the load shifts. Especially through sector two.”

He paused, breathing a little hard. Then looked at Jeff again, like he needed confirmation that he wasn’t entirely mad.

Jeff furrowed his brow, flipping open the data sheet in his hand. “We’ve already tried adjusting the spoiler pitch.”

Louis didn’t hesitate. He walked over to the worktable, grabbed a loose sheet of paper and a pen, and started sketching quickly, his handwriting messy but confident. “Yeah, I figured. But you adjusted it wrong. You’re still forcing too much downforce into the straights—it’s killing your exit momentum. What I’m talking about is a dynamic adjustment, here—” he circled a section with the pen, “—a slight change in angle that stabilizes the rear under lateral load but releases drag under throttle. It’s about timing, not just the angle.”

Jeff stepped closer, squinting at the sketch. His eyes widened. “Shit. That… that actually might work.”

Harry said nothing.

He couldn’t. He was too busy watching Louis—who was now completely absorbed in the drawing, explaining like it was second nature. Like this wasn’t a huge risk. Like he hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den and offered them a key.

Harry’s heart thudded. He was impressed. Shocked. Overwhelmed.

And completely unprepared for this version of Louis.

Louis stepped back, as if only now realizing what he’d just done.

“Just—don’t tell anyone I was here,” he said quickly. “Especially not that I helped. If this gets out, I’m fucked. No cockpit. No contract. Nothing.”

He turned, reaching for the door.

Then he paused. Looked over his shoulder. Eyes catching Harry’s, and this time, he didn’t look away.

There was a softness there. And a warning.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

His fingers hovered over the handle.

Harry took a breath and stepped forward before he could think better of it. The light caught Louis’ face, made his blue eyes shine brighter than they had any right to at this hour. There was something raw in them, unguarded.

“Louis,” Harry said, voice lower than he meant. Louis turned, just slightly.

“Thank you.”

Louis blinked, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he gave the faintest nod—barely there—before slipping out the door.

It closed behind him with a soft click that echoed far too loud in the silence he left behind.

Harry stood frozen, the words lingering in the air, the moment settling into his bones.

He turned to Jeff, his voice quiet. “Let’s try it.”

The next morning, Harry woke feeling like he hadn’t slept at all. His body was sore, his head dull. They’d stayed late with Jeff, running simulations, applying Louis’ adjustments to the car. It had been a risk. But doing nothing had felt just as risky.

He couldn’t afford to stay stuck. Not when every point counted. Not when his father was watching. Expecting.

Whether the changes would hold—well, today would tell.

Harry dragged himself out of bed, forced himself into the shower. The water did little to wake him. Afterward, he stood in front of the mirror and pulled on his race suit, zipping it up to the collar. His face looked hollow, shadows pooled beneath his green eyes, making them stand out even more. Not in a good way.

He slipped on his sunglasses.

Out. Into the sun. Into the noise.

The garage was already alive with movement. Mechanics zipped past with tire guns and telemetry tablets, voices clipped and focused. Jeff was there, of course, hunched over his laptop like he hadn’t slept either, eyes narrowed at the data scrolling across the screen.

Lewis was leaning against the pit wall, arms crossed, helmet beside him. He hadn’t made any changes to his setup overnight—confident, or just resigned. Harry wasn’t sure which.

They locked eyes. Lewis gave a nod.

"Rough night?" Lewis asked, voice flat.

Harry shrugged. "Just, you know, trying to not end up behind you again."

Lewis smirked faintly. "We’ll see if it helped."

Harry gave a tight smile. "Yeah, we'll see."

The words hung between them. Not quite friendly, not openly hostile—just sharp enough to sting.

Harry turned back toward the car, the tension in his jaw ticking. His nerves were thrumming beneath his skin, a pressure building in his chest with every passing second. Everything hinged on the next couple of hours. He could rise today.

Or he could crash and burn.

And it all came down to a choice he wasn’t even sure he should have made.

Trusting Louis Tomlinson.

Maybe the boldest—or the dumbest—decision of his career.

The race began.

From the moment he pulled out on the warm-up lap, Harry felt it. The difference. The car responded—finally. The rear end didn’t snap like before, the grip held through the tighter corners, and something heavy lifted off his chest.

The changes had worked.

As the lights went out, Harry focused. Lap by lap, corner by corner, he clawed his way forward. Clean overtakes. No wasted movement. He moved from P8 to P6, then to P4. And then—miraculously—P3.

He could hear Lewis complaining over the team radio. Something about balance, about setup. Harry bit down on his cheek and said nothing. Lewis had had the same data. He could’ve made changes. He didn’t.

Harry kept pushing. Ahead of him, just a few seconds up the track—Louis. P2.

Jeff’s voice crackled in his ear. “You’re closing the gap, Harry. He’s yours if you can catch him. Two more sectors.”

A beat later, another voice came through—the cool, composed tone of Toto. “No mistakes. Bring it home smart. But if you see the chance, take it.”

He flipped the radio off with a short press of his thumb.

Focus.

Last lap.

He had the pace. The gap was closing.

He could overtake.

The window was opening perfectly—Louis had gone just a touch wide on the exit of turn 11. Harry felt the momentum shifting under his tires, the engine in his back roaring like it knew what to do. He moved to the inside line, heart hammering, breath short. The familiar hunger stirred in his chest—the instinct to pounce, to take.

This was it.

But then... he hesitated.

It was just a moment. Barely a blink.

But in that moment, something pulled at him.

Because it wasn’t just any driver in front of him.

It was Louis. Louis with his biting sarcasm and bright blue eyes that didn’t always look as cocky as his mouth sounded. Louis, who had walked into his garage the night before like he was stepping into enemy territory—only to offer help. Real help. Selfless. Brave. Stupid.

Harry clenched his jaw.

He didn’t even like Louis. Did he?

He was arrogant. Infuriating. And constantly in Harry’s way.

And yet.

And yet he’d risked everything to help Harry fix his car. He’d shown up. He’d trusted him.

Harry’s foot twitched on the throttle.

It’s just racing, he told himself. Take the fucking spot.

But his hands wouldn’t move.

He told himself that a podium was enough. That he wasn’t giving anything away—he was being smart.

But deep down, he knew better.

He had the angle. The speed. The instinct. And the bloody better car.

And he still backed off.

Then came the overbrake. Too late into the corner. Not dramatic. Just enough to let it slip.

Louis took the opportunity—smooth, composed—and surged ahead.

Harry didn’t fight it.

He crossed the finish line in third.

His heart thundered against his ribs. His fingers clenched around the wheel until his knuckles ached. His gut twisted with something sharp and relentless.

What the hell had he just done?

He owed Louis nothing.

And yet—he let him take it.

Fuck, he thought, breathless and alone in the cockpit.

What the fuck am I doing?

He slowly pulled the car into the pit lane, the engine humming low as he entered the designated garage area. The team swarmed around him the moment he parked—hands reaching for the car, pats on the bodywork, cheers echoing through the tight space.

Harry exhaled, the helmet heavy in his hands as he peeled it off. He pulled off his gloves next, running a hand through his damp curls.

Jeff was the first to reach him, a wide grin on his face. They didn’t say much—just exchanged a look. A silent, knowing one. They’d done it. Against the odds.

Toto followed close behind, his hand clapping firmly onto Harry’s shoulder. “That,” he said, voice low with pride, “was the kind of drive we needed. Good work.”

Harry gave a small nod, heart still pounding. He barely had a second to breathe before Lewis came storming toward him.

“You didn’t say a word about what you changed,” Lewis snapped. “You just sat on it and let me run a broken setup?”

Harry blinked, then raised his brows. “You had the same data I did, Lewis. You could’ve stayed late. Worked with Jeff. No one stopped you.”

Lewis scoffed, jaw tight. “Unbelievable.”

But Harry didn’t rise to it. He just looked at him calmly, though deep down he knew—if Lewis had stayed, Louis never would’ve walked through that door. And none of this would’ve happened.

But instead, he said nothing. Just turned to Jeff, who gave him a quiet nod.

Then someone called his name—it was time for the podium.

The ceremony was loud, dazzling, champagne fizzing in the lights, the crowd roaring behind the fences. Harry stood there, still dazed, trying to plaster on the kind of smile expected from a podium finisher. Louis stood beside him, too close and yet worlds away, his jaw tight, his eyes not meeting Harry’s.

When the announcer called their names and handed over the champagne bottles, Louis finally looked at him. The expression he wore wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something sharp.

Then, without a word, Louis popped his bottle and turned it straight on Harry. Drenched him. Head to toe. Aggressive. Deliberate. His jaw was locked, blue eyes like sharpened ice.

Before Harry could even react, Louis tossed the bottle aside and stormed off the stage.

Harry blinked, stunned. What the hell?

He handed his bottle to a crew member and followed, ducking through the maze of engineers, cameras, and celebratory chaos.

“Louis!” he called. “What the hell was that?”

Louis whirled around so suddenly that Harry almost stumbled. His face was flushed with anger, those blazing blue eyes fixed on him like lasers. And though Louis was smaller than Harry, he didn’t feel it—not in this moment. Not with the fury radiating off him.

“What, you want to act surprised now?” he spat.

Harry barely got a word out before Louis shoved him—hard—back against a nearby wall. It wasn’t violent, but it was forceful, unmissable.

“That little ‘mistake’ on turn twelve?” Louis snarled. “You think I don’t know what that was? You think I’m stupid?”

“Louis, I—”

“Shut up, Harry!” he shouted. “I know how you drive, Styles! You’re a machine. Clinical. You don’t miss that line unless you want to.”

Harry raised his hands slightly, but Louis wasn’t done.

“I don’t want to be your fuckin’ charity case. I don’t want your pity. I want to win because I deserve it—not because you had some moral crisis mid-race.” His voice cracked with fury. “I’ve worked too fucking hard for this. You think you’re being noble? You think you're better than me because you let me win?”

Harry didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Louis stepped back, breathing hard, eyes still blazing. “Don’t ever do that again. Not for me. Not for anyone. You understand?”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Then he turned, his shoulders rigid, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. And he walked away, his steps quick and angry, the tension in his back screaming louder than his voice ever could.

Harry stood in the middle of the paddock, frozen. The champagne still clung to his skin, cold, forgotten. He watched Louis disappear into the crowd, the flash of his race suit vanishing between the bodies, and something in his chest twisted painfully, his heart pounding.

He inhaled sharply.

Fuck.

He didn’t even know why he’d done it. Not really.

Maybe it was gratitude. Maybe guilt. Maybe a stupid, fleeting moment where he'd wanted to show... what? That he wasn’t just a machine?

He told himself he’d done the noble thing. That it was about respect. But the truth was—he didn't know why the fuck he had done it. Confused. A move he thought would make him feel something better than this.

But all he felt was hollow.

Because Louis was right.

And if Harry were in his position—he would’ve felt just as humiliated. Just as furious. He would've hated it.

He had taken something from Louis tonight—an honest victory. And for what?

Harry closed his eyes for a second, letting the noise of the paddock fade to a distant hum.

He exhaled slowly, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides.

This mess was all his fault.

FUCK.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Monday. The day after Barcelona. The day after the crowd, the champagne, the rage. The day after Harry made the dumbest decision of the season so far — and knew it.

He’d given Louis second place. Not lost it. Not fought for it and come up short. Given it away. Like it was his to give, in the first place. Like Louis hadn’t bled for every tenth of a second to be there.

And then he’d just stood there and taken it when Louis shoved him against the wall and lit him up with words that still rang in his ears. Words Harry couldn’t even argue with. Because Louis had been right.

He hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d spent the night trying to rationalise something that made no sense. He wanted to win. Of course he did. He wanted the title, the satisfaction, the silence that only a victory could bring. And yet, when it mattered most, he’d pulled back.

Why the fuck did you lift?
The voice in his head was relentless now. Mean. *Since when do you throw away podiums for feelings? *

It wasn’t honourable. It wasn’t noble. It was pathetic.

And Louis had seen right through him.

“I don’t want to be your fucking charity case.”

He could still feel the heat in Louis’ eyes, the shove in his chest, the sting of it all.

And he got it.

God, he got it. He would’ve reacted the same way. Maybe worse.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white as his Mercedes hummed under him, loud and obnoxious on the motorway to Brackley — home to the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team’s headquarters.

He didn’t want to be in Brackley.

Didn’t want to sit in front of Nick, flipping through pre-release images of Louis' and his Rolex campaign, feigning interest while every photo drove another nail in the coffin of whatever little dignity Harry had left. The launch wasn’t until tonight, but today was all prep — sign-offs, social strategy, captions. A whole day of pretending he wasn’t the idiot who made it all worse.

“Earth to Harry” 

Taylor.

He almost forgot she sat next to him in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sunglasses on in a lovely dress.

After landing that morning, he’d picked her up in London. His bright green AMG GT R had drawn every stare it was supposed to — the whole point of this little media performance. Him and Taylor, visible, together, curated.

A moving billboard for damage control — exactly how Nick had planned it. He was the one who’d suggested, no, insisted Harry drive out of London with Taylor in the loudest, flashiest car Mercedes had. Nothing said 'all is well' like two public darlings in a neon-green sports car, rolling through the city like a headline waiting to happen.

And now, crawling out of the city, his mood had cratered.

She sat there scrolling through her phone like she didn’t notice the black cloud sitting squarely on his shoulders.

But it was Taylor.

Of fucking course she did.

“You’ve been death-staring the road for ten minutes straight. Are you planning to drive through it?”

He didn’t answer.

The car sped past a blur of british summer countryside — soft hills rolling in the distance, hedgerows flashing by like green static. The clouds overhead were smeared across the sky in long strokes of pale grey, the kind that promised rain but never delivered.

“Fuck” he snapped as a BMW swerved into their lane without warning.

“Can they not drive?”

The words came out sharp, louder than he meant, edged with everything he was trying not to feel.

Taylor jumped slightly in her seat. “Jesus, Harry. What is going on with you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. One hand still clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, the other raked through his hair — curls already a mess, fingers catching in the tangles. His rings glinted against the light, silver and heavy, clicking faintly as they brushed his temple.

His thoughts were spiraling. And, predictably, they landed where they always did.

He exhaled through his teeth. “It’s Louis. That idiot Louis Tomlinson.”

Taylor turned her head sharply, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean by that?”

So he told her.

About the selfies. The running. The unspoken rhythm that had built itself between them. The late-night garage moment. The aero fix. The overbrake. The choice.

Taylor didn’t speak. Just watched him with wide, quiet eyes, absorbing every word like it was a riddle she already half understood.

When he stopped talking, she blinked once. Then, simply: “Harry, I'm sorry to tell you this, but… you really screwed this up.”

He groaned, leaned his head briefly back against the headrest. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t know Louis in person, but from what i've seen, that guy’s a fighter. He worked his way into this sport with blood and grit and probably nothing but caffeine and spite. You made it look like you think he needed your help to be great.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh. “Right. God forbid I damage the myth of Saint Louis.”

Taylor ignored the sarcasm. “Why does it even matter to you?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept his eyes locked on the road ahead, jaw set tight.

His grip on the steering wheel flexed, leather creaking faintly beneath his fingers. From the moment Louis had shown up in Formula One, he’d been chaos incarnate — too loud, too confident, too damn present. A walking disruption with perfect cheekbones and a talent for getting under Harry’s skin.

He was supposed to be background noise. An upstart. Someone to beat, forget, move on from.

But he wasn’t.

Louis had wedged himself into Harry’s world and stayed there. Not just on the track, but everywhere — in his head, his chest, threaded through every thought like static he couldn’t tune out.

Taylor shifted in her seat, pulling her sunglasses off slowly.

“Okay” she said, voice careful. “so what now?”

Harry blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… are you going to talk to him?”

Harry huffed a breath. Bitter. Tired. “What’s the point?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because he clearly meant something to you. Maybe because you’ve been sulking like a kicked dog since yesterday, and I don’t think that’s just about race points.”

She didn’t say it cruelly. Taylor rarely did. But it landed like a blow all the same.

Harry’s throat worked around the knot in it. “He hates me.”

“He’s pissed. Not the same thing.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that pressed in from all sides. Nothing but the low hum of the engine and the soft tap of Taylor’s nails against her phone.

They turned off the main road and into Brackley — the town quiet, the buildings clinical. The Mercedes complex loomed ahead: all glass and sharp steel, cutting through the greyness like it didn’t know what emotion was, and didn’t care to learn.

Harry pulled the car to a stop.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The engine ticked as it cooled.

Then Harry reached for his phone in the console.

The screen lit up.

Still no message.

No stupid selfie. No snarky one-liner. No Louis.

He stared at it for a second too long, like he expected it to change if he just looked hard enough. But it didn’t. And somehow, that silence stung more than anything Louis had actually said.

He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse.

But here he was.

Taylor’s voice cut in, low and even. “It’s going to be okay. One step at a time, alright? Let’s just survive today first.”

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and pushed the car door open. Cool air swept in. She stepped out, smoothing her dress like she was walking into a photoshoot rather than a battlefield.

Harry hesitated. Then he followed.

The phone was still in his hand when he climbed out. He glanced down one last time, just in case — a reflex more than hope. Still no message. The screen stared back at him in quiet betrayal, and somehow, it managed to make the air around him feel heavier, like Brackley’s glass façade had just turned into a mirror reflecting everything he didn’t want to face.

The meeting started off polished, rehearsed — very Nick. He greeted them both with his signature tight-lipped smile, the kind that was technically warm but entirely transactional. "Taylor, Harry," he nodded, gesturing toward the sleek conference table like he owned the building - which, in effect, he did.

“Today’s simple,” he began, clicking his remote as a digital schedule appeared on the wall screen. “Rolex goes live at eight tonight. The campaign rollout has been timed across all major platforms. You’ll see engagement within seconds.”

He turned to Harry, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You’re trending well. Amsterdam’s nearly forgotten. The post-race interview did wonders, by the way. Whatever broody thing you were doing? Keep it.”

Harry hummed something non-committal.

Nick moved on swiftly, grabbing a tablet and swiping with theatrical precision. “Now. The visual.”

He spun the device around so they could both see.

"Thoughts?"

Then he pulled up the image.

Harry’s stomach tightened the second it flickered onto the screen.

A black-and-white photo. Clean. Sharp. Iconic, probably.

Their forearms were angled side by side — skin against skin, veins visible, tension so thick it practically pulsed from the screen. Two Rolex watches gleamed like centrepieces, meticulously lit, perfectly positioned. But Harry didn’t see the watches.

He saw Louis.

The curve of his wrist, the way the tendons tensed subtly beneath the skin. The clean lines of his jaw, carved sharper by the shadows beneath his throat. His lips — slightly parted, like he was mid-thought or just about to say something. And his eyes. God, his eyes — even in black and white, Harry swore he could see the blue. That stormy, infuriating blue that had followed him ever since his first meeting about Louis Tomlinson. They were locked on Harry’s like they’d never looked anywhere else.

The expression wasn’t just intense. It was consuming. Raw. Something between challenge and confession.

Harry’s throat went dry.

It wasn’t a photograph.

It was a warning. Or a dare. Or something he wasn’t brave enough to name.

Beside him, Taylor choked on her cola.

“Christ,” she coughed, wiping her mouth. “I’m not sure Rolex knows what it’s done. That’s not marketing — that’s a fever dream. That’s just... sex.”

Harry rolled his eyes, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Nick, however, didn’t flinch. He simply tensed his jaw and looked at Harry with the calm of someone who’d already planned ten moves ahead.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Rolex is thrilled. This is exactly what they wanted — clean, striking, provocative. Which is fantastic, don't get me wrong.”

He let that hang in the air for a moment, his gaze fixed on Harry, just long enough to make it pointed. Taylor raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“But I want a couple of solid Instagram Stories from you two tonight — nothing scripted, just close enough to let everyone know that Harry is in a happy relationship - with a woman. Just to make clear you and Louis are nothing but rivals, erm or friends, what ever this is the media talks about..." Nick looked at Harry with intend "Got that?"

Harry nodded. If Nick only knew that him and Louis didn't get along at all at the moment, right now, they surely weren’t anything but rivals. Not anymore.

Good for Nick. Great for the damn marketing.

But Harry would rather choke than admit that out loud.

“So, the image goes live tonight,” Nick said, clicking his pen once with a soft snap. “Rolex wants it to trend fast. Maximum reach within the first hour. Harry, Taylor: You'll both be reposting the picture on Instagram” He paused for effect. “Next week, Monaco. The gala. You’ll be in Gucci, obviously. Taylor, I’ve arranged a gown for you as well — your fitting’s this week.”

He slid a small card across the polished table. “Carla from Gucci. She’s expecting your call.”

Taylor accepted the card with a slow blink and an arched brow. “Subtle as ever, Nick.”

Nick only smiled — a tight, PR-honed thing — and turned back to the agenda as if they hadn’t just witnessed a black-and-white thirst trap masquerading as luxury branding.

What followed was a blur of charts, engagement metrics, and growth projections. Nick rattled them off like they were punchlines to a joke only he found funny. Taylor asked two sharp questions. Harry nodded when required, murmured vague agreement when prompted.

But his mind never left that photo.

Still caught in that frozen frame.

Still caught on Louis.

On Louis.

When the meeting finally wrapped, Taylor stretched, stood, and nudged him lightly with her elbow. “Ready for the canteen, or do you need a moment to emotionally recover from that photo?” she said with mockery in her tone.

Harry didn’t respond, just huffed a dry breath and pushed himself up.

They made their way down to the Mercedes staff canteen, a clean, modern space flooded with natural light. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto the courtyard, letting in a breeze that smelled faintly of cut grass and british summer. The scent of pasta and fresh bread hung in the air, grounding everything in a kind of artificial calm.

Employees in team polos chatted in small clusters or hunched over laptops, the hum of conversation underscored by the occasional clink of cutlery on ceramic.

Harry grabbed a tray, mostly out of obligation, and followed Taylor through the queue. He ended up with a sandwich he wouldn’t eat and a coke he didn’t need. They spotted Jeff at a table near the back, already halfway through his salad, surrounded by a few of the engineers and logistics staff.

“Look who survived Nick’s pitch deck,” Jeff grinned as they sat down.

“Barely,” Taylor muttered, eyeing her sparkling water like it might hold more answers than Nick ever had.

Harry smiled, nodded at the others, and tried to act like his head wasn’t still buzzing from the race yeasterday.

After lunch, Harry and Jeff made their way to the internal team briefing — a meeting Taylor wouldn’t be joining. This part was strictly racing business: technical feedback, strategy, debrief. The room was half-filled when they arrived, the mood noticeably tighter than it had been upstairs.

Lewis was already seated, arms crossed, legs stretched out with the kind of casual defiance that only ever meant trouble. His glare locked onto Harry the second he entered — icy, unwavering. If looks could kill, Jeff would be mopping blood off the floor.

The meeting started with the usual: data sheets, tire degradation, sector times. But the second Barcelona came up, Lewis shifted in his seat, eyes trained on Harry like a loaded weapon.

“I had the same aero issues as you,” he said, voice sharp, slicing through the room. “Funny how only one of us managed to fix them.”

Harry didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

Lewis went on. “And yet, despite knowing I was dealing with the same problem, you didn’t think to mention it. Nothing. Not a word.”

“It was late,” Harry said flatly. “I barely figured it out myself.”

“Yeah? And still managed to sort it just in time. Lucky you.” His tone was acidic. “Some of us ended up seventh. Maybe if I had Jeff working overtime on my setup, I’d have had a shot too.”

Harry looked up now, jaw tight. “I didn’t ask Jeff to do anything. We were both still in the garage because we couldn’t let it go.”

“Oh please,” Lewis snapped. “You kept your mouth shut, let me go into the race blind, and now you sit there like you did nothing wrong. You let me walk straight into a mess you already knew how to avoid. Classic.”

Toto shut his laptop with a clean, deliberate click. The silence that followed was thick.

“Enough,” he said calmly. Dangerously calmly. “This is a team, Lewis. Not a playground.”

Lewis crossed his arms again, unbothered. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Toto didn’t blink. “Harry and Jeff worked half the night to figure out a solution no one else had. And he didn’t even get to properly test it. It was a risk. It paid off. End of story.”

Lewis leaned back, jaw clenched. “He could’ve said something.”

“And you could’ve asked,” Toto shot back. “Instead of assuming the world owes you updates every time someone does their job.”

A heavy beat passed.

“If you’ve got a problem with Harry being faster than you lately, I suggest you take it to the track.”

Silence.

Lewis looked like he wanted to throw something but settled for narrowing his eyes and saying nothing.

Harry remained quiet. He didn’t need to say it.

Toto already had.

He looked around the room, then stood, pushing his chair back with quiet finality. “That’s all for today. Let’s make sure Monaco looks sharper. Full focus.”

Chairs scraped, murmurs rose, people started gathering their things. Lewis was the first out of the room.

Harry moved to follow Jeff when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Got a minute?”

Harry looked up, startled. Toto stood beside him, his tone softer now, more personal.

“It’s a nice day,” he said. “Thought maybe we could take a walk?”

Harry nodded. Anything to get out of the sterile glare of the conference room. He’d never liked these places — all glass and angles and the hum of artificial air.

They stepped outside, the late afternoon sun hanging low, breeze tugging gently at Harry’s curls. It smelled faintly of asphalt and cut grass.

For a while, they walked in silence.

Then Toto spoke. “What’s going on with you lately?”

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Toto glanced at him. “You know I notice these things. You’ve been… different.”

He had that voice — the one that didn’t accuse, didn’t push. Just offered. A space. A question.

Harry had known Toto since he was fifteen. Back when he was still in Formula 2 and already surrounded by all the right people, thanks to his father’s relentless ambition. Desmond had pushed him into every room, every conversation, every handshake. But it was Toto who’d actually listened. Who hadn’t just seen a young driver with a famous last name, but someone trying to claw his way through the noise.

Toto had been like the uncle you could talk to, even when the rest of the world was a blur of pressure and expectation.

And now, Harry didn’t feel like he had to perform. Not here. Not with him.

Toto stopped walking. Turned to face him, studying him for a moment in silence.

“You locked up on purpose, didn’t you?”

Harry blinked, caught. Toto had hit the mark too cleanly.

How the fuck?

“That kind of mistake doesn’t happen to you,” Toto continued, his voice even softer now. “Not like that. Not there.”

Harry looked out across the narrow stretch of lawn behind the Mercedes HQ, where the sun hit the glass façade like it was trying to blind the building into honesty. The breeze tugged at his curls, lifting strands and letting them fall again. He ran a hand through his hair, then down across his jaw, fingers brushing his mouth as if trying to hide something even in silence.

In his other hand, his phone sat heavy. He turned it absentmindedly between his fingers, screen still black, still empty. He didn’t unlock it — just stared at it for a second, then shoved it back into his jacket pocket.

His brows furrowed, eyes squinting slightly against the late sun. He sighed.

Then he nodded. Just once. Barely more than a breath.

Toto didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

“I’m going to tell you something,” Harry said, voice low, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But it has to stay between us. I know I can trust you… but this isn’t about the team. This is personal. Please don’t treat it like work.”

Toto tensed slightly beside him. A pause. Then a nod. “You have my word,” he said, raising a hand. “This stays between us.”

Harry hesitated. Drew in a breath.

“The idea with the spoiler — it wasn’t mine. Or Jeff’s.”

He turned to meet Toto’s eyes. “It was Louis. Louis Tomlinson.”

For the first time, Toto’s expression shifted — not shock, but something tighter. Controlled. Almost unreadable. But his jaw clenched.

“He came to the garage that night,” Harry said. “Said he had an idea. Something he thought might help. But he made me promise not to tell anyone — said if it got out, McLaren would drop him. I didn’t even get to test it properly. I just… went with it.”

Toto’s exhale came slow and sharp, more reaction than breath. He straightened, tension climbing into his shoulders. The look he gave Harry wasn’t unreadable this time — it was clear. And it wasn’t pleased.

“You let a driver from another team walk into our garage and give you a technical fix,” he said tightly. “And then you used it. In a race. Without clearance. Without telling a soul.”

Harry didn’t flinch. He just looked tired.

Toto let out a short, humorless breath. “He’s got a feel for cars, that much is obvious. But that doesn’t mean you start handing out podiums like thank-you notes.”

Then the silence settled again — taut, electric.

“That’s why you didn’t pass him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Harry’s jaw worked, but no words came at first. Then, finally: “Maybe. I don’t know. It wasn’t a plan. But without him, I wouldn’t have made it to that podium at all. And yeah… I guess I felt like I owed him.”

Toto stepped back, folded his arms — not cold, not cruel, but very much the team principal now.

“Look. Your secret’s safe. I said I’d keep it private, and I will.”

He shook his head, slower this time. “But don’t think for a second I’m fine with what you did. This isn’t charity. This isn’t some high school morality play. This is Formula One. We fight for positions. Always.”

Harry nodded. Quiet. Shame creeping up his spine like static.

Because Toto was right. And he knew it.

-

That evening, Harry finally arrived at his penthouse in Manchester. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he exhaled like he hadn’t since Barcelona. A few days of quiet. God, he needed that.

The place was spotless — exactly how he’d left it. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one entire wall, giving him a panoramic view of the Manchester skyline, the city lights flickering like distant stars. The interior was sleek, minimal: concrete, glass, warm wood tones, and steel accents. The massive sectional couch sat like a cloud in the center of the room, flanked by low tables with curated coffee table books and untouched candles. A staircase of floating wooden steps led to his bedroom.

He dropped his bag by the door and wandered in like a guest — tentative, out of place, unsure what to do with himself now that everything had stopped moving. He was barely ever here during the season. The apartment felt more like a showroom than a sanctuary.

Everything was too clean. Too curated. Too quiet.

It didn’t feel like home.

He made his way into the kitchen, the silence stretching, watching his own reflection ghost across the glass cabinets. His hands moved on autopilot — reached for the bottle of Talisker that had gathered a thin coat of dust in the corner. It wasn’t part of any ritual. It wasn’t a celebration. It was necessity, or maybe punishment.

He poured a double. No ice. Let it sit for a moment in his palm before bringing it to his lips.

It burned, of course it did. But that was the point.

This was on him. All of it. Barcelona, the podium, Louis’ face full of hate - and the silence that came after.  There was no one to blame — not the team, not the setup, not the strategy.

Just him.

At some point, he noticed his fingers moving, almost absentmindedly — the glass drifting from palm to palm, circling, like it was trying to escape him. The whisky restless in his grip, slipping between his knuckles like it had somewhere better to be. Like it wanted to go anywhere but here, with him. But then again, didn’t they all?

He took another sip. Let the heat settle behind his ribs. It didn’t make anything better. But for a second, it made the ache quieter.

Harry sank onto the couch, pulling his knees up for a moment before letting himself melt into the cushions. The remote was within reach. He switched on the TV. Channel 4. The Great British Bake Off.

The familiar jingle, the tent, the rolling pins — it all settled around him like a soft blanket. He loved baking. Always had. Even as a kid, standing on a step stool in his mum’s kitchen, flour everywhere, wooden spoon in hand while she smiled at his mess. It had been their thing — baking together on Sunday afternoons. Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle, scones that were always slightly too hard.

Nowadays, if he had the time — which was almost never — he still loved getting his hands into dough, measuring, folding, creating. There was something about the process. The calm. The fact that the rules stayed the same.

Unlike everything else in his life.

It was one of the few things that could quiet his brain.

Eventually, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit up — notifications spilling across it like confetti. DMs. Mentions. Tags. Comments climbing by the second.

Right. The Rolex post.

With a sigh that came from somewhere deep in his chest, he tapped into Instagram. As agreed with Nick, he reposted the campaign photo: that damn black-and-white fever dream. The comments came flooding in.

“This is the sexiest thing Rolex has ever done 😮‍💨”

“This pic just made me forget how to breathe 😵‍💫🥵”

He scrolled, thumb hovering as dozens more poured in.

“Louis’ jawline should be declared a weapon 🔪💔”

“The tension is insane. I’m sweating and I’m not even in the room”

“Are they dating or dueling? Either way, I’m obsessed 🤯🖤”

And then, nestled between the fire emojis and thirst posts, came the sting.

“Funny how Harry always looks more comfortable posing with men than with women 🤔”

And worse —

“Rolex promoting the gay agenda now? What a joke. Used to be about class.”

Harry’s thumb froze mid-scroll.

It shouldn’t matter. He knew it shouldn’t matter.

But it still hit — sharp, sneaky, the kind of blow that slid between the ribs without warning. The words weren’t new. Just tired, borrowed bigotry, reshared like truth. And yet they landed in that old place — the one he’d learned to bury so deep it almost felt like silence.

Because he knew who he was. Had known for years. It wasn’t confusion. It wasn’t a phase. But there were still moments — like this one — when he wondered if there was something wrong with him anyway. If he was somehow marked. A flaw in the fabric.

Because that’s what the world said - well at least some of them, mostly his main audience. Nick had made clear, more times than Harry could count: Don’t give them a reason. Don’t let them question you. Stay clean. Stay controlled. Stay desirable.

So he did.

He kept it off-camera. Off-record. Out of reach. Because the truth — his truth — wasn’t something the world celebrated. It was something it dissected.

And that did things to a person.

It made you wonder, even when you knew better, if you were broken.

He stared at the ceiling like it might offer him something the comments couldn’t.

Fuckin' Fantastic.

Harry reached for the whiskey glass. He turned it slowly, watched the amber liquid catch the glow of the TV, then brought it back to his lips. The sip wasn’t deliberate — it was instinct. The kind of movement that came when you wanted to keep your hands busy so your brain wouldn’t claw its way out.

The whisky was sharp, but not enough. He let it coat his tongue, slide down warm, bitter, familiar. His jaw tensed as it hit. He didn’t even really like the taste. He drank because he needed to shut something up inside himself, something shrill and relentless. The part that felt rejected, erased, performed instead of seen.

It wasn’t about the alcohol. It was about the pause it gave him — the space between one thought and the next.

Harry sighed, the kind of sound that came from somewhere hollow. He had a job to do. He always had a fuckin' job to do.

His hand moved almost automatically. He uploaded a few more pictures — a carousel with Taylor from earlier at the HQ. Behind-the-scenes shots, easy smiles, perfect lighting. The kind of content Nick wanted him to post. The kind that smoothed out all the edges.

Then he reposted Taylor’s Story. She was standing beside the Rolex poster like it was the Mona Lisa.

-Proud of ma man! @harrystyles ♥️♥️

He looked at Taylor again, her wide smile, perfectly angled beside the campaign poster, like the fantastic supportive girlfriend she was supposed to play.

It wasn’t her fault. She was doing her job. Just like he was doing his. But God, it all felt so far away from anything real.

The campaign image loomed in the background — him and Louis, all angles and tension and proximity. Harry stared at it like it might offer him an answer, or at least an excuse.

And yet, all he could think about was Louis.

What was he doing right now? Maybe he was back home with his family. Or maybe he was out somewhere, in a pub full of laughter and cheap beer, surrounded by the kind of people who didn’t care about lap times or Instagram posts. Harry didn’t know.

He realised, with a quiet pang, that he didn’t actually know how Louis lived when he wasn’t in the paddock. Not the details that mattered. The soft ones. Maybe he was already asleep, bare arms folded behind his head, the world quiet around him — unaware, or worse, unconcerned, with just how violently he still lived in Harry’s mind.

Probably.

Probably not.

It didn’t matter. Because Harry’s fingers were already moving, like they’d done this a hundred times. Like his body knew something his brain refused to admit. Like a ritual he didn’t even believe in anymore.

He opened the camera. Snapped a quick selfie — dull eyes, mouth slack, the blueish flicker of the TV soft against his jaw. No filters. No pretending. Just the kind of tired that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.

He stared at the screen. Blinked once. Twice.

Then hit send.

To Louis.

Of course he wouldn’t answer. Louis Tomlinson didn’t answer. Not anymore.

And maybe — maybe that was safer.

Because when they didn’t speak, when everything was left to silence and surface and choreography, Harry couldn’t screw it up. Couldn’t slip. Couldn’t admit how much Louis had started to mean.

Louis Tomlinson was dangerous.

Not in the way people thought. Not loud. Not reckless.

But in the way he looked at Harry. Like he knew him. Like he saw the thing Harry kept hidden under charm and sharpness and contracts.

And that? That was lethal.

Harry snorted, short and bitter.

“Stupid.”

The bitterness clung to his teeth. He shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the weight in his hand — or rather, the lack of it. The glass was empty. At some point, between the endless scrolling and the not-thinking, he’d drained the last drop without even noticing.

He stared at the glass like it might explain something. Like it might justify him — or condemn him.

There had been too many thoughts. Too many comments. Too many memories of Louis looking at him like he was something fragile and failing. He hadn't poured that whisky because it was a nightcap. He’d poured it because the ache behind his ribs wouldn’t shut up, and he was tired of hearing himself think.

And now even the whisky was gone.

With a slow breath, he set the glass down on the coffee table. No drama. Just the soft sound of surrender.

Then turned back to the Bake Off, like sugar and sponge and polite applause could dull the sharp edges of the truth.

LOUIS POV:

Louis was back home in Doncaster.

It had been a few days since the Rolex campaign launched, and he still wasn’t sure if the shock had worn off or if he’d just gone numb to the noise. Either way, he wasn’t riding it out alone. Zayn had shown up the second Louis mentioned he could come by — duffel bag in hand, smug grin in place, already planning workouts and protein shakes like he was on some mission to keep Louis sane.

Zayn had decided to stay for the week, right up until they flew to Monaco.

Mornings were spent training together, running laps through the park like it was some form of penance. The house was loud, alive. Lottie was buried in university exams, so Louis took over morning school runs for the twins. Zayn fit into the chaos like he’d always belonged there — the girls adored him instantly, folding him into family dinners and game nights without missing a beat. Louis loved watching it happen. It made everything feel warmer, easier.

Niall came by most evenings, and for some reason, he and Zayn clicked instantly. Zayn — normally all dry wit and sharp edges — had a strange soft spot for Niall. Treated him like a little brother, with an ease that was almost unsettling.

Doncaster had always been Louis home. He loved it — the chaos, the clatter, the familiar scent of toast and shampoo lingering in the hallway. The twins arguing over cereal in the morning. The grounding rhythm of family life. It reminded him who he was beneath the helmet and headlines.

But this week, something had shifted. The streets were the same, the shops, the people — but the looks weren’t. Since the Rolex campaign dropped, he’d felt it everywhere. That second glance. That too-sweet smile. The way someone’s eyes lingered a second too long, like they weren’t looking at him, but at some glossy version of him blown up across the internet.

He still loved Doncaster. He always would. But it had started looking at him like he was someone else.

Thursday morning, he was in the car, the twins chattering in the backseat, school bags stuffed with snacks and crumpled worksheets. He pulled up outside the school, leaned over to kiss the top of each head, muttered the usual, “Don’t cause trouble,” and watched them sprint through the gates.

Then — the tap. Passenger window. One of the mums. Blonde, blow-dried within an inch of its life, sunglasses perched too neatly in her hair. A cloud of perfume hit him before the window was even down. Her smile was wide, practiced — the kind that had seen a mirror one too many times.

“Hi Louis,” she purred, leaning just a little too close to the glass, voice syrupy. “I just wanted to say how stunning that Rolex ad is. You looked...” Her lashes fluttered. “Dangerous.”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

“Thanks,” he said, all fake charm and flat delivery. “Appreciate it.”

She tilted her head, biting her lip like this was some sort of soap opera.

“I’ve always thought you had that leading man energy,” she went on, tone dipping toward something that clearly wasn’t about watches.

Louis let out a breath through his nose, pasted on a smile. “Sorry — bit late for a call,” he lied, lifting his hand in a quick wave.

And then he pulled off in the Defender, engine grumbling beneath him like it shared his mood.

He rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache.

It had been like this since Monday. Winks. Numbers. Comments he pretended not to hear.

All because of the photo.

When Rolex had dropped the first campaign shot, he’d gone utterly still. Not because he hadn’t seen photos of himself before — billboards, spreads, interviews. He knew what he looked like.

But that shot?

That shot was something else entirely.

Too close. Too deliberate. Too... Harry.

And judging by the reaction online, the rest of the world had noticed too.

The campaign was already a full-blown success — numbers up, engagement through the roof, Rolex probably throwing champagne at a wall somewhere. But Louis couldn’t stop thinking about that first moment, Monday evening, sitting on his bed, scrolling in the quiet.

The image had hit him like a punch. He had never seen himself and Harry on a photo like that before. And fuck, he had to admit it — they looked good together. Objectively. Stupidly hot, actually. That wouldn’t have been a problem in itself.

The problem was how close they were. How much heat was in the air between them. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t staged. It was sex, and the internet had smelled blood.

The comments had come in waves. People who wanted them. People who hated them. People who suddenly saw Louis not just as a driver, but as a fantasy. A flirt. A fucking poster boy.

He could ignore the homophobic crap — that was just weak egos projecting their own fragile bullshit. But what grated more were the flirty strangers. Women who now looked at him like he was some kind of prize. Some role to be played. It wasn’t about him anymore. Just the image.

And honestly? That wasn’t even the part that bothered him the most.

Because Louis was furious about Harry, and he just wanted to forget that man existed but the universe seemed to have other plans.

Ever since the campaign dropped, their names had become magnetic. Attached. In every headline. Every tag. It was them. Together. Always.

And with every repost, every story mention, every dumb Instagram edit — Louis’ anger flared hotter.

Fucking Harry Styles.

He was furious. Really, properly, gut-burning furious. What the hell had Harry been thinking in Barcelona? Letting Louis coast into second like it was some kind of pity prize. As if Louis fucking Tomlinson needed charity.

And then — as if that hadn’t been humiliating enough — radio silence. No apology. No explanation. Nothing. Like Harry expected Louis to take it with a smile and a thank-you. Like he should be grateful someone like Harry Styles had decided to let him win.

It made his blood boil.

And then — then — came the goddamn selfie. Monday night. Harry, looking like something out of a soft-focus heartbreak movie: curled up on his stupid designer couch, hair a mess, eyes too tired, too honest.

It had dropped into Louis’ inbox like it belonged there.

And okay — yeah. For a second, it had done something to him. That old ache. That twitch in his chest like worry disguised as anger. Like remembering how to care, even when you don’t want to.

But still — no words. Just an image, dropped like a breadcrumb, like it was Louis’ job to follow.

No.

Fuck that.

What the hell was wrong with that guy?

Louis clenched his jaw until it ached. He wasn’t going down that road again. He wasn’t letting Harry back into his head, into his chest, into anything.

Not this time.

No matter how tired he looked.

No matter how much Louis wanted to ask what the hell that photo had meant.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the sun was already turning the pavement into a stovetop. It was one of those suffocating English summer days — rare, heavy, loud with insects and distant lawnmowers. The old red-brick house stood quiet in the heat, its roof tiles shimmering slightly, the garden gate half open like always.

Zayn was already dragging out the mats and resistance bands, shirtless and smug. “No excuses today, Tomlinson. You promised a proper workout.”

Louis groaned and tossed his keys onto the garden table, toeing off his sneakers like they offended him. “I hate that I ever speak to you before 9 a.m.”

Niall had come too — not for the exercise, of course. He was stretched out on one of the loungers on the terrace, sunglasses on, arms behind his head, looking like he belonged to the sun. His grin was already locked and loaded.

“I’m here for moral support,” he said. “And to laugh when one of you inevitably pulls something.”

Louis trained every day — he had to. Being a Formula One driver wasn’t just about reflexes and control; it was about endurance, strength, discipline. And normally, he liked the routine. He liked the clarity it gave him, the predictability of pain and progress.

But today, it wasn’t working.

The workout began — push-ups, squats, the usual drills he could do in his sleep. But his body wasn’t cooperating. His mind was somewhere else entirely. His timing was off, his concentration shot, and the heat didn’t help.

By the third circuit, he was swearing at the mat, the bugs, the way Zayn breathed too loud.

Niall sat up, squinting at him. “Alright, what’s going on with you? You’ve been acting like a pissed-off cat all week.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re about as fine as a flat pint,” Niall muttered. “Seriously, mate. This ain’t you.”

Zayn, never one to waste a good opportunity, waited until Louis turned his back mid-stretch and tackled him into the grass.

“Oi!” Louis shouted, arms flailing. “Get the fuck off me, you lunatic.”

“Not until you stop being a dickhead,” Zayn grinned, settling his weight onto Louis’ shoulders like he had all the time in the world.

Niall joined with terrifying speed, kneeling beside them with that sweet, sadistic glint in his eye. “You brought this on yourself.”

And then — betrayal. Cold fingers jammed into Louis’ ribs.

“Don’t you— Niall! I swear to—”

Too late. Louis collapsed into helpless laughter, thrashing under the weight of two fully grown men acting like ten-year-olds.

“Say it,” Zayn barked, tightening his hold.

“Say what?” Louis gasped, chest heaving.

“Say what’s actually got your head all messed up. Because it’s not the weather. And it’s sure as hell not squats.”

Pinned, sweaty, half-laughing and half-dying of annoyance, Louis closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He hated how well they knew him.

Still trapped beneath Zayn’s weight, Louis let his head sink back into the warm cushion of grass. Sunlight filtered through the swaying leaves above, breaking into flecks of gold and green that danced across his face. His eyes squeezed shut — because he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Fingers jabbed again at his sides, and he wheezed, thrashing under the assault.

“It's Harry!” he gasped between helpless bursts of laughter. “Fucking—Harry—Styles!”

And then, silence.

As if someone had flipped a switch, Niall’s hands froze mid-motion. Zayn stilled above him.

The laughter died in Louis’ throat, swallowed whole by the weight of what he’d just said.

Zayn’s brow furrowed. Niall stopped mid-laugh, the grin sliding from his face.

“What?” Niall asked, shifting upright, sunglasses forgotten on the top of his head.

Zayn’s voice came low, edged with something like confirmation. “Knew it. I fucking knew it. Something went down in Barcelona, yeah? You two were training together, everything looked sorted, and then—bam. Radio silence. You were livid after the race. Like properly raging. And that’s after taking second — which should’ve been a win, the way you were driving — especially in that car. I mean, we don’t have Mercedes money. You made that thing fly.”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The silence hung there like a held breath — heavy, obvious, undeniable.

Niall sighed, irritation bleeding through. “Alright, seriously. What happened?"

Louis opened his mouth to fire something back, but the words caught, thick and bitter. Shame bloomed in his chest like something half-feral. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And still, it felt like a bruise he’d pressed too many times.

Zayn shifted slightly, still straddling his ribs, but his voice dropped to something quieter. “He could’ve passed you, couldn’t he?”

Louis’ hasitated, his eyes flicked toward the tree in the far corner of the garden — the one with the half-rusted swing swaying gently in the breeze. It creaked like memory, slow and rhythmic. Something in him tugged there, something boyish and bruised.

He nodded.

Zayn met his eyes. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity. Just held the look with the quiet kind of understanding that only came from history.

Niall blinked, confused. “Wait, what do you mean he could’ve? As in — he didn’t overtake you when he could have?”

Louis let out a short, mirthless sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His hands were still curled into fists in the grass.

“I fucked up,” he said, his voice rough. “I saw it already in the test runs and qualifying — something was off with their spoiler. Aero wasn’t working right. I figured Mercedes would sort it on their own, so I kept my mouth shut.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then we were out running the night before the race and Harry mentioned it — said he still couldn’t get the balance right. Didn’t even realise I’d been thinking about it too.”

He looked down, fingers digging into the grass. “Later that night, I passed by the garage. Light was still on. I don’t know — I just… went in. Gave him the fix. Just like that.”

He blew out a sharp breath. “Told him to keep it quiet. If McLaren knew I was giving stuff to Mercedes? I’d be out. And honestly? They’d be right.”

Zayn sat back slowly, eyes narrowing. “Wait. You helped Harry Styles? With his car? The night before a race?”

Louis didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause.

“Mate,” Zayn said finally. “That’s... a lot.”

Niall stared like he was trying to catch up to a moving train. “So you gave him help — something that actually worked — and then he, what, gifted you the podium?”

Louis scoffed, bitter. “Yeah well, he let me come second. Locked up just before the last turn. It was clean enough to pass for a mistake. Anyone else wouldn’t have thought twice.”

“But you did,” Zayn said, quietly now.

“I knew,” Louis muttered. “I saw it. The timing, the hesitation. And when I called him on it after? He didn’t even try to deny it. Just looked at me with that… that face. Like he was doing me a favour. Like I needed his fucking pity.”

He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to get the heat out of his skin. “I don’t need saving. Especially not from him.”

Zayn didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him, brows drawn together. Then, quietly: “You were trying to help him. And he turned it into something else.”

Louis nodded, still staring up at the swing creaking in the wind.

“Fucking Harry Styles,” he said again.

And this time, his voice cracked around it.

They were quiet for a beat. The garden hung heavy with sunlight, the faint creak of the swing brushing through the stillness like a thought no one wanted to say out loud.

Then Niall nudged Louis’ shin with his foot. “So… we’re back to square one, huh? Hating Harry Styles again?”

Louis snorted. “Thought I was being subtle.”

“You were about as subtle as a brick through a window,” Niall said, smirking. “Didn’t we already do this two years ago?”

Louis rolled his eyes and smacked him in the arm. “Niall Horan, are you ever gonna learn when to shut the fuck up?”

Zayn looked between them, lost. “Wait, what happened two years ago?”

“Nothing,” Louis said too quickly.

Niall shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, mate," he muttered, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes. Then, more quietly: "But come on — you’re not really gonna pretend nothing happened, are you?"

Zayn leaned in a little. “Seriously, what's going on?”

Louis exhaled, sharp.

“We were out. Some shitty club. Me, Niall, couple of others. I was drunk, not thinking. Ended up kissing this guy — said his name was Edward.”

Niall let out a breath, wincing. “It wasn’t just kissing, mate.”

Louis turned sharply. “Don’t.”

Niall held his hands up. “Sorry. Just—was a lot. That’s all.”

Louis’ jaw tensed. “Anyway, he left. No goodbye, nothing. Just vanished with some other guy like it hadn’t meant shit.”

Zayn blinked. “And that was Harry?”

Louis nodded once. “Didn’t know it at the time. I didn’t even see him again, not really.  And then a few days later he started popping up everywhere — interviews, race coverage, F1 golden boy, all over the place. That’s when I realised who he was. And that he’d lied. Lied about his name. Lied about everything.”

Zayn exhaled. “Shit.”

Niall, quieter now, eyes on the grass: “You were wrecked after. Wouldn’t admit it, but yeah. You were.”

Louis didn’t answer. Just picked at a loose thread on his shorts like it might unravel the rest of him.

“I told you to shut your mouth,” Louis muttered, and shot him a glare that promised blood.

“Right, shutting up,” Niall said, raising his hands.

Zayn looked genuinely stunned, which, to be fair, was warranted.

Zayn blinked. “So, Harry’s into guys?”

Louis shrugged. “Dunno. He’s never said anything. Never asked. Not exactly the heart-to-heart type.”

Louis rubbed the back of his neck. "I myself have been with girls, I’ve been with guys too. So I don’t exactly what label Harry would give himself - and it's also non of my business. But yeah — maybe he just wanted to cross something off his bucket list. Free blowjob from a random guy in a club. Who knows."

Zayn raised his eyebrows, blinking. "Okay, so that’s what we mean by more than kissing."

Niall let out a loud laugh, hands up. "Hey, I didn’t say anything this time!"

Louis shot him a glare, then sighed.

He picked at a blade of grass. "It’s not like I go around doing that. Never did it before, haven’t done it since. But that night... I dunno. It felt like something else. For me, anyway."

Zayn whistled low. “Okay, I mean who are we to judge.”

“To be honest I always thought maybe Harry is gay. I mean, the man wears more rings than my mum - and did you know he had a whole shoot with vogue in a dress? Wouldn’t exactly shock me.”

Louis let out a half-laugh, more bitter than amused. “Yeah well, he’s with Taylor now. Gave us a whole performance at the Amsterdam airport, didn’t he? Makes no difference to me, and you know it's also non of our business. If Harry wants to talk about his sexuality it's his to tell, not ours to speculate about.”

He paused, brushing grass off his skin, fingers moving too fast. “I thought we’d gotten past all that shit. That we could maybe just be normal. Decent. But I guess not.”

He stood,

Then Niall stated “So, Harry Styles is officially back on the blacklist.”

Louis shrugged his shoulders, turned and walked toward the house.

“I’m taking a shower,” he called over his shoulder.

Inside, the air was much cooler, the house still.

But outside, he caught it — through the open terrace door — the look Zayn and Niall exchanged. Quiet. Like they’d stumbled onto something that wasn’t meant to be found.

Fuckin' Brilliant.

Now they’d be making up stories in their heads about something that didn’t matter.

Not really.

Something Louis was totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine with.

Louis walked barefoot across the hallway tiles, the coolness biting at his skin, but the heat still clinging to him like a memory.

He didn’t want to remember. But it came anyway.

The heat of a hand at his hip, lips brushing his jaw, the breathless rhythm of music and sweat and something that had felt dangerously close to real. That goddamn night — A name that was never real. A lie wrapped in sweat and skin.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

No. He wasn’t going there again.

Not for him.

He took the stairs two at a time, chasing the sound of the shower like it could rinse that night from his bone.

--

The next evening, the house smelled like charcoal and sunshine.

They’d decided to grill — a proper family night. The kind that reminded Louis why he loved coming home. The terrace was alive with chatter, clinking glasses, and the distant clatter of cutlery as everyone gathered around. Louis manned the grill with all the deranged precision of a Michelin chef on a deadline. Sweat beaded at his temples, the stubborn heat refusing to ease, thick and humming with static. Somewhere behind it, the wind hinted at a storm.

Lottie had finally emerged from her exam-induced exile and was, for the first time in days, smiling again. The twins were arguing over something stupid — probably who got to sit closest to Fizzy — while Clifford lounged under the table like the world's most uninterested chaperone.

Zayn sat back on one of the lounge chairs, beer in hand, sunglasses on even though the sun was already kissing the horizon. Niall had brought Kniffel, which quickly descended into chaos once the wine kicked in. Fizzy and Lottie shared a bottle, the twins begged for a taste, and Louis, naturally, shut that down immediately. “Nice try, but you’re about a decade early.”

Laughter rippled through the group. The mood was easy, golden, soaked in summer and sibling energy. Fizzy, who had been tense the last few days — less willing to go out with Louis, less patient with the public — finally looked like she could breathe again. He didn’t blame her. Lately, even he didn’t want to be seen with himself.

And ever since Zayn had arrived, it had only gotten worse.

Somehow, the presence of another high-profile name made the gossip swirl harder. People started speculating, snapping pictures, assuming things. The internet did what it always did.

It annoyed the hell out of Louis.

Zayn, for his part, didn’t give a single shit. He barely looked up when women approached them in public, uninterested and unreadable. That didn’t stop the stories, though. If anything, it made them worse.

Paparazzi had caught them leaving a shop the other day, and now Twitter had a field day with a narrative Louis had no interest in feeding.

Still, here on the terrace, with the sound of dice on the wooden table, the scent of grilled vegetables and charred sausages in the air, and Fizzy swatting at a mosquito like it had personally insulted her — it was almost easy to forget.

"Oi, Zayn," Lottie called over her wine glass, "if you're not going to help with the grill, at least pretend you're supervising."

"I am supervising," Zayn replied lazily, not moving from his chair. "I’m making sure Louis doesn’t burn down the entire garden."

“Appreciated,” Louis muttered, flipping a sausage with unnecessary force.

Niall chuckled, leaning toward the twins. “Tenner says he drops one in the coals before the night’s over.”

“I heard that!” Louis barked without looking up.

Fizzy raised her glass toward him. “We believe in you, Grill Master.”

“Not helping,” Louis grumbled, but a corner of his mouth twitched up.

The twins, emboldened by the noise and warmth and wine-free rebellion, tried again. “Just one sip?”

“Not unless you want me in jail,” Louis said.

Both groaned theatrically.

The sky darkened just a little more, heavy with promise. The scent of summer started to shift — from charcoal and rosemary to something deeper, like damp pavement waiting to happen. A breeze rolled in across the garden, cooler now, brushing against bare arms and stirring loose napkins on the table.

Fizzy looked up first. "Is it just me, or did the air get weird?"

“Feels like rain,” Lottie murmured, eyeing the horizon.

Somewhere, thunder rumbled low.

But no one moved yet. They just laughed a little softer, leaned a little closer, like they could hold the evening together with sheer will.

But almost never lasts.

Eventually, the sky made good on its threat.

The first raindrops were soft, tentative — barely more than mist — but within minutes, the storm had fully arrived. Lottie was the first to grab a bowl of chips and bolt inside, shrieking as the downpour kicked in. Fizzy herded the twins, who complained loudly about bedtime, but were too tired to put up real resistance.

Louis stood for a second longer than the rest, eyes turned toward the grey sky, rain catching in his hair. Then he sighed and followed.

Inside, the shift from chaos to calm was almost seamless. The house, still echoing with traces of summer laughter and charcoal smoke, felt like it had exhaled. The living room glowed in the soft light of a single lamp perched on the bookshelf, throwing lazy, flickering shadows across the scuffed wooden floor. The walls were lined with mismatched photos, cluttered shelves, and that one ugly ceramic cat Fizzy refused to get rid of.

The sectional sofa curved beneath the bay window like an overstuffed question mark, already claimed by the sprawl of bodies and blankets. A half-toppled stack of board games leaned against the coffee table, and a forgotten sock lay crumpled in the doorway — evidence of the twins’ earlier chaos.

They fell into place like clockwork: Zayn lounging like a prince in the corner, long legs slung over the armrest; Niall curled into him, beer in hand, sockless as always. Fizzy and Lottie folded into the middle, arms tucked around each other, whispering and laughing at things no one else would understand. Louis wedged himself in last, elbow-to-elbow with Lottie, knees half up on the edge of the cushion. It was cramped and uneven and stupidly perfect.

The windows fogged slightly from the heat inside, while the storm outside still howled with all the ferocity of a late summer tantrum. Wind rattled the old frames, rain lashed against the glass in sheets, and every so often, thunder cracked sharp across the sky — but inside, wrapped in blankets and each other’s presence, it only made the room feel warmer. Safer.

After a fair bit of arguing and at least one threat to throw the remote out the window, they landed on Ocean’s Eleven. It ticked all the boxes: slick enough for Zayn, clever enough for Lottie, and Louis and Niall had seen it enough times to quote half the lines before they happened.

“Danny Ocean would one hundred percent wear that paisley shirt you used to love,” Niall said, elbowing Louis.

Louis rolled his eyes. “It was iconic.”

“It was a hate crime,” Lottie deadpanned, not even looking up from her wine.

Zayn raised his beer slightly. “Brad Pitt eats more in this movie than I’ve eaten all week. Honestly, I respect the hustle.”

Fizzy, mouth full of crisps, mumbled, “Food is character development.”

“Can you three not ruin George Clooney for me?” Lottie groaned. “I came here for charm and cheekbones, not a fashion intervention.”

Louis snorted and sank deeper into the cushion, one leg tucked under the other. The storm howled outside, wind rattling the windows — but in here, with the scent of crisps and cheap beer, the buzz of laughter and closeness — it felt a little like home. A very loud, very ridiculous version of it.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Eventually, the wine and beer ran out. The soundtrack of laughter softened, grew slower, like a record winding down. They talked in half sentences, shared glances, the kind of quiet that only settles when everyone feels safe enough to say nothing at all. The storm outside had long retreated, giving way to a rhythm of British showers — soft and persistent, drumming gently against the windows, like a lullaby only this island could offer.

The air in the room was heavy with warmth and sleep, a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing. Niall had dozed off with his head against Zayn’s shoulder, one arm flopped over his stomach like he’d forgotten it there. Fizzy and Lottie were wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, hair spilling everywhere, murmuring now and then in half-dreams. Louis, tucked awkwardly into the far edge of the couch, didn’t even bother adjusting the pillow wedged behind his back.

He just let himself sink into the moment. Into the closeness, the hum, the rare feeling of not needing to brace himself.

It was a good night.

And for once, he hadn’t thought about Harry Styles for at least two hours.

Which, in Louis’ world, was about as close to peace as it ever got.

--

The sudden buzz of his phone cut through the quiet like a knife.

Louis jolted, pulled from the warm haze of half-sleep, his heart thudding against his ribs. It took him a second to realise where he was — a mess of blankets, limbs, and the steady rhythm of rain against glass. He fumbled in the dark for his phone, the screen lighting up his face.

Harry Styles

He blinked. Stared.

Then declined.

It was past midnight.

Of course it was.

Because who else but Harry Styles would think it’s acceptable to call someone in the middle of the night like the world revolved around him?

Louis let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose, his head thunking back against the cushion. What the hell was wrong with the guy? Did he think people just sat around waiting for his grand dramatic gestures? Newsflash: normal people were asleep at this hour.

He muttered a quiet, “Unbelievable,” under his breath.

And then —

It buzzed again.

Harry Styles is calling

Louis groaned, louder this time, stabbing at the decline button like it had personally offended him. “Fuck off, Harry Styles.”

The screen dimmed.

And lit up again.

He groaned, this time hitting decline with a little more aggression. “Fuck off, Harry Styles,” he muttered.

The screen dimmed.

And lit up again.

1 Image from Harry Styles

Of course.

Louis hesitated, thumb hovering over the notification. Then tapped.

It was a photo — dark, grainy, taken in the hazy orange glow of a distant streetlamp. Rain streaked across the lens in diagonal lines, caught in the glare like a net of silver threads. The house in the image stood quiet and old against the night — a red brick typically english, its roof heavy with years and ivy climbing along one side like it was trying to hold the place together. The tiny front garden was wet and overgrown, the wooden gate leaning tiredly on one hinge. The iron railing beside the narrow stoop had begun to rust where the paint chipped off, and the scarlet front door — unmistakable — flaked like peeling sunburn around the brass number, which still hung crooked from the last windstorm. Louis had meant to repaint it for months, even bought the damn paint, but life — as always — got in the way.

Louis stared.

His house.

No doubt about it.

Another message followed:

Didn’t want to knock like a lunatic. Figured this was marginally less idiotic.

Guess this still qualifies as insane. Don’t even know if you’re awake.

Louis stared at the screen, a chill rising slowly from his chest to the back of his neck.

How the fuck did Harry even have his address?

He untangled himself from Fizzy’s arm with practiced precision, stepping carefully over the maze of sleeping limbs, the sound of the movie still looping faintly in the background. He moved like he didn’t want the moment to notice he was leaving.

In the hallway, he paused. Breathed. The silence felt louder here, stretched long between the creaks of the old floorboards and the faint echo of the rain outside. He caught his reflection in the mirror above the coat rack — hair a mess, eyes still fogged from sleep, and something tight pulling at the corners of his mouth.

He looked nervous. Not just sleepy — genuinely unsettled.

His fingers tapped lightly against the wooden frame of the mirror. One breath in, one out. Then another. As if he could shake the feeling off, like rain from a coat.

He stretched once, rubbed a palm down his face to chase the heaviness from his limbs.

Then, heart hammering in his chest, he unlocked the front door.

Rain met him first — cool and insistent, blown sideways by the wind. It kissed his cheeks and caught in his lashes, the air sharp with the scent of wet leaves and old brick.

And then there was Harry.

Soaked from head to toe, the rain had rendered him almost ghostlike in the porch light — pale skin under the cling of a white T-shirt, every line of his chest and shoulders etched out in damp fabric. His dark curls clung to his forehead, flattened and wild all at once, framing a face that looked like it hadn't slept in days.

His green eyes — too bright, too vulnerable — flicked up to meet Louis’. They were glassy, wide with something like fear, like he'd come all this way and only now realised he had no idea what to say. The kind of look that dug under your skin if you let it. His lips, plush and slightly parted, looked bitten raw from nerves, and for one absurd second Louis thought they looked soft.

He hated that he noticed.

Hated more that he couldn’t not.

Harry didn’t speak. He just stood there like a question mark in the rain — waiting for an answer Louis didn’t know he wanted to give.

Louis crossed his arms, jaw tight.

Raised his eyebrows.

Waited.

Harry shifted slightly, water dripping from his curls down the sharp edge of his jaw, trailing down the curve of his neck. In his hands, he held a damp cardboard box, pressed awkwardly against his chest as if it might shield him from the silence.

Raindrops clung to his lashes, catching the porch light like tiny stars.

Then, finally—

“I…” Harry dragged a hand through his wet hair, breath shaky. “God. Fuck.”

He looked up at Louis again, chest rising and falling too fast. “I’m sorry, alright? I know I shouldn’t be here. I don’t even know what I thought would happen. I didn’t think. That’s the truth. I just… I fucked up.”

His voice cracked, barely audible over the steady beat of rain.

“You’re a damn good driver, Louis. And I robbed you of the chance to prove that—on your own terms. I wouldn’t have wanted that done to me. I don’t know what came over me. I didn’t mean to…”

He trailed off, jaw clenched, staring at the ground.

Louis stood there, arms slowly falling to his sides, his mouth slightly open as if caught mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-something he didn’t have words for. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t like — as if his body was trying to remind him how to feel before his brain could catch up.

He was angry. Confused. Something in him wanted to slam the door and tell Harry to fuck off for good. But another part — a quieter, traitorous part — was busy tracing the curve of Harry’s collarbone through his soaked shirt, the way his knuckles whitened around the box, the tremble in his voice. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, infuriatingly wrecked.

And he was here.

For some reason that made everything worse.

Harry’s chest rose and fell, uneven, his brows drawn as if he didn’t even believe in his own apology. The apology itself had come out tangled — rushed and too raw — like he wasn’t used to offering them. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be forgiven.

Louis blinked, felt his throat go tight.

Harry shifted his weight, clutched the box tighter. He looked like he might bolt, like the silence was burning through him.

Then he shoved the box forward between them.

“Here,” he said, a little breathless now. “I know this is weird. Fuck, it’s so weird. Showing up like this. I got your address from Zayn, which — yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

His voice cracked again. He swallowed.

Louis didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. He just stared, caught somewhere between disbelief and something more fragile he didn’t want to name. His mind buzzed with static. Too many thoughts at once. Too many things he couldn’t say out loud — not now, not while Harry stood there dripping and wide-eyed like a kicked dog.

Harry’s chest rose and fell, uneven, his brows drawn as if he didn’t even believe in his own apology. The apology itself had come out tangled — rushed and too raw — like he wasn’t used to offering them. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to be forgiven.

Louis blinked, felt his throat go tight.

Harry shifted his weight, clutched the box tighter. He looked like he might bolt, like the silence was burning through him.

Then he shoved the box forward between them.

“Here,” he said, a little breathless now. “I know this is weird. Fuck, it’s so weird. Showing up like this. I got your address from Zayn, which — yeah, I know. I shouldn’t have. But I didn’t know what else to do.”

His voice cracked again. He swallowed.

Louis didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. He just stared, caught somewhere between disbelief and something more fragile he didn’t want to name. His mind buzzed with static. Too many thoughts at once. Too many things he couldn’t say out loud — not now, not while Harry stood there dripping and wide-eyed like a kicked dog.

And then Harry looked away, like he could feel it — the hesitation, the weight of it. His mouth twitched like he might say something else, but instead he took a shaky breath and took a step back.

“Shit,” he murmured, quieter now, almost to himself. “I shouldn’t have come. I just… fuck. This was stupid.”

Before Louis could even find the words, Harry was already halfway down the path, shoulders hunched against the rain. He climbed into his car, the engine coughing to life a moment later.

And just like that — he was gone.

Louis stood in the open doorway, rain curling around his bare feet, the cardboard box damp in his hands. For a long second, it didn’t feel real. Like he’d dreamt the whole thing. Like the porch light would flicker and blink him back into sleep.

He glanced down at the box. Still there. Still faintly warm from Harry’s hands, like the heat of him hadn’t quite let go.

Inside, the house felt like it was holding its breath. Louis shut the door quietly, the lock clicking into place with a sound that seemed too sharp against the hush.

In the kitchen, under the dim overhead light, he set the box down. Peeled the flaps back slowly, like it might explode.

Cupcakes.

Nine of them, carefully arranged in a neat little rows. Frosting swirled like miniature hurricanes in electric colours — blues, reds,, greens. Each topped with something ridiculous and on-brand: tiny fondant racing helmets, checkered flags, even a little stop sign on one.

The one in the centre said it all: I’m Sorry. Clumsily piped in icing, the letters just slightly crooked. Honest in the way that only something homemade could be.

Louis stared. Then let out a quiet, incredulous breath. “Jesus, Styles,” he muttered.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragged it through his hair, then leaned heavily on the counter, elbows braced.

Great. Just great. He was going to have to explain this in the morning. What, ‘the emotionally deranged cupcake fairy turned up at midnight in the rain and vanished before anyone could ask questions’??

He reached for the cupcake with the apology, peeled the wrapper back with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics, and took a bite.

It was infuriatingly good.

Moist, rich, something citrusy in the frosting that shouldn’t have worked but did. Louis rolled his eyes, halfway to a groan. “Of course you bake like you drive. Fucking show-off.”

Louis sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, the half-eaten cupcake in his hands. He stared into the dim, quiet space like it might offer him some kind of answer. Harry had just driven off — soaked, apologetic, ridiculous — and Louis wasn’t sure if he’d forgiven him, not really. But the image of him standing there like a kicked dog, dripping rain and guilt, kept looping in his mind.

He didn’t want him driving back to Manchester like that. Not with that look in his eyes.

With a sigh, Louis reached for his phone again.

He took a quick selfie — hair a mess, expression unimpressed, cupcake halfway to his mouth — and typed:

Tastes better than it has any right to. Bit rich on the guilt, though.

He tossed the phone back onto the counter, took another bite, and let the sugar bloom slowly across his tongue — sweet, stupidly soft, annoyingly perfect. Like it had no business being that good, and still was.

He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the kitchen tiles as if they might offer clarity. Don’t make me regret this, he thought, fingers tightening around the cupcake liner before tossing it in the sink.

In the living room, the storm outside had softened into the occasional whisper of rain against the windows. The others were still a warm tangle of limbs and half-snores on the sofa. Louis sighed.

He shuffled Fizzy and Lottie upright with gentle tugs and mumbled promises of real beds, nudged Niall with a knuckle to the ribs until he stirred and grunted something incomprehensible. Then he turned to Zayn and delivered a none-too-gentle smack to the back of his head.

"Ouch — what was that for?" Zayn muttered, groggy and glaring.

Louis just murmured, "You'll see tomorrow," and started herding the whole half-conscious parade up the stairs like a grumpy shepherd who’d lost the will to explain anything.

He rolled his eyes, dragging himself into the bathroom. He splashed water into his face, put the toothbrush in his mouth like it had offended him personally, and spat without ceremony. One glance at the mirror — what a mess. Whatever.

By the time he got to his room, Niall had starfished across the entire bed like it belonged to him. Louis muttered a curse, yanked the blanket back and shoved himself into the three inches of mattress still available.

Louis rolled onto his side and sighed into the pillow.

Tomorrow, he’d have to explain why some cupcakes had magically appeared in the fridge like they'd been summoned by some sugar-fueled midnight spell.

thanks Zayn!

Fuckin‘ thanks Styles!

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

Harry loved Monaco. Not just the tight, punishing corners of the street circuit or the adrenaline rush of threading a machine worth millions through barriers mere inches apart—no. He loved the entire performance of it. The decadence. The theater. The illusion of control.

And maybe, just maybe, because it reminded him of being sixteen and untouchable—hauled here every summer by Desmond, paraded through cocktail parties and pit lanes like a prized investment. Back then, Monaco had felt like a fever dream of what adulthood might be: sharp suits, fast cars, and the ever-present scent of salt and ambition.

Now, years later, anchored on the very same yacht with Gemma and Taylor, he couldn’t ignore how the city still knew where to press. Some memories golden. Some sharp as broken glass. But all of them, inescapably his.

He leaned back on the sun-warmed leather of the lounger, the Mediterranean stretching endless and glittering beyond the yacht’s rail. Somewhere below, the water lapped gently against Desmond Styles’ floating monument to bad taste and old money—white, hulking, absurd in every possible way. A status symbol with GPS and a helipad.

Above him, the sky was offensively blue. The kind of blue that only existed in postcards and billionaire tax havens. His sunglasses—vintage Tom Ford, because of course—sat low on his nose, shielding his eyes from the glare and the world alike. His shirt was MIA, sacrificed to the sun half an hour ago. His skin was already warming with that slow, golden burn that came from knowing he’d regret it later and not giving a damn now.

The glass of Aperol Spritz sweating beside him was more decoration than drink. Something to hold. Something to pretend with.

Gemma’s laugh drifted from the upper deck, airy and bright. She was somewhere above him, probably sunning herself while reading something intellectual, pretending she wasn’t secretly enjoying the people-watching as much as he did. She’d insisted on coming to Monaco this year—said it was tradition, said it felt like home. Harry suspected it had more to do with the fact that their father wasn’t here. That the yacht, ridiculous as it was, felt safer without Desmond’s presence haunting the deck chairs.

Harry didn’t argue. He liked having her close.

He closed his eyes, let the sun press into his eyelids like a kiss. The air smelled of salt, engine oil, and sunscreen priced like liquid gold. Laughter and champagne corks echoed from a yacht two berths down—someone else's pre-race party in full swing. Monaco buzzed even when it pretended to be still. The city never slept, it just shimmered.

It should’ve been perfect.

And yet.

His fingers itched toward his phone like muscle memory. A twitch. A reflex. He lifted it, angled it lazily. The camera caught him reclined on the lounger, skin golden, abs defined in the midday light, sunglasses low, Aperol glinting in the background like a prop from a lifestyle shoot. Objectively? He looked hot. Maybe too hot. Like something off the cover of a men’s magazine with a headline promising ‘Ten Ways to Win Summer.’

Was it too much? Probably. Did he care? Not even a little.

He hit send. To Louis.

No caption. Just a shot across the bow, golden and shameless.

Gemma appeared like a breeze, settling beside him with the kind of ease that only came from years of knowing exactly where she was needed. She didn’t say anything at first, just took his Aperol without asking, like it was a ritual.

Harry arched an eyebrow behind his shades. “Thief.”

She took a sip, then wrinkled her nose with an affectionate wince. “Still tastes like disappointment and overpriced brunch.”

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s the point.”

“You’ve always liked things that look prettier than they feel.”

She leaned back beside him, tucking her legs up beneath her, warm and close. “So. Talk to me. Where are you really, Haz?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, watching the sunlight flicker on the sea. “Somewhere between overexposed and emotionally constipated.”

Gemma didn’t laugh. She looked at him, long and steady, the Aperol forgotten in her hand. “Why?” she asked softly. “What’s going on, Harry?”

He inhaled sharply, caught off guard not by the question, but by how much it dug. Gemma never stayed on the surface. She didn’t let him get away with clever deflections.

“You’ve changed,” she said gently, eyes searching his. “Lately. You’ve been different. Does it have to do with Louis Tomlinson?”

Harry turned to her, startled. “What? No. Why—why would you think that?”

Gemma grinned now, but it was the kind of grin that said she already knew. “Because I think he’s good for you. However it looks, whatever it is. He challenges you. Makes you stop spiraling. Grounds you, maybe. And sometimes? You need someone who tells you when you’re being an idiot. And I have a feeling that Louis is exactly that kind of guy.”

Harry rolled his eyes, more out of reflex than denial.

Gemma followed his gaze as it slid over to the lower deck, where Taylor was still in animated conversation with the absurdly good-looking crew member. Her laughter carried faintly on the sea breeze.

“Worried?” Gemma asked, not unkindly.

Harry shook his head. “No. Taylor would never hang me out to dry. She’s too good for that.” He paused. “But I hate that she has to do this. That I make her do this. Be the perfect fake girlfriend. Smile in the right way. Show up when needed.”

Gemma’s brow furrowed. “Then why keep going?”

He hesitated. Then, quieter: “Because sometimes… I get scared. What if she falls for someone, properly? What if she wants out? What if we have to stage the breakup?”

She nodded slowly, her expression softening. “And you don’t know who you are without the story.”

Harry didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Gemma saw him anyway.

She sighed, not with frustration but with that soft grief that came from knowing someone you love is still trying to survive in a life that keeps pulling them under. “You don’t have to keep performing, you know. Not with me.”

His smile was crooked. “You say that like I know how to stop.”

Gemma reached over and brushed a curl from his forehead, her fingers light. “Then let’s practice. Tonight, we do something reckless. Something that isn’t for the press.”

Harry gave her a sideways glance. “Define ‘reckless.’”

“La Sirène,” she stated, a glint of anticipation in her eyes. “You know, the yacht? Lucien Deveraux is throwing one of his infamous parties tonight.”

Harry blinked, already half-smiling. “Lucien’s still alive?”

Gemma laughed softly. “Very much so. Early fifties now, still tan as leather, still convinced the world revolves around him—and honestly? On those yachts, it kind of does.”

Lucien Deveraux had made his fortune on perfume, private jets, and the kind of watches that needed their own bodyguard. He spoke five languages, mostly in aphorisms, and wore nothing but custom white linen like he was allergic to color and subtlety. He adored Formula 1—not for the sport itself, but for what it represented: speed, elegance, dominance. All things he considered personal values.

Harry exhaled through his nose, amused. “I thought he’d finally disappeared into his own brand of mystique.”

Gemma shook her head. “Nope. And we’re on the guest list, as always. Invitation-only, naturally. Three decks. A glass pool that hangs out over the ocean like it’s daring gravity to blink first.”

They had been to a dozen of Lucien’s parties before—at least. Every single one had been a fever dream. Harry remembered flashes: live swans in the foyer, champagne served from an ice sculpture of Aphrodite, someone—possibly an Italian actor—crying while DJing with a crown. It all blurred together like a surreal, expensive montage.

“Alright,” Harry murmured, stretching out with a sigh. “If I don’t drink too much. And maybe avoid the white powder this time. I’ll survive.”

Gemma lifted her glass with a knowing smile. “To survival.”

Harry clinked his drink against hers, his voice quieter now. “To pretending, for one more night, that none of it matters.”

She held his gaze. “Or,” she said gently, “to finally letting go of the parts that do.”

Louis POV

The Monaco sun hit different. Sharper. Gold-tinted and merciless, like even the light came with a price tag. Louis stepped out of the car with Niall on one side, Zayn on the other, and for the first time in a while, he felt like the balance in his life wasn’t completely off-kilter.

The three of them were an odd trio—on paper, anyway. But in practice? They worked. Zayn was grounding, all quiet cool and dry wit, the kind of person who didn’t fill silences but made them comfortable. He slotted into Louis’ home life like he’d always been there—knew when to talk, when to shut up, and when to put the kettle on without being asked. And Niall—well, Niall was pure energy. Loud, golden-retriever charm wrapped in too many paddock passes and relentless optimism. He had a knack for making Louis laugh at the worst moments.

“God, it’s too nice here,” Niall groaned, shielding his eyes dramatically as they stepped into the hotel lobby. “Makes you wanna be rich and morally questionable.”

“Oi,” Zayn said, nudging him in the ribs. “Careful. Or are we morally questionable now?”

Louis smirked, joining in with an elbow to Niall’s side. “Speak for yourself, Horan. I’m practically a national monument.”

“All I’m saying,” Niall shot back, grinning as he adjusted his sunglasses, “is your combined carbon footprint could probably drown a small country.”

Then he took off toward the front desk, dodging a bellhop like he was in a qualifying lap, laughing over his shoulder.

Before Louis could follow, familiar voices carried through the cool marble echo of the lobby. A cluster of McLaren jackets stood gathered near the elevators—his crew, his chaos, his people. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding eased out of his lungs.

And there he was. Olli. Grinning like trouble personified.

“Oy, Tomlinson!” Olli called, arms spread like he was ready to wrestle him. “You get shorter or am I just more powerful now?”

Louis barked a laugh. “Only in your dreams, mate.”

They clasped hands in that solid, familiar way, all grip and shoulder claps, before Olli pulled him into a brief, bone-jarring hug.

“Don’t fuck this weekend up,” Olli muttered in his ear.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Louis replied, smirking.

But Olli didn’t let go just yet. “You got a minute later? Got some setup tweaks floating around in my head I’d love to throw at you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis said, already nodding. “I’ll drop by tonight.”

Zayn, who’d been quietly observing, stepped forward. “Actually, that’s not gonna happen. We’ve got plans.”

Louis turned to glance at him.

Zayn didn’t flinch. “You can have him tomorrow. Tonight, he’s with us.”

Olli raised his brows, then shrugged with a lopsided grin. “Fine. Just don’t show up to the paddock hungover and full of regrets.”

“No regrets,” Zayn replied, plucking the room key from Louis’ hand like it had always been his.

More backslaps followed, more quips, Niall charming his way through the team like a golden retriever in sneakers, already halfway through a conversation with someone about tyre grip and espresso machines.

Moments later, they were in the elevator, heading skyward. Niall bounced slightly on his heels, grinning at the mirrored walls.

“I know all the rooms are the same,” he declared, “but I’m calling dibs. I never get hotel suites. I want the one with the view and the absurdly dramatic lighting, thank you very much.”

Zayn smirked. “I’m just here for the mirror space. Let me have the bathroom with the best lighting and no one gets hurt.”

The elevator gave a soft chime as the doors slid open to the top floor.

Louis smiled to himself, stepping out after them. It was stupid, probably. But for the first time in days, the air around him felt just a little bit lighter.

The suite was sprawling—less hotel room, more high-end magazine spread. It exuded the kind of curated luxury that didn’t shout money, just whispered it in multiple languages. High ceilings opened the space up to an almost surreal degree, with smooth concrete floors and sleek furniture in sharp, modern lines. The color palette was restrained—cool grays, cream, and just enough black to remind you it was chic.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living room like a cinematic frame, revealing the marina below in all its sparkling, sun-drenched arrogance. Everything outside looked dipped in gold; everything inside smelled faintly of eucalyptus, fresh linen, and something colder, harder to name—success, maybe.

The main room was massive: an open-plan living space anchored by a low, stone coffee table and a pale sectional that looked like it cost more than Louis’ first flat. From it, three identical doors led to three identical bedrooms, each with an ensuite bathroom that probably had better water pressure than most spas.

Zayn stepped in first, his eyes flicking around before letting out a satisfied hum. “Cold. Clinical. Sexy. I like it.”

Niall followed a beat later, already grinning. “I’m claiming the left one. Manifesting good views and a minibar that refills itself.”

Zayn rolled his eyes, toeing off his sneakers. “You barely left Louis’ sofa the last week and as far as I can remember didn't bring anything to the Tomlinson household. What makes you think you deserve the best room?”

“Because I’m the only one who believes in interior design karma—and thank you, I brought my personality as contribution,” Niall called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the room.

Louis came in last, slower, quieter. He dropped his bag by the door and let his gaze sweep over the space, letting the quiet opulence settle over him like a second skin.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “Monaco knows how to show off.”

Louis ducked into the room that Niall hadn’t already claimed, dropped his bag on the bed, and slowly unzipped it. His hands moved on instinct—shirts folded, charger cables tangled, a book he probably wouldn’t read—but his mind drifted.

He could hear Zayn and Niall laughing through the wall, something about minibar snacks and robe sizes. Their voices were easy, grounding. And for a moment, Louis allowed himself to smile. It was good, this. Familiar. He was surrounded by people who cared, by people who didn’t demand too much from him. He should’ve felt lucky. He did.

Mostly.

But something twisted beneath the surface.

Fizzy.

Even here, in Monaco’s glossy calm, she lingered.

They’d had a blowout before he left. One of those fights that spiraled out of nowhere and landed like a sucker punch. Fizzy had been volatile again—tight-wound and defensive, every word from Louis a perceived attack. He thought they were doing better, thought they’d found their rhythm again. But it always came in waves.

Sometimes she was soft and open. Sometimes she lashed out like a cornered animal. And Louis, despite all his patience, despite all his trying, had snapped. He’d driven her to a therapist’s office, thinking it was the right thing. A kind gesture. Support.

She’d screamed at him the whole way. Called it betrayal. Called him betrayal.

He and Lottie had talked it through —both of them agreed it was time Fizzy got help. Louis had thought they were doing the right thing. And in the end, Fizzy had gone. Walked into the therapist’s office with her jaw tight and her eyes sharp, but when she came back out, there’d been something different in her expression. Not peace, not quite. But something lighter. A kind of quiet release.

They’d talked after that. Really talked. No yelling, no slammed doors. Apologies had been offered, forgiveness accepted—tentatively, but there.

Still, the worry hadn’t left him.

The concern for Fizzy clung to him like a shadow, following him even now, all the way to Monaco.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the sleek, soulless floor. This suite was beautiful. Immaculate. But it wasn’t home.. It clung to him now like humidity—unseen, but stifling.

“Hey.”

Zayn leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him.

“You good?”

Louis blinked up, forced a small smile. “Just... decompressing.”

Zayn didn’t move from the doorframe. He just looked at him for a long beat, then said, quieter now, “You don’t have to worry about her every second, you know. Fizzy’s tougher than she lets on. And she’s not alone.”

Louis exhaled slowly. Zayn knew. He and Niall had both been around all week—heard the arguments, seen the fallout, offered silence or distraction or both when needed.

Niall’s voice came floating in from the next room. “If ‘decompressing’ means brooding in a five-star hotel, you’re doing great, mate.”

Louis let out a quiet snort. “Cheers, you emotionally intelligent bastard.”

They were ridiculous. Warm. Loud. Good.

And Louis needed them more than he liked admitting.

Niall appeared in the hallway with a grin that could only mean trouble. “Right. We’re not wasting the evening,” he announced. “I didn’t fly into Monaco to admire minimalist furniture. I want yachts, weird cocktails, and at least one story I’ll regret telling.”

It pulled a laugh from Louis—real and sudden, the kind that settled somewhere low in his chest.

It was his first time in Monaco. Zayn had gone on about it for weeks—called it the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, a weekend-long fever dream of speed, money, and designer sunglasses worn after dark. According to him, the harbor turned into a playground for billionaires, yachts lined up like trophies, egos inflated by champagne and the scent of burnt rubber.

Absurd. A little obscene. And still, kind of brilliant.

Zayn leaned in the doorway, arms folded, eyes gleaming. “Oh, by the way,” he said, voice low like he was sharing a secret. “Guess who already scored us an invite tonight?”

Louis looked up. “You?”

“Lucien Deveraux’s yacht. La Sirène.” Zayn grinned. “It’s going to be unreal. Open bar. Glass-bottom pool. Full spectacle.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that the guy with the jets?”

“Jets, perfumes, watches—if it smells expensive or moves fast, he’s got his name on it.”

Louis snorted. “Sounds exhausting.”

Zayn shrugged. “It is. But the parties? Legen- wait for it -dary. I've been to a few. He’s obsessed with themes. Tonight’s a Black and White party. Glamour only, no in-between. And the man himself? Refuses to drink anything that isn’t served in a crystal glass. Even water. And don’t get him started on temperature—he keeps a full-time sommelier on board just to chill things to his exact liking. Swear to God.

Louis leaned back on his palms, a crooked smile playing at his lips. “So what, we’re dressing up?”

Zayn’s grin widened. “We’re in Monaco. Of course we’re dressing up. This is the kind of night people pretend to be casual about and secretly spend hours planning for. We’re not about to show up underdressed and unmemorable.”

Louis wasn’t sure how he felt about being the kind of person billionaires invited onto yachts.

But maybe, just for tonight, he didn’t have to decide.

Maybe it was enough to say yes.

Niall, who’d been unusually quiet for a full thirty seconds, suddenly gasped. “Shit. Do I even own enough black or white clothes?”

Then, in a flurry of limbs and panic, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hallway toward his room, already muttering about color coordination and fashion emergencies. Moments later, the unmistakable sound of a suitcase being unzipped echoed through the suite.

Louis shook his head, grinning. “He’s going to show up in a golf shirt and claim it’s avant-garde.”

Zayn disappeared to his room with a quiet chuckle and a lazy, “See you in twenty.”

And just like that, Louis was alone again.

He stepped back into his room, let the door fall shut behind him, and collapsed backward onto the bed—which was, he was certain, at least twice the size of the one he had at home. It was soft enough to swallow him whole. He stared at the ceiling and exhaled.

Monaco also meant: seeing Harry again.

They’d picked up their little selfie exchange as if nothing had happened. As if Barcelona hadn’t been a mess. As if Louis hadn’t shouted at him. As if Harry hadn’t gifted him that cursed podium with all the grace of a martyr—or maybe a fool. Or maybe something worse: someone who cared.

And yeah, it was... nice. Sort of. Maybe. Not that he’d admit it out loud. Not when he'd spent the last two years trying to forget how it had felt to be seen, touched, and then discarded—by someone who hadn’t even known his name. Not when Harry had once kissed him like the world was ending and then walked away as if it had never happened.

He’d never really blamed him. How could he? They hadn’t known each other. It had been an accident, a fever dream in the shape of a person.

But it had stayed with him. Lingering like cigarette smoke in the fabric of his memory.

And now, Harry was back. Re-inserted into his life like some kind of cosmic joke. 

And yeah—Louis had tried to hate him. He’d tried to hold on to the sting of that night.

But it was hard to stay angry when Harry Styles was also surprisingly vulnerable, unexpectedly funny, and maddeningly sincere. Not to mention charming in that unpolished, honest way that made people lean in without meaning to.

Still, Louis reminded himself, that didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. They were just talking again—casual, light, the kind of thing friends did when things weren’t weird anymore.

And that was good. Comfortable. Manageable.

Harry was off-limits.

Not because Louis didn’t like him.

But because liking him—really liking him—would be complicated. Dangerous. Too much.

Besides, Louis didn’t even know if Harry liked him that way. Maybe Louis had just wanted something to mean more than it did.

He wasn’t going to do that again. Wasn’t going to make that mistake twice.

So yeah—friendship. That was the rule. The safe bet.

And Louis could follow rules. When he really needed to.

Mostly.

He pushed himself up. They had a party to get to. Monaco-style. Lavish. Excessive. Black and White—because of course it was. As if dressing everyone in the same two colors somehow flattened the playing field instead of just making the narcissism easier to photograph.

He crossed to his suitcase, unzipped it slowly, and pulled out the black linen set he’d worn for that shoot in Madeira. The shirt and shorts were light, breathable—technically borrowed from the stylist, but if no one chased him down for them, they were his now. They still held a trace of sea breeze, salt, and expensive aftershave.

The fabric slipped easily onto his skin, which was already sun-kissed and golden from the last few weeks. His tan brought out the sharper angles of his body—the clean lines of his arms, the soft ridges of muscle across his chest and shoulders. The tattoos stood out in contrast, stark and unapologetic. Familiar markers of who he was, and maybe, who he was still becoming.

He rolled the sleeves to his elbows, intentionally careless. Left the shirt mostly unbuttoned, because if he was going to pretend to belong on a billionaire’s yacht, he might as well look like he was about to buy it on impulse.

His chest ink peeked out, the words It is what it is curved like a quiet dare above his collarbones. Ironic, yes. But also maybe the truest thing he knew.

He added the Rolex. He hadn’t asked to keep it, but Rolex had sent it anyway. Simon, his PR manager, had grinned when he handed it over and muttered something about the brand targeting 'ambitious upstarts.' It looked good on his wrist, against tanned skin and black linen and added to the carefully curated devil-may-care energy.

It wasn’t flashy. Steel, clean, simple. But it was still a Rolex. And tonight, Louis was going to step onto a yacht filled with people who probably wore timepieces that needed armed security and a blood oath.

In the bathroom mirror, he ran wet fingers through his hair and worked it into that signature short, fluffy mess—casual, boyish, a little unruly. The kind of hair that didn’t ask for attention but got it anyway. It said: approachable. But also: try your luck.

He looked at himself then—blue eyes slightly too knowing, jaw set like he was bracing for impact. He looked good. Unreasonably good. The kind of good that got people in trouble.

This whole thing wasn’t him. The yachts, the themed opulence, the champagne sabering. He wasn’t made for this world of quiet wealth and louder secrets—he barely owned anything designer, and the only reason he had a Rolex was because someone had mailed it to him with a thank-you note.

But truth be told? He was looking forward to it. Getting drunk with Zayn and Niall while the ultra-rich paraded their egos like prized poodles sounded like the kind of spectacle you couldn't script. What better place to roll your eyes and sip expensive alcohol ironically than at the heart of the madness?

He grinned, shook his head at the mirror one last time, and turned on his heel to find the others—ready to mock, mingle, and maybe cause a little chaos.

In the living room, Zayn and Niall were already waiting. Both had gone for white, and somehow managed to look like they were born for this absurd dress code. Zayn especially—his shirt open just enough, his expression somewhere between modelesque detachment and mild amusement. Louis looked at him and thought, not for the first time, that this man’s face should be illegal. Still, Zayn was like a brother to him —same as Niall. The brothers he never had, though growing up with four sisters had definitely given him the emotional stamina to handle both.

They arrived at the yacht just as the sun was setting, casting the water in gold and violet. And the yacht—La Sirène—was a floating monstrosity. All polished decks and gleaming glass, probably longer than some football fields. It made Louis slightly nauseous.

“What the fuck” Niall muttered beside him, eyes wide.

Exactly.

Louis had never understood this kind of wealth—the kind that screamed instead of whispered. It was garish. Loud. A little grotesque. Sure, he had money now—more than he knew what to do with. But he still lived simply. Intentionally. This... this was too much.

Zayn, as always, seemed entirely unfazed. He exchanged a few words with the staff, nodded, and the next thing they knew, they were stepping on board like they belonged there.

The atmosphere was already buzzing. Champagne flutes clinked, music pulsed, people mingled in curated monochrome. The guests were a mosaic of wealth: jet-setters, socialites, maybe one or two minor royals if Louis had to guess. People seemed eager to talk to him—some recognizing him immediately, others clearly told who he was by someone else. That was fine. Louis didn’t mind talking to people. He could be charming when he needed to be. Smile, nod, deflect. It was a skill set.

Still, as the night went on, the crowd shifted. The women got bolder—laughs a bit louder, touches a bit more lingering. Louis handled it with polite disinterest. He wasn’t here for that. Wasn’t interested in the way some of them looked at him like he was a prize to collect.

It wasn’t his world, no matter how good he looked in it.

At one point, a man in a silk blazer with teeth too perfect to be natural leaned in and asked, "So, Louis, what do you do when you're not... racing or modeling or whatever it is?"

Before Louis could even answer, Niall slid in with a grin. "He runs a meditation retreat for former reality TV stars. Deep healing stuff. Lots of moon chanting."

The man blinked. "Oh... wow. That's... unique."

"Very exclusive," Louis added, deadpan. "Invitation-only."

Later, a woman with a diamond necklace that could’ve cleared the national debt leaned over, swirling her drink. "Have you ever considered investing in art?"

Zayn was faster this time. "He has a stunning collection of IKEA prints. All limited edition."

"And one of those glow-in-the-dark Elvis paintings," Louis added. "Huge in Belgium."

She giggled. "You’re all so cultured."

"Painfully," Zayn said, sipping his martini like it was the finest truth serum.

Someone pitched a startup idea involving yachts and wellness crystals—Louis stopped listening halfway through and leaned into Niall. "If I hear the word 'disrupt' one more time I’m drinking the ocean."

Niall nodded solemnly. "Together. Like brothers."

By the time a hedge fund manager earnestly told them that generational wealth was a burden, the three of them were half-drunk, slightly hysterical, and dangerously close to inventing a fake business just to see who’d invest.

For all the absurdity, Louis had to admit—it wasn’t the worst night. At least, not with them.

Eventually, the wine caught up with his bladder, and Louis excused himself with a dramatic groan and a hand pressed to his stomach like a martyr. He wandered off in search of the nearest bathroom, weaving through glittering corridors that looked like they’d been designed by someone with a god complex and a mirror addiction.

He found the toilet tucked behind a velvet-draped hallway—of course—and took his time, splashing some cold water on his face, breathing in the quiet.

When he stepped back out, still buttoning his cuff, he meant to head straight back to the deck—but either the champagne or the labyrinthine absurdity of yacht architecture betrayed him. He turned left instead of right, opened a nondescript door… and found himself in the kitchen.

It was like stumbling into a different universe—one that smelled of sweet dessert and roasted sarcasm. The clatter of pans, low laughter, steam, spices. Real life.

Louis blinked, a little dazed. Someone clocked him instantly. "Lost the rich kids' table, have we?"

Before he could answer, another handed him a glass of water and a knowing grin. "Stay. We don’t bite. Unless you ask nicely."

Louis let out a laugh and, without hesitation, stepped in. He leaned against the counter like he belonged there, and within five minutes he did.

He dropped the posh accent completely, let the northern slang roll in, and told stories the way only someone raised in the back row of life could—loud, vivid, and properly sweary. Within minutes, he had the kitchen staff howling. He mimicked hedge fund guys, took the piss out of linen suits, and acted out the yacht-sharing app pitch like he was on stage.

“Bet half of ’em think oat milk is an ethical stance,” he added, to a round of snorts.

Someone slid him a beer like a medal of honor. Another called him a legend. And yeah—he felt good. Grounded. Like himself again.

The sound of his laughter was still echoing through the stainless steel kitchen when Niall finally found him—wide-eyed, breathless, looking like he’d just stumbled across a hidden civilization.

“What the actual fuck, Lou?” Niall blurted, stepping into the warm chaos like he wasn’t entirely convinced it was real. “I thought you’d gotten kidnapped by yacht cultists or wandered off to join a secret rich-people orgy.”

Louis grinned, “Almost. But then I found the only people on this boat who actually work for a living.”

The crew erupted in cheers and clinks of knives on cutting boards. The mood was infectious, the kind of honest, rowdy energy Louis had grown up with. 

Niall just stared. “Mate, you’ve been gone twenty minutes and they love you more than I do.”

“Least they know good company when they see it,” Louis said, draping an arm around the nearest sous-chef like he was part of the crew now. “We’re forming a breakaway republic. No linen suits allowed.”

“Come on,” Niall said through his laughter. “You’ve got three women upstairs trying to corner you and a guy who thinks NFTs are a love language.”

“Nooo, don’t take him!” someone called as Niall tried to pull him away.

“He’s ours now!” another added, theatrically shielding Louis with a ladle.

Louis sighed dramatically, handed off his half-empty bottle like it was a family heirloom, and raised a hand in a solemn farewell.

“Don’t forget me, yeah?” he called out as he followed Niall toward the stairs.

“Never!” came the collective chorus behind him.

And with that, Louis stepped back into the curated chaos of the upper deck—still laughing, still buzzing, still very much himself.

At least for now.

They were strolling along the deck again, the breeze tugging at their sleeves, still laughing over the nonsense in the kitchen, when it happened.

Louis was walking backwards, facing Niall, still in the middle of telling him about something one of the kitchen staff had said. "No joke, mate, one of the chefs told me this yacht’s got a full walk-in fridge just for cheese—like, only cheese. Apparently someone once requested a parmesan wheel flown in by helicopter."

Niall stared. "You're making that up."

Louis grinned. "I wish I was. And then another one—Marcel, I think?—said that the owner once rejected a bottle of wine because it had the wrong emotional profile."

Niall blinked. "The wine had... feelings?"

"Apparently," Louis said, eyes wide. "Didn’t match the mood of the sea or some shit. I nearly pissed myself.""

They both cracked up, the kind of laughter that doubled them over slightly, loosened by too much sun and too many drinks. Niall threw his head back, wheezing with laughter, and Louis—feeling a little too pleased with himself, and maybe a little too tipsy—made an expansive gesture with one arm, palm up like he was delivering Shakespeare on a yacht.

And promptly walked straight into someone.

Full-body impact. Firm chest. Solid arms. Hands. A gasp.

Louis turned, startled. “Oh, shit, sorry—”

His hands reached out automatically, catching two strong forearms. Familiar forearms and there it was, that unmistakable scent - the kind he'd recognize even in a blackout—Tom Ford. Tobacco blossom, vanilla, cocoa. And something warmer underneath. Something that was just… Harry.

And just like that, there he was.

Harry Styles.

Big green eyes—wide, startled, and something softer glinting just beneath—met Louis’ own. Eyes like moss caught in sunlight, and just as impossible to look away from. His hair was a mess in the most deliberate sense: damp from the sea, curling into soft, disobedient spirals that made him look like something carved from marble and then left out in the salt air to thaw into real life.

He wore white, naturally—of course he did. The fabric clung in the breeze like it belonged to a renaissance painting: loose linen trousers and a shirt unbuttoned to a scandalous degree, as if modesty were something meant for other people. His skin was pale, porcelain touched by late sun, and that made the fine gold chain at his collarbone gleam even more. It rested there like a secret. And the rings—always the rings—glinted like they knew exactly what they were doing.

Harry looked like a statue the gods had grown bored of worshipping and let fall gently to earth. He looked like poetry someone had tried to turn into a man.

Louis hated that his breath caught. That his first instinct wasn’t to speak, but to stare.

Trouble, he reminded himself. Harry Styles was trouble with a slow smile and sea salt in his curls.

And yet—there they were.

Louis blinked. His fingers still touched Harry’s arms. “Oops”

“Hi,” Harry said, a little breathless, a little uncertain.

They looked at each other for a long second - until...

Niall cleared his throat behind Louis, pointedly.

He snapped back, dropping his hands like they held something too hot. Niall shot Harry a look—neutral, maybe, but edged with caution.

“Right,” Niall said, too casually. “Well. Fancy bumping into you.”

Harry glanced at him properly then, clearly clocking the tension, and offered a tentative hand. “Hi. I’m Harry.”

Niall took it after a beat—polite but brief. “Yeah. I know who you are.”

His tone wasn’t hostile, not exactly. Just... flat. Clipped. A little too professional for someone who normally greeted strangers like they were long-lost cousins at a wedding.

Harry let out a short, awkward laugh, his grip loosening. “Right. Of course.”

Louis sighed, rolling his eyes with more force than necessary. “This is Niall. My best mate. Don’t mind the attitude—he gets weird around strangers, especially when I nearly knock them off their feet.”

Before anyone could respond, a hand suddenly reached over Harry’s shoulder, a familiar voice chiming in. “There you are! I’ve been looking—”

Gemma.

She looked stunning—dressed in a breezy black summer dress that clung just enough to suggest she knew exactly how good she looked. Her long hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, catching the last traces of golden light like a shampoo commercial with better lighting. Her eyes—dark brown, warm, and wide—were already slightly glassy with alcohol, giving her an easy, floaty warmth as she moved. They didn’t resemble Harry’s at all, really, but there was something about the way she looked at people—direct and a little mischievous—that carried the same emotional weight., giving her an easy, floaty warmth as she moved.

“Oh my god! Louis!” she squealed, stepping around Harry and wrapping him in a hug that managed to be both warm and slightly unhinged.

Louis grinned, slightly breathless from the enthusiasm. “Hi, Gem.”

When she finally let go, her gaze shifted to Niall. Her expression flickered—mild curiosity sharpened into something far more interested.

“And who’s this?”

Niall straightened a little too quickly, flashing a grin so wide Louis could practically hear the internal fanfare.

“Niall,” he said, voice suddenly dipped an octave lower than necessary. “Pleasure.”

Louis blinked. Then frowned. Then looked between the two of them.

What the hell was that?

Before Louis could think too hard about it, Gemma was already looping an arm through his. “We’re celebrating,” she declared with the kind of tipsy enthusiasm that couldn’t be argued with. “Taylor’s here too, somewhere. Come on, all of you.”

She pulled them into the fray—through throngs of glittering strangers and ambient beats. And somewhere between refilled drinks and someone handing Louis a tray of neon shots, Zayn reappeared like a well-timed plot twist.

“Thought I’d lost you lot to the rich and deluded,” he said, grinning.

From that point on, the night blurred into something golden and ridiculous.

They danced. They drank. They shouted over music and leaned in too close and laughed like they hadn’t done in ages. Louis found himself next to Harry more often than not—talking, teasing, letting conversation stretch and settle between them in a way that felt alarmingly easy. He wasn’t thinking about the past. Or the future. Just this: music, heat, and Harry’s laugh in the middle of it.

Niall, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content at Gemma’s side. They’d disappeared into a corner once or twice, only to return with new drinks and matching grins. Louis watched them from across the dance floor  and muttered something about flirting in stereo.

Gemma was glowing—chatty, quick-witted, gently elbowing Niall whenever he tried to be too clever. Louis had to admit that he actually liked her very much, escpecially next to his best mate.  And Niall, for all his chaos, was clearly enchanted.

At some point—probably Zayn’s doing—the idea of a drinking game surfaced, and just like that, they were all flopped in a lopsided circle across oversized sun-loungers, passing around a bottle of something expensive enough that no one dared name it. The rules were loose. The laughter was loud. The world, just slightly off-kilter.

Louis couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard his ribs hurt.

It began innocently enough, a lazy mix of Never Have I Ever and Truth or Dare, the kind of game that always started soft and spiraled into chaos. Within minutes, shots were being poured with more enthusiasm than precision.

Taylor leaned forward, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed with alcohol and delight. “Never have I ever had sex on a plane.”

She drank without hesitation.

A beat of silence—and then the group exploded.

“Get it, Taylor!” Gemma squealed, clapping her hands like they’d just won something.

Zayn doubled over. “We’re not even halfway through the game and you’re already out here dropping bombs.”

“Congratulations,” Niall laughed, raising his glass. “You’re officially inducted into the mile-high club.”

Taylor just shrugged, smug and glowing under the attention. “What can I say? It was a long flight.”

And then, as if to underline the moment, she leaned in and wrapped an arm around Harry, resting her cheek against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The group whooped again.

Harry blinked once, then twice. “Wait—you mean that was…?”

She didn’t answer. Just smiled and squeezed his arm.

Harry gave a little, awkward laugh and lifted his glass. “Right. Okay, then.”

He took a drink.

The laughter swelled again, playful and messy and loud.

Louis smiled along with them, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He watched Taylor’s fingers still curved around Harry’s forearm, the easy way their bodies leaned into each other like they'd done it a hundred times before.

Something flickered low in his chest. Not jealousy—definitely not. That would be ridiculous. He had no reason, no right. It was just... an observation. A brief, sharp awareness of how familiar they looked, how easy. That was all.

Not his business.

It really wasn’t.

Still. It prickled.

And before Louis could follow that thread too far, the bottle was spinning again.

It landed on him.

“Truth or dare?” Zayn asked, grinning like the cat who’d just found the cream.

Louis squinted at the circle, weighing his options. “Dare.”

A cheer went up, messy and immediate.

“Alright then,” Zayn slurred, “you have to call the last person who called you.”

With a dramatic groan, Louis pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen like it might rearrange itself if he glared hard enough.

Eleanor.

Of course.

He stared at the name for a beat too long.

Shit.

But the booze had dulled his hesitation, and pride did the rest. He hit call.

It rang. And rang. No answer.

Louis exhaled and hovered for a second, thumb over the screen, just long enough to regret everything—but then her voicemail picked up. And before he could think better of it, he was already talking.

“Hey,” he said, voice a bit too loose, a bit too bright. “Greetings from Monaco. It’s... hot. Loud. And there’s definitely too much alcohol involved.”

He paused, blinking slowly at the blur of lights around them.

“Anyway. Just wanted to say hey, I guess. Hope you’re good.”

Another pause, one beat too long.

“Talk soon, maybe.”

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

“Done,” he declared, placing his phone down like he’d just finished a heroic quest.

But the group immediately erupted in protest.

"Nooo," Niall groaned, “you don’t get off that easy.”

“Yeah,” Zayn added, sloshing his drink slightly, “where’s the emotional damage?”

“Not so fast,” Gemma cut in, sing-song and relentless. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “We want a truth too, Lou. That voicemail was nice, but we’re greedy.”

Louis groaned and rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Fine.”

Gemma didn’t even hesitate. “What was your first impression of Harry?”

Louis blinked, and like a dropped match to dry paper, the memory caught fire.

That club two years ago - sweaty, dark, overcrowded. The music had been too loud, the drinks too warm, but Louis still had a fuckin great time, thats when he saw him. Harry.

Shoulder-length curls and stupidly soft-looking, wearin' fucking Prada hoodie in a place where the floor stuck to your shoes. He’d been trying so hard not to look out of place that it only made him stand out more. Polished. Pretty. Fragile in a way that made Louis’ instinctive reaction something between curiosity and mild disdain.

Louis had sized him up with one glance and said the first thing that came to mind. Posh boy. Not as an insult, not really—but as a label. A warning. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a test.

The way Harry had looked at him though—like he wanted to understand him and touch him in the same breath—it had rattled Louis more than he cared to admit. And for one long, charged moment, he’d let himself flirt back.

Only Niall had been there that night—had seen the way Louis had tilted his head just so, had leaned in a little too close. And later, when Louis had come undone over a fling and the ache sat heavier than he’d expected, Niall had been the one who showed up and distracted him.

Now, Niall let out a dry snort and didn’t even try to hide it.

Louis shot him a warning glance before turning back to the group, his gaze catching on Harry’s face—curious, unreadable, waiting.

“Honestly?” Louis said, voice lazy, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I took one look at him— and thought, that Posh boy’s completely lost.”

He paused, as if hearing the words echo back.

Harry blinked, visibly caught off guard.

“Wounded,” he said slowly, though it came out more like a question than a retort.

Louis gave a shrug that was all alcohol-laced bravado, his smile lazy. “You were wearing an oversized Prada hoodie, too many rings on every finger and those long curls — I mean Prada, mate, at a club where the ceiling was literally leaking. You looked like a Vogue ad lost in the wrong postcode.”

The words slipped out far too easily, far too specifically, and Louis barely realized what he’d said until Niall snapped his head around.

Before anyone else could clock it, Niall cut in loud and fast: “Alright, who’s got the next round then?!”

Louis blinked, heart lurching just a little as he caught Niall’s expression—wide-eyed and sharp, like he was trying to telepathically shut him the fuck up.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Niall muttered, just loud enough for Louis to hear.

No one else seemed to notice. Too drunk, too caught up in the laughter and the next dare. Thank god.

But what Louis doesn’t see is the way Harry’s smile falters. The way his brows knit together, just barely, as if something small and quiet has clicked into place. Like he’s trying to trace the outline of a memory he can almost touch—but not quite name. A crease forms between his brows. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

And just like that, the group moves on, louder again, distracted by another ridiculous dare. But Harry stays quiet a second too long.

Later, Louis won’t be able to say exactly what tipped him off.

Maybe it was the way the circle’s energy shifted—too loud, too fast, like they were all trying to drown something out. Maybe it was just the absence—the strange, sudden quiet where Harry’s presence had been.

He looked up, scanned the group instinctively. Gemma was laughing at something Zayn had said, Niall was trying to stack shot glasses into a wobbly tower, Taylor was still talking too close to some guy he forgot the name of.

But Harry wasn’t there.

And somehow, that felt... wrong.

He frowned.

“I’m gonna find the loo,” he muttered, pushing to his feet before the thought could settle.

No one looked up. The party kept spinning around its own orbit.

Louis slipped away, unnoticed but not unmotivated.

The deck was quieter at the bow of the yacht. The music thudded somewhere distant, wrapped in laughter and sea breeze. He didn’t have to look far—Harry was there, leaning on the railing, alone.

The city stretched out before him, a cascade of lights draped along the coastline. The wind tugged gently at his curls, even wilder in the open air. He looked still. Out of place in the best way—like he didn’t belong to the noise or the money or the party.

Louis stopped a few feet away. His heart beat louder than the music now.

What the fuck was he doing?

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the memory still buzzing at the back of his mind. But whatever it was, it pulled at him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just moved to stand beside Harry, shoulder to shoulder, both of them leaning on the railing like the silence between them had always been there.

They watched the city in quiet. The lights flickered below like scattered stars, and the breeze played with the edges of Harry’s shirt and the curls at his neck.

Harry sighed eventually, low and soft. “Bit much, isn’t it?”

Louis hummed. “It’s Monaco. I guess they don’t really do subtle.”

Harry chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Louis glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “Had to explain to my sisters where the cupcakes came from, by the way.”

Harry turned, already smiling. “Oh god. Yeah?”

Louis rolled his eyes, amused despite himself. “Yeah. Lottie, Fizzy, Daisy, Phoebe—the whole gang. Just inhaled them like it was the last dessert on Earth.”

Harry laughed, nudging his shoulder. “That good?”

“Annoyingly, yeah,” Louis said, deadpan. “And Zayn had one too, even though he said he was a little scared about givin' you my adress.”

Harry chuckled. “He wasn’t wrong to be nervous.”

Louis snorted. “He wasn’t expecting cupcakes, that’s for sure. I think he pictured you holding a contract and dramatically quoting your PR agent.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess I had to go with something less threatening.”

Louis grinned. “Well, try explaining to your younger sisters that Harry Styles showed up at midnight, in the rain, with cupcakes iced like a Grand Prix pit stop. What was I supposed to say? They’ve decided I’m having a torrid affair with an emotionally available baker.”

Harry burst out laughing. “Honestly, not the worst cover story I’ve heard.”

“They said no one goes that hard with icing unless they’re in love,” Louis added, mock-serious.

Harry gave him a crooked smile. “I was just sorry.”

Louis didn’t reply immediately. Just nodded, softly. “Yeah. Well. They were good.”

Harry’s smile softened again, quiet.

Louis glanced over once more, then said, “Niall knows, by the way.”

Harry’s expression shifted, a crease forming between his brows. “Is that why he’s weird around me?”

Louis hesitated. The words hovered, then dissolved. “He just… cares. He’s loyal, you know? Bit stubborn with strangers.”

Harry tilted his head. “Didn’t seem to have that problem with Gemma.”

Louis rolled his eyes, playful again. “Yeah, well. Gemma’s charming. And maybe Niall’s a little too charmed.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Is he?”

Louis groaned. “Don’t start.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “Though if he is crushing on your sister, you should probably chill out before you go all overprotective brother.”

Harry gave him a sideways look, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not overprotective.”

Louis raised his brows.

“Relax, Styles,” he said, nudging him lightly. “She can take care of herself. And if she does want to flirt with Niall, that’s between them. Who knows, maybe she likes Irish charm, and to be honest loving Niall is quite easy, his a lovely lad, really.”

They stood in silence for a few more seconds, the city flickering below like a living thing.

Harry shifted slightly beside him, hands gripping the railing like he needed something to hold onto. Louis caught the motion, the way his shoulders tensed—like he was waiting for something to fall apart before it even began.

And maybe that was what made Louis say it.

Maybe it was the look on Harry’s face, or just the way the night had softened around them.

Maybe it was the reminder that Harry had shown up in the rain with a box of apology cupcakes and still looked like he half-expected to be turned away.

Then Louis, a little quieter, a little more honest, said, “You should try trusting people more, y’know. Let stuff happen without planning the exit.”

Harry exhaled through a soft laugh. “You sound like you wanna be my therapist.”

Harry’s POV

Louis bumped his shoulder. “Yeah, well. I would be cheap.”

Harry didn’t get the chance to fire back, because then Louis turned to him fully—grin wide, impossibly cheeky, and those blue eyes nearly glowing in the light. The wind had caught in his hair, tugging the strands into a mess of soft waves, and for a second, just a second, he looked like something unreal. All lit up from the inside, wild, alive, and mischievous. The kind of mischief Harry had already learned to be suspicious of—and still couldn’t look away from.

“Live a little, Styles,” Louis said—voice low, teasing—and before Harry could ask what fresh madness that meant, Louis grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

Harry’s mouth opened, useless. “Seriously?”

Now half-naked and clearly unbothered, Louis tossed the shirt somewhere behind him, grinning like a man on a mission. His chest and shoulders were lean, toned from years of training, the kind of body that wasn’t showy but earned. His tattoos sprawled across him like a map Harry had never finished studying. Bold and personal and intimate in a way that made Harry forget what they’d just been talking about.

Then, with the same calm insanity, Louis unbuttoned his trousers.

“Wait, wait—Louis, what are you—”

Harry should’ve looked away. He didn’t.

But Louis was already shimmying out of them, slipping out of shoes and linen in one fluid motion. He stood tall, legs braced slightly apart, shoulders back, in nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs that hugged his hips like they had a personal vendetta against Harry’s sanity. His thighs were sculpted from years of training, his lower back dipped in the kind of curve that begged to be noticed, and his arse—Jesus. Fuckin. Christ.

Harry forgot to breathe.

Louis pointed at Harry with all the self-assurance of a drunk prophet.

“Ten out of ten for drama,” Harry muttered, barely audible.

Louis gave a mock salute—then he turned—without another word—and leapt over the side of the yacht.

There was a splash so loud it made Harry’s heart lurch.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore, rushing to the railing.

From where they were standing, it had to be at least ten meters down into black water.

Was the man insane?

“Come on, Styles!” Louis’ voice shot up from the water, thick with laughter. “What are you, afraid of a little swim?”

Harry leaned over, staring down at the splash zone where Louis was treading water like a very smug idiot.

If there was one thing Harry Styles didn’t do, it was back down from a challenge.

His tattoos sprawled across him like a map Harry had never finished studying. Bold and personal and intimate in a way that made Harry forget what they’d just been talking about.

Then, with the same calm insanity, Louis unbuttoned his trousers.

“Wait—Louis,” Harry started, his voice tight.

But Louis was already shimmying out of them, slipping out of shoes and linen in one fluid motion. He stood tall, legs braced slightly apart, shoulders back, in nothing but a pair of dark boxer briefs that hugged his hips like they had a personal vendetta against Harry’s sanity. His thighs were sculpted from years of training, his lower back dipped in the kind of curve that begged not to be noticed but absolutely was, and his arse—Jesus.

Harry forgot to breathe.

Louis pointed a finger at him like a warning, like a dare. “Don’t be boring.”

“Ten out of ten for drama,” Harry muttered, voice hoarse.

Then Louis turned—without another word—and leapt over the side of the yacht.

The splash cracked through the quiet like a gunshot.

Harry stumbled to the railing, heart hammering, adrenaline snapping awake in his chest. The water was far—ten meters down at least—and black as ink beneath the boat.

What the fuck?

“LOUIS?” he shouted, already imagining headlines, lawsuits, and the worst kind of regret.

Then came the laughter.

“Come on, Styles!” Louis’ voice shot up from the water, thick with laughter. “What are you, afraid of a little swim?”

Harry leaned over, staring down at the splash zone where Louis was treading water like a very smug idiot.

If there was one thing Harry Styles didn’t do, it was back down from a challenge.

But god, he hated this part.

He hated the pause before the leap. The not-knowing. The moment when his brain scrambled to calculate depth, speed, angle—risk. He wasn’t the kind of person who jumped for the thrill. He liked precision. Control. He needed it, most days.

Which was why everything about this was wrong. Ten meters into black water. No guarantee of what lay beneath. And Louis—Louis fucking Tomlinson—grinning up at him like a devil with salt-stung eyes and nothing to lose.

Harry had a competitive streak that bordered on self-destructive. He wasn’t just driven—he was obsessed with pushing limits. It was what had made him a champion. It was what made him grit his teeth now, shove off his shoes, and yank his shirt over his head.

The fabric clung to his skin for a moment before he peeled it free, then he took a running start, feet slapping the deck.

And jumped.

The cold hit him like a punch to the chest—icy, shocking, electric. For half a second his lungs refused to work, and then—

He surfaced with a gasp and a laugh. The adrenaline buzzed in his veins, white-hot and wild. The night sky stretched endlessly above him, stars smeared across it like chalk.

“Fucking hell,” he shouted, laughing.

Louis’ head bobbed into view nearby, his caramel hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like the troublemaker he was. “Told you it was good!”

They drifted beside each other, the water holding them weightless, as if the ocean had momentarily forgotten its depth and simply cradled them. Their breathing slowed, the night folding gently around their shoulders. The laughter faded, softened to something almost intimate.

Harry turned his head.

Louis was already watching him, eyes darker now—deep, unreadable, like the water beneath them. His lips were flushed, bitten red from the cold, parted ever so slightly. Moonlight skated over his cheekbones, caught in the damp curve of his throat. The moment held its breath.

And then—

Something slid past Harry’s foot.

He jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

“Fuck—something touched me!” he yelped, voice pitching embarrassingly high.

Louis let out a choked cackle, half-laugh, half-splash. “It’s the sea, Harry! There’s stuff in it!”

“I’m serious!” Harry shouted, flailing backward. “I’m not becoming fish food because you think spontaneous night swims are charming!”

Still sputtering, he paddled furiously toward the stern, where the safety lights shimmered and the ladder gleamed like salvation.

Louis followed, breathless with laughter, barely able to keep his head above water as he shouted after him, “You’re such a drama queen!”

They reached the stern, the music from the deck a distant hum—just basslines and laughter echoing faintly through the night air. It was quiet, tucked away in shadows and silver light, the soft lapping of the water against the hull the only real sound between them.

Harry climbed the ladder first, hands slick against the metal rungs, every muscle tense from cold and adrenaline. As he hauled himself onto the deck, water streamed from his boxers, soaking the wooden boards beneath him. His lungs still hadn’t settled; his heart still thudded like it had taken the plunge with him. Jesus.

He collapsed onto the deck, elbows propped behind him, head tilted back toward the stars. What the fuck had he just done?

A splash behind him. More laughter. And then Louis emerged, dragging himself up the ladder with all the grace of a very smug sea god.

He was still grinning. That maddening grin that made Harry want to roll his eyes and punch something and maybe only maybe kiss him a little, all at once. Fuck.

“Steff, mate!” Louis called out, lifting his arm in an exaggerated wave as he spotted the staff member rounding the corner. “You’re a lifesaver—mind grabbing us a couple towels? And our clothes? They’re somewhere at the front”

His voice was warm and playful, touched with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how to ask for a favor without making it feel like one.

Steff paused for a second, did a double take, then laughed. “Why am I not even surprised you're the type to jump off a yacht in the middle of the night?” Steff laughed, shaking his head.

Louis shrugged with a crooked grin, water still dripping from his hair. “Yeah, well, gotta keep the brand alive, mate. Full-time chaos, part-time swimmer.”

They exchanged a look—quick, familiar, unpretentious. Like old coworkers catching up on shift change.

Harry watched the exchange, eyebrows drawn. There was no performative charm, no upper-hand pleasantries. Louis just talked to people. And people liked him for it.

“How the hell do you know people here?” he asked, still baffled.

Louis glanced over at him, wiping a hand through his dripping fringe. “Met a few of the kitchen crew earlier,” he said. “Hung out by the service stairs for a bit. Had a couple beers, talked shit about billionaires. You know, the usual.”

Harry blinked. Again.

Of course he had.

Of course Louis had somehow found the one corner of this yacht that didn’t reek of gold-plated ego and made actual friends. Hell, they probably followed each other on Instagram by now.

How the fuck does he do that?

He didn’t say it out loud. Instead, he mumbled a quiet thanks when Steff returned, arms full of towels and a neatly folded bundle of their clothes. Harry took his and rubbed briskly at his arms, trying to bring sensation back into his fingertips.

Harry glanced at Louis rubbing his hair with one towel like it personally offended him, muscles flexing under damp skin, tattoos gleaming like inked shadows, eyes glittering with leftover mischief. He didn’t even bother hiding the curve of his smirk when he caught Harry glancing.

Harry tore his gaze away, face hot despite the breeze. Jesus. They were practically naked.

They eventually pulled their damp clothes back on, towels doing their best but not nearly enough. Louis’ hair fell forward, wet and heavy, clinging to his forehead in lazy, chaotic waves. As he yanked his trousers over his boxers, the wet fabric left a dark print across the black linen.

He looked down at the mess, then up at Harry with a mischievous glint. “We really should’ve thought that through before going full Titanic.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re the idiot who jumped first.”

Louis grinned, utterly unbothered. “And yet you followed.”

Still laughing under their breaths, they stumbled back toward the main deck, their clothes clinging to their bodies in damp, wrinkled patches. The golden lights from the yacht painted long, gleaming reflections over the black water, and somewhere in front of them the music pulsed unbothered.

Their hair was a soaked mess, Louis’ fringe falling into his eyes, Harry’s curls hanging heavier than usual. They looked like chaos incarnate: half-dressed in crinkled clothes, barefoot, and too pleased with themselves for any explanation to sound remotely innocent.

Harry grinned, the edges of it catching and spreading, as if he couldn't help it.

He realised he didn’t even feel drunk from the alcohol anymore.

Alcohol usually gave him that sweet numbness, that sense of blurring himself into something quieter, something simpler — and he welcomed it, most nights. Numbing the edges made things easier, quieter, less sharp.

But right now?

Right now he felt everything. Sharp and immediate. The coolness of his wet clothes clinging to his skin, the salt sticking to his eyelashes, the buzz of laughter vibrating through the wooden deck beneath his bare feet. The slight, spinning lightness wasn’t from the drinks — it was from life itself.

From the madness. The jump. The way he had said fuck it for once and just leapt.

And maybe — though he would never say it out loud — maybe it also had something to do with Louis Tomlinson, standing a few feet away, dripping wet, with his fringe falling into those annoyingly bright blue eyes and that stupid, cocky grin.

Louis was loud, reckless, infuriating — and yet somehow, he made everything feel lighter. Less heavy. Less hopeless.

Maybe Harry liked him. A little. Just a little.

Maybe Louis fucking Tomlinson was even good for him.

But he would rather jump off the yacht a second time than admit that.

It buzzed through him like electricity, made him feel startlingly alive. So alive it almost hurt a little.

He was still smiling to himself when the noise of the party rushed back in.

The circle of their group shifted instinctively, parting just enough to welcome them back in. Harry noticed it immediately: everyone was even drunker than before, voices louder, laughter messier, movements looser. It was like stepping into a room spun slightly off balance.

Four pairs of eyes locked onto him and Louis immediately, a wall of reactions waiting to happen.

Taylor’s brows shot up so high they nearly vanished into her hairline, laughter already bubbling on her lips.

Zayn set down his drink with a slow, exaggerated clap, shaking his head with a grin that said he wasn’t even surprised.

Gemma clasped her hands together, practically bouncing where she stood, her entire face a beacon of delighted chaos.

And Niall—Niall just stared. Silent. Unamused. Like he was the only one who hadn't forgotten this wasn’t normal behavior on a billionaire’s yacht.

Taylor’s eyebrows shot up high enough to disappear into her hairline.

“Well, well, look who decided to take a swim.”

Zayn leaned back against the railing, grinning around the rim of his glass.

“What happened, Styles? Lose a bet to Captain Chaos here?”

Louis just shrugged, flashing the kind of grin that made Harry wonder how anyone ever said no to him.

“Felt like Monaco needed a little more drama.”

Gemma practically bounced where she stood, hands clapping together.

“This is honestly the best thing I’ve seen all night. You’re both idiots. Brilliant, beautiful idiots.”

Harry huffed a breath of laughter, shaking his head. The air felt lighter somehow — or maybe that was just the adrenaline still humming under his skin.

As they stepped back into the circle, Taylor’s arm slid easily around Harry’s waist — natural, casual, the kind of touch that came from muscle memory after too many staged moments in front of too many cameras. Without thinking, Harry slipped his own arm around her hips, drawing her in.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. Just familiar.

And yet, as he grinned into the group’s laughter, something inside him sparked — not for Taylor, but for the ease of it all. The freedom. The absolute absurdity of it. He felt high on saltwater and recklessness.

Niall, though, didn’t laugh. He gave Harry a slow, measuring look — the kind that felt like it peeled you open without permission.

Harry felt the weight of that look but didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink from it, either. He just held Taylor a little closer, not because he wanted to — but because it was easier than asking why Niall looked at him like that.

Zayn chuckled low.

"Swear to god, this party’s like reality TV. Where’s my popcorn?"

Taylor laughed, leaning her head lightly against Harry’s shoulder, the movement so natural, so rehearsed, Harry barely noticed. Instinctively, he curled his arm around her waist, hand resting against the curve of her hip.

It wasn’t romantic. It was muscle memory — safe, practiced, expected.

Louis snorted under his breath, dragging a hand through his soaked hair, the strands clinging to his forehead. He cleared his throat, voice pitching louder, lighter. "Alright, mates. No more drama — let’s make tonight count and get absolutely smashed, yeah?"

The group whooped, chaotic and grateful. The noise surged back around them, thick and heavy, but Harry noticed how Louis' smile lagged half a beat behind the laughter. Like he had to remind himself to keep playing along.

But Harry felt it linger.
The slight hesitation in Louis voice.

And when Taylor leaned her head more comfortably against Harry’s shoulder, laughing brightly at something Zayn said, Harry didn’t miss it — the way Louis' jaw tightened, the split-second flash in those sharp blue eyes before he turned away, shoving his fringe back like he could scrub the feeling off.

Not jealousy, Harry told himself.
Louis didn’t do jealousy.
It was just... something.

Harry swallowed. The taste of salt and sea still clung to his tongue, but it was overlaid now with something sharper. Something restless.

Without fully thinking about it, he let his hand slip away from Taylor’s waist, dropping to his side. The touch, once easy and automatic, suddenly felt heavy — like something wrong he'd been caught doing.

The laughter around them blurred, too loud, too fast.

He didn’t know what was happening between Louis and him.

Didn’t even know if he wanted to.

But he felt it — buzzing under his skin, humming in his bones — the aftershock of Louis’ gaze stitched tight into his ribs.

LOUIS POV:

Louis shoved his way toward the bar, weaving through bodies still slick from salt and laughter, still buzzing from the ocean and too many shots. His grin was crooked, loose from the alcohol warming his veins — but somewhere under it, quieter, meaner, a thought gnawed at him.

Yeah, genius — friendly reminder: Harry fucking Styles is off-limits. Try not to make a complete tit of yourself tonight.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. Why did it even bother him? It wasn’t like it was any of his business.

And yet —

Before he could sink any deeper into that mess, someone crashed into his side.

"Heeeyyy," Gemma sing-songed, her arm slinging around his waist with all the grace of a drunk octopus. She was flushed, eyes glittering — a little wild, a little too knowing.

She tightened her hold around him, pulling him half into a hug, half into a stumble. Louis let out a breathless laugh, steadying them both with a hand on her back.

"I like you, Louis," she said, pressing her cheek briefly against his shoulder. Her voice was slurred but heavy with sincerity. "You’re good for him."

Louis grunted — a sound low in his throat, noncommittal — trying to play it cool. But Gemma only tipped her head back, locking their gazes, and for a moment, she looked far too sober.

"I mean it," she said, quieter now, voice threading through the noise like a secret. "He needs someone who doesn't bullshit him. Someone who calls him out and still stays."

Louis swallowed, the words sticking to his ribs.

"Give him a chance," she murmured, almost like she was pleading now. "Things aren’t always what they seem."

He opened his mouth — to joke, to deflect, to say something clever — but Gemma was already grabbing two trays of shots and shoving one into his hands like it was a shield against whatever had just passed between them.

Louis blinked after her, heart knocking against his ribs, the knot tightening in his chest.

Back at the group, Gemma drifted naturally to Niall’s side, slipping under his arm like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Niall grinned down at her, said something that made her laugh — loud and bright — and Louis caught himself smiling too.

For them.

For the way things sometimes just... worked.

He pushed the feeling down with the first shot, then the next, until the world blurred into something golden and untouchable.

Shots slammed back. Laughter louder, looser. Someone — maybe Taylor, maybe divine intervention — declared a dance-off. Taylor yanked Zayn into a cha-cha so horrific it probably broke several laws of physics. Niall tried to bribe the bartender into inventing a new cocktail called "Regret." Harry —

Harry was there.

Laughing, tipping his head back, curls tumbling, his face lit from within. Real in a way that sliced clean through the alcohol and the noise and the bullshit.

Louis found himself laughing too, shoulder-bumping Harry without thinking, catching the look Harry threw him — easy, unguarded, dangerous, and he knew — in the fuzzy, warning-bell part of his mind — that he'd regret this. That the race weekend looming ahead was about to punch him straight in the face.

But right then?

Right then, Louis didn’t give a single fuck.

He was alive. He was reckless. He was burning.

And it felt fucking brilliant.

Chapter Text

FRIDAY

Louis' POV

The morning hit like a sledgehammer.

Louis cracked open one eye and immediately regretted it. The sun was too bright, the air too warm, and his mouth tasted like regret and cheap champagne. His head pounded in slow, deliberate thumps, and when he tried to move, a dull ache radiated down his spine like he'd gone a few rounds with a particularly vengeful brick wall.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, blinking blearily at the polished teak ceiling panels just above his head— lined with thin seams and recessed lights.

Right. The yacht. Harry's yacht. Technically, Desmond Styles' floating monstrosity of bad taste and old money, but whatever. Details.

After everything had completely spiraled last night, they’d bailed from Lucien Deveraux’s yacht like pirates abandoning a ship of madness. The six of them could barely walk straight, half-delirious from champagne and whatever cocktails had been handed to them. So they’d made a collective, slurred decision to crash together—on Desmond Styles' yacht of all places.

It was loud. It was ridiculous. It was somehow perfect. And Louis kept catching himself bumping into Harry—casually, drunkenly—until by the time they stumbled along the marina, Harry had an arm thrown over Louis’ shoulders and Louis’ hand had found its way around Harry’s waist. They’d been singing—no, yelling—"Teenage Dirtbag" at the top of their lungs, harmonizing off-key and tripping over each other as they made their way across the docks, laughter echoing into the dark like the most absurd, golden secret of the night.

Now, hours later, Louis lay sprawled across one of the cream-colored leather sofas in the main lounge, the buttery leather sticky against his skin. His head throbbed with a dull, insistent rhythm—like a bassline from the party had taken up permanent residence behind his eyes—and each heartbeat sent a pulse of regret through his temples. The lounge resembled the aftermath of a very stylish crime scene.

Zayn was slumped in the matching armchair nearby, dark sunglasses hiding his bloodshot eyes, an untouched bottle of water dangling loosely from one hand. On the opposite sofa, Niall was half-curled into himself, still snoring softly, a throw pillow clutched like a lifeline. One of his sneakers—Louis noted grimly—was somehow perched on the sofa next to Louis.

"Kill me," Louis muttered.

"Tempting," Zayn said, his voice rough. "But it would ruin the aesthetic."

Louis sat up slowly, groaning as every muscle protested. His shirt was half unbuttoned, and his hair looked like it had made an independent attempt to flee the chaos of the night before. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to piece together how they’d ended up here.

Somewhere below deck, Taylor’s laugh rang out—bright, cheerful, entirely inappropriate for this hour. Harry’s voice followed, low and lazy, and Louis felt something twist in his stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

Before he could dwell on it, Gemma swept into the room like a summer breeze, too composed for someone who had definitely drunk them all under the table.

Louis, Zayn, and Niall all groaned in near-unison, a chorus of regret echoing through the plush lounge.

Zayn tilted his head toward her and squinted. "Serious question—what unholy pact did you make to be this functional right now?"

Gemma only laughed, annoyingly bright as she lifted a small tablet she’d been balancing on one hip. On it stood three short glasses filled with a murky, greenish-grey liquid that looked like it had been scooped directly from the bottom of a swamp.

"This, my dear boys," she announced with a flourish, "is the Styles family’s post-party miracle. That—and two extra-strong headache tablets."

She handed out the glasses one by one, followed by a foil-wrapped pill packet for each of them.

Louis stared at the glass like it had personally offended him. "That looks like pond water."

"It tastes worse," Gemma said cheerfully.

Niall took a cautious sniff and recoiled dramatically. "What did you put in this? I swear it's moving."

Gemma raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. "That's the secret recipe, actually. But if you want to survive today, you’ll drink it."

"I’m not sure I want to survive today," Niall muttered, but his eyes flicked to hers with a sparkle.

Gemma caught it, smiled just a little too knowingly. "Coward. I thought Irishmen were made of sterner stuff."

"We are," Niall shot back. "We just prefer our poisons distilled and aged in oak barrels."

Gemma laughed, stepping closer to Niall. "Tell you what—if you survive this, I’ll personally reward your bravery."

Niall raised the glass, wincing. "Worth it," he said before knocking it back.

Gemma winked. "Good boy."

Zayn made a retching noise from the corner of the room. "Oh my god, did you just call him 'good boy'? I think I’m gonna be sick—and it’s not from the drink."

Louis grimaced and pressed a pillow to his face. "Jesus, get a room. Or better yet, don’t."

Gemma only grinned. "You two are just jealous you’re not being praised."

"Jealous?" Zayn croaked. "Of that? No, thank you. I’m already fighting for my life over here."

Still, he took a deep breath and downed the glass with a dramatic shudder.

Louis followed, gagging immediately. "Regret. Regret in liquid form."

They sat in silence for a moment, each of them grimacing in quiet horror.

Footsteps echoed from the stairs, and moments later Taylor appeared in the doorway, looking improbably fresh in a crisp linen shirt knotted at the waist and oversized sunglasses perched on her nose.

"Good morning, disaster crew," she chirped, holding a coffee like a trophy.

"Why do you look like a lifestyle ad?" Louis groaned.

Taylor grinned. "Because I hydrate. And moisturize. And I didn’t take shots from a plastic flamingo, unlike some of you."

Right behind her came Harry—barefoot, shirtless, curls still damp, and wearing a pair of drawstring linen pants that rode low on his hips. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice scratchy as he muttered, "Never drinking again."

Louis looked up, and then immediately wished he hadn’t. Something about the way Harry’s skin caught the sunlight—the clean, pale smoothness of it, the lean curve of his waist, those infuriatingly perfect V-lines disappearing into low-slung linen—made Louis’ brain short-circuit.

"Fuck off," Louis muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, turning away like the view physically pained him.

Zayn caught it, barely holding back a smirk.

Taylor flopped onto the armrest of the sofa beside Niall, taking in the chaos with a deeply satisfied sigh. "This is my favorite part. The wreckage."

Eventually, they made their way upstairs to the dining area on deck, drawn by the smell of eggs, bacon, and toasted bread. The morning sun was warm, the table shaded by a crisp white awning. It felt surreal—almost civilized—after the chaos of the night before.

Louis dug into his breakfast like a man starved, grateful for the return of basic human functions. With each bite, his headache dulled and the fog in his mind began to lift.

Taylor, seated near the edge, was already deep in conversation with a crew member—laughing, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, her intentions unmistakable. Louis glanced at Harry across the table, half-expecting tension, but Harry just focused on his food, seemingly unfazed.

Maybe they had an open thing. Who was he to judge?

Harry looked relaxed—almost annoyingly so. He lounged across from Louis, head tipped back slightly, sipping coffee like a model in a yacht brochure.

Zayn and Gemma had settled on either side of Louis, while Niall took a seat next to Harry, stiff and suspiciously quiet. Louis caught the tight line of his jaw and the way his fingers picked absently at the edge of his napkin.

Maybe it was the hangover. Or maybe Niall still hadn’t warmed to Harry.

The conversation shifted naturally toward the upcoming Grand Prix.

Louis took a sip of his orange juice, eyes squinting against the morning sun. “Monaco’s a first for me this season—but not my first dance, you know? Been racing since I was sixteen. I don’t scare easy.”

Zayn chuckled. “No one said you were scared, mate. But Monaco’s got a personality. It’s not just a track. It’s... excess. Speed and silk suits. Everyone pretending it’s about engines while they’re eyeballing each other’s champagne flutes.”

Louis smirked. “Exactly. It’s like driving through a luxury catalogue—while trying not to clip a billionaire’s yacht.”

Harry, who’d been lazily swirling his coffee, looked up with a glint in his eye. “Still, nothing drives like Monaco. The walls breathe with you. You mess up one inch, it’s game over.”

“I know” Louis said, meeting his gaze. “And I can’t wait. There’s something about street circuits—feels personal. Like you’re fighting the city itself.”

Harry grinned. “Well, try not to fight it into the barriers at Mirabeau, yeah?”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “You mean like you did last year?”

“That was strategy” Harry shot back.

“That was desperation” Louis corrected, already leaning into the game.

Zayn groaned into his eggs. “Here we go.”

Louis pointed a fork at Harry, grinning. “You brake like you’ve got a crystal chandelier in your footwell.”

Harry scoffed. “And you drive like you’re narrating a nature documentary. Calm. Slow. Pointless.”

Louis leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It’s called control, Styles. Some of us learned it before we hit puberty.”

“Oh please” Harry muttered, eyes dancing. “Your version of control is just an excuse to avoid commitment to the throttle.”

Louis opened his mouth to fire back,  but paused for a beat. There was something about the way Harry looked just then—sharp, focused, alive. Like he lived for these kinds of exchanges. Like he wanted Louis to bite.

And Louis, annoyingly, wanted to.

Their back-and-forth had taken on a rhythm—quick volleys, familiar digs, and undercurrents neither of them dared name. Even the noise around them had started to dull.

Zayn eventually leaned back, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m out. Let me know when you two are done flirting with speed metaphors.”

Gemma snorted into her coffee. “They’ll stop when one of them combusts.”

Louis didn’t even blink. His attention was still on Harry—who hadn’t looked away once.

From the corner of his eye, Louis caught a glance from Niall. It wasn’t sharp, but it held weight—a flicker of warning, maybe. Something quiet and cautious behind the blue. A silent, steady look that said: Careful.

But Niall said nothing. He just looked back down at his plate, lips pressed into a tight line.

Louis opened his mouth to deliver another jab, something really cutting, when his phone buzzed against the tabletop, screen lighting up with a familiar name.

Then, Louis’ phone buzzed loudly on the table, the screen lighting up beside his plate.

He tore his gaze away, the moment cracking like thin ice.

It was Simon.

Louis sighed, the kind of deep, frustrated breath that came from dealing with someone who could wear you down without ever raising his voice. He declined the call with a single swipe and tossed the phone face-down on the table.

"Simon" he muttered, catching Zayn’s eye. "I really don’t have the energy for that arse today."

Zayn gave a knowing look. "Yeah, that tracks."

Before he could say more, Zayn’s phone buzzed. He frowned at the screen and turned it toward Louis. "Guess who."

Louis groaned. "What, does he think he’s running MI6 now?"

Zayn answered, voice cautious. "Hello Simon."

There was a pause, then a sigh. "He wants me to put him on speaker. Says he’s absolutely sure you’re right here."

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "Of course he does."

Zayn tapped the screen and set his phone down. "You’re on, Simon."

Simon’s voice rang out, bright and falsely warm. "Good morning, boys. I trust you had a restful night?"

Louis stayed quiet.

"Judging by the internet this morning, I’d say it was anything but restful. Quite the party ensemble you’ve assembled—Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, Zayn Malik, and yourself, Louis. A PR fever-dream, I’m sure."

There was a beat of silence before Simon continued, tone dipping into that all-too-familiar sharpness. "Now, don’t get me wrong—camaraderie is wonderful. Team bonding, delightful. But do you really think a public spectacle like that was wise? One might think Styles is having a... negative influence."

Zayn’s jaw tensed.

"Especially considering" Simon went on smoothly, "that, after Amsterdam, Nick was rather focused on improving his image—not letting it unravel further."

He paused, just long enough for the message to sting. "And Louis—your underdog story, your charming grit, your clean reputation—do try not to squander it. You’re a PR darling, whether you like it or not. It would be a shame if your newfound friendships started to... cloud that."

Louis’ eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what Simon was doing—and he’d bet anything that Simon knew Harry was sitting right there, hearing every word. A warning shot, wrapped in passive-aggression.

"Let me guess," Simon continued. "You were at Lucien Deveraux yacht? Quite the backdrop. Very tasteful. Very public."

Zayn grimaced.

"The photos are everywhere," Simon said, almost cheerfully. "And while they’re certainly good for buzz, I do hope you’re aware that in less than two hours you’re expected at the media center. Interviews, press, cameras."

Harry had reached for his phone by then, scrolling in silence, jaw set.

"So," Simon finished sweetly, "I’d recommend considering how you plan to present yourselves today. The world is watching. Perhaps you might aim for a little... restraint?"

Louis finally spoke, tone clipped and cool. "We’re professionals, Simon. And we know the job."

"Of course," Simon replied. "Just making sure we’re aligned. Enjoy your breakfast."

The line went dead.

For a moment, the table was still. The mood shifted, the laughter and ease drained by the familiar chill Simon always managed to summon.

One by one, they picked up their phones. Silence fell as feeds loaded, headlines rolled, and video clips auto-played.

There they were—laughing on the docks, arms around each other, stumbling through moonlight and flashbulbs. It was chaos and joy and recklessness caught in a thousand frames.

Fuckin' fantastic. Could something, just once, stay unnoticed? What had happened to privacy?

Louis glanced up just in time to catch Harry frowning at his screen. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line.

Something about the way he stared at the photos—so still, so quiet—made Louis’ stomach twist. There was a moment—just a flicker—where Louis wanted to get up, cross the space between them, and pull him into a hug.

But that wasn’t his place.

That was Taylor’s role. Not his.

Harry didn’t say a word. And neither did Louis. But he felt it—the pull in his chest that these days never quite went away.

It was Niall who finally broke the silence. He clicked his tongue, low and sharp.

"I think it’s about time we got going, don’t you think, Tommo?" he said, his voice casual, but his eyes steady as they flicked to Louis.

Gemma looked up from her phone and gave a small nod. "Yeah. They should probably all start getting ready. Interviews won’t wait."

The spell of tension broke just slightly, the reality of the race weekend creeping back in like the tide.

Louis exhaled slowly, then stood, the legs of his chair scraping lightly against the deck. "Right then," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Let’s get this show on the road."

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV:

Harry stood in his cabin, staring at his reflection. The mirror showed someone almost unfamiliar—relaxed shoulders, a rare softness around the eyes. His red running shorts clung low on his hips, the white shirt stretched comfortably over his torso, and a thin sweatband kept the damp curls from falling into his face. He pressed his palms against the counter and exhaled.

It was Saturday. Qualifying day. The most important one before the real thing—and somehow, Harry felt... fine.

Monaco shimmered outside like a fantasy. All gold railings and polished streets, decadent laughter echoing from balconies. A place made for dreams and drama. And yet, despite the show of it all, he felt grounded for the first time in weeks.

The last few days had shifted something. Since the party on Lucien’s yacht, since the unexpected warmth of the group that had formed—Zayn, Louis, Taylor, Niall, even Gemma—it was as if the static in his brain had dimmed. But more than anything, it was Louis.

There had been a change between them. Subtle, but real. Like they’d set down the old rivalry and, without fully meaning to, picked up something softer. They spoke more now. About the race, about nothing and everything at all. Harry had found himself looking for Louis—across garages, in meeting rooms, down the corridor from catering—and Louis had always seemed to be looking back.

The run had been Louis’ idea—thrown out casually between media briefings and espresso shots late Friday afternoon. One of those moments where he looked up from his phone, half-smirking, and said, "Seven a.m., don’t be late," with just enough nonchalance to make it feel like it mattered.

Zayn had been with them when it was mentioned, lounging in the corner, sipping something cold. He’d raised an eyebrow and muttered something about maybe tagging along. But when the time came, he'd excused himself with a vague, "Got something to sort," and disappeared with that look Harry had come to recognize—a blend of mischief and knowing.

Harry hadn’t asked. Because deep down, he didn’t mind. Maybe he even preferred it this way—just him and Louis. No one to watch, to interpret, to interrupt the strange rhythm that had settled between them these past few days.

It was quiet and unspoken, but present. A shift in gravity. Like they were circling the same point and only just realizing it.

There was a knock at his door, quick and rhythmic, before it creaked open without waiting for an answer.

“Going for a run or planning to seduce the entire marina?” Gemma asked, one brow raised as she leaned against the doorframe, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

Harry smirked, adjusting the sweatband on his forehead. “Can’t I do both?”

Gemma stepped into the room with a teasing shake of her head. Her eyes swept over him—his flushed cheeks, the lean muscle under the fitted shirt, the calm in his expression.

“You look good,” she said, more earnestly now. “Better than you have in a long time.”

Harry gave a small shrug, suddenly aware of how quiet it had been in his head. “I guess... I’m just enjoying it all. For once.”

Gemma softened, her voice dropping. “I can tell. You’re different. Lighter. I don’t know if it’s racing, or the people, or maybe one particular person... but whatever it is, I’m glad it’s happening.”

He didn’t respond right away. Because he wasn’t sure either. All he knew was that something had shifted. Something in him. And maybe—just maybe—it had to do with Louis Tomlinson.

But that wasn’t something he was ready to admit. Not to Gemma. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to himself.

Gemma gave him a knowing look, but didn’t press. She gently tapped his arm with the back of her fingers as she passed him on the way out. “Just don’t let him outrun you, superstar.”

With a wink, she disappeared down the hall.

Harry let out a quiet breath, grabbed his sunglasses from the dresser, and slid them into place. Then he headed outside, the teak deck cool beneath his bare feet.

And there he was.

Louis stood at the edge of the dock, one leg propped up on the railing in a stretch. The morning sun lit his hair like gold, turning each strand into something almost unreal. His legs were long and lean, the muscles defined beneath his running shorts, and his arms—inked with black tattoos, Harry could stare at them all day—moved with the relaxed confidence of someone who knew exactly how he looked. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his grin—that slow, cocky pull of lips Harry was quickly becoming addicted to—spread wide across his face the moment their eyes met.

“Ready for the run of your life, Styles?”

They set off side by side, an easy pace carrying them along the quiet marina path. The sun was still low, casting a soft amber light across the water, and the city hadn’t fully woken up yet. It was just them and the rhythm of their steps, steady and grounding.

They didn't talk much at first. They didn’t need to. The silence between them felt comfortable, charged in a way Harry couldn’t explain. Every so often, Louis would nudge him playfully with an elbow.

They ran along the harbor, past shuttered boutiques and empty cafés, until Louis slowed suddenly and gestured toward a small gelato stand just setting up.

“Fancy an ice cream, Curly?”

Harry blinked at him, the simple nickname, givin' him a good feeling. “Now? I haven’t even had breakfast.”

Louis shrugged, his grin lazy. “Exactly. Ice cream for breakfast? My teenage self would be crying with joy right now. We’re living the dream.”

Harry laughed softly. “We don’t even have any money.”

Louis didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t need it.”

He strolled up to the gelato cart like he owned the whole marina. As he reached the counter, he slid his sunglasses up onto his head and flashed the young woman behind it a crooked, charming grin.

The girl froze, eyes wide. “Oh my god. You’re—”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he said smoothly, resting an elbow on the counter. “How about two cones in exchange for an autograph and a photo?”

The girl nodded so fast she nearly spilled her scoop tub. “Yes! Absolutely, yes!”

Minutes later, they were perched on a low stone wall just off the promenade, the scent of saltwater mixing with the faint aroma of baked bread from nearby cafés. The sun had climbed just enough to make the stones warm beneath them, and the sea glinted in ripples of soft gold and blue.

Harry had gone with vanilla and strawberry—simple, classic. Louis glanced over at his cone and groaned with exaggerated disgust.

“Vanilla? Seriously? That’s the most boring choice you could’ve made.”

Harry licked his strawberry stripe with a smirk. “Some of us like to keep things simple.”

Louis scoffed. “You’re dangerously close to ‘plain yogurt’ energy.”

Harry nudged his shoulder into Louis’. “And you’re dangerously close to mint-choc-chip slander.”

Louis laughed, a full sound that rang out over the quiet marina. Then he leaned in, grinning with mischief. “Here. Try a bite of something adventurous.”

Before Harry could respond, Louis offered his cone, the tip already dripping slightly from the heat. Harry rolled his eyes but leaned in, closing his lips around the ice cream as Louis held it steady.

They locked eyes for a second too long. The laughter faded. The heat between them shifted into something heavier, quieter.

Harry swallowed, his mouth tingling from the cold. Louis’ face was still close—his lips soft, pink, chilled from the gelato. Harry could kiss him. Right there. He could taste the sweetness lingering on Louis’ mouth. All he had to do was lean in.

His chest tightened.

And then Louis cleared his throat and looked away, the movement sharp. He leaned back, suddenly distant. “So… how’s Taylor?”

Harry blinked, the question hitting like a slap of seawater. “Taylor?” he echoed. He hesitated, then nodded with a tight smile. “She’s fine. Great, probably.”

Of course she was. That was the story. The image. The safety.

It worked. On red carpets. In interviews.

But it had nothing to do with this morning.

Still, he said it. Because that’s what he was supposed to say. Because years of media training had carved the answer into his bones. And maybe, too, because Harry had never really learned how to trust someone—truly, recklessly, without hesitation.

They finished their cones in silence after that, eventually standing and brushing the sand and salt-dust from their legs. The sun had climbed higher, making the world brighter, harsher—yet still strangely soft in the bubble they'd built around themselves.

Their return jog was slower, almost lazy. Louis, despite his stubborn energy, let out a dramatic groan halfway through and bent over with his hands on his knees.

“Alright, I’ll say it,” he panted, still grinning. “Ice cream mid-run? Possibly not my finest idea.”

Harry laughed between breaths. “You think?”

Louis straightened, gave him a look of mock indignation. “Still worth it, Harold,” he said, smirking.

Harry shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the grin tugging at his lips.

They jogged side by side, falling into a rhythm that felt far too natural for what they were supposed to be. Every now and then their arms brushed, or Louis would jolt forward a few steps just to make Harry chase him for a few meters before slowing down again, laughing.

Harry felt it all through his chest—ease, joy, something bright and unfamiliar threading through his limbs.

When they reached the marina where Desmond’s yacht was docked, its white hull gleaming under the mid-morning sun, Harry slowed to a stop. Breathing deep, trying to hold onto the lightness while it still lingered.

Louis came to a halt beside him, chest rising and falling with heavy, steady breaths. Sweat glistened on his forehead and along the sharp edges of his cheekbones, catching the sunlight like dew on polished stone. It made him glow, alive and golden in the mid-morning light. His hair, damp at the temples, curled slightly, and when he exhaled, tilting his head back, the movement stretched his throat and made the lean muscle in his jaw flex. He rolled his shoulders and lifted his arms overhead in a long, indulgent stretch—inked skin flexing over toned biceps, his tattoos shifting like a living map. A small, satisfied grunt escaped him as he shook out his limbs.

“Not bad” Louis said. “Would've been better without the dairy intermission, but not bad.”

Harry smiled, brushing a hand over his damp curls. “You’re the one who begged for ice cream.”

Louis grinned. “And it's still worth the bad running pace.”

There was a pause, like neither of them was quite ready to turn away. They stood there, catching their breath, sweat cooling on their skin, the morning light wrapping around them like a soft reminder that the world kept moving.

It wasn’t awkward - it just felt a bit unfinished.

“Well,” Louis said at last, shifting his weight, tone casual but softer than usual, “see you at the paddock?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “Good run.”

“Great run,” Louis echoed, offering a brief smile before he turned, jogged off in the direction of his hotel, the back of his shirt clinging to him, arms swinging at his sides.

Harry watched him go. Watched him disappear down the curve of the promenade, until he was just a flicker of motion in the bright streets of Monaco.

He turned back toward the yacht, bounding up the short gangway—sweat still clinging to the back of his neck, breath steadying—and nearly walked straight into a wall of tailored linen, cologne, and quiet judgment.

His stomach dropped.

“Dad,” Harry said, voice flat, chest still rising and falling. All the ease from the morning dissolved in an instant.

Desmond Styles stood on deck like he owned it—which, technically, he did. White shirt, pale trousers, expensive loafers without socks. One hand loosely holding a crystal tumbler of something amber. His sunglasses reflected the sun—and Harry’s discomfort—right back at him.

“Morning, son,” Desmond said, voice cool and infuriatingly polite. "We need to talk."

Harry didn’t answer. He just swallowed hard and stepped aside, already bracing for the conversation he knew he didn’t want to have - which was every conversation with hist father, too be honest.

Desmond followed him with slow, deliberate steps. They moved toward the shaded part of the upper deck, where the noise from the harbor softened and the sea stretched out like glass.

“You’ve been looking good out there,” Desmond began, tone deceptively light. “Clean performances. Good attitude in front of the cameras. Nick says everything’s on track.”

Harry nodded once, careful. “Because it is.”

Desmond hummed into his glass before taking a sip. “Let’s keep it that way. You’re in a strong position again—number one going into Sunday. It’s all working. Don’t let it slip.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Harry said.

There was a pause before Desmond added, “Nick also mentioned you haven’t given Red Bull an answer yet.”

Harry stiffened. “Because there’s nothing to answer. I’m not leaving Mercedes.”

Desmond arched a brow behind his sunglasses. “It wouldn’t hurt to consider your options.”

“I’m leading the championship,” Harry said flatly. “Why would I walk away from that? You’re close with Toto—you know what we’ve built.”

“That’s exactly why I want you to think long-term,” Desmond replied. “There’s more to this than race weekends. You need the right machine and the right people around you—people who won’t let you stagnate.”

Harry bristled but said nothing. It didn’t matter. Desmond wasn’t asking.

A moment passed. Then Desmond smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt.

“You have a suit for Monday?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the shift. “Yeah. All sorted. Taylor’s got her dress, everything’s fine.”

Desmond gave a short nod, then added with a pointed glance, “It’s a big night. Keep it simple. No glitter, no patterns, nothing too... feminine.”

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. “It’s a black suit, Dad. Standard. No glitter, no patterns, just... clean.”

In his head, though, he couldn’t help picturing the suit again—the sharp lines, the sculptural collar, the cinched waist with that bold black belt. It wasn’t feminine, not really. But it wasn’t Desmond’s brand of masculinity either. Still, technically, it hadn’t been a lie.

“Good,” Desmond said simply. “You’ll want to look the part. And more importantly, you’ll want to deliver before that. This weekend counts. Everything counts.”

Harry gave a tight nod, the tension curling back into his chest like a fist.

The morning's lightness, the laughter, the glint of Louis' smile—it all slipped away, buried under Desmond's gaze and the weight of expectation.

Back to reality.

Chapter Text

Monday

Louis POV:

The hotel room was quiet when Louis blinked awake, sunlight barely peeking through the curtains. For a moment, he just lay there, arms sprawled over the crisp white sheets, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. His head was pleasantly foggy, the kind that came from just the right amount of wine and laughter the night before.

He, Zayn, and Niall had ended Sunday with an old-school Absacker at the hotel bar. Just a couple of drinks, low voices, tired jokes, and the shared satisfaction of having made it through one of the hardest weekends on the calendar.

P5. That’s where Louis had landed—just behind Zayn. And honestly? It wasn’t half bad. Andrea Stella had been practically glowing in the garage after the race, launching into a small but heartfelt speech about how proud he was of both drivers, how they’d done something incredible with what little they had. Everyone had written McLaren off this season. No one had expected this.

But they had delivered.

And Louis... Louis was proud. Kind of. But not satisfied. Never satisfied. P5 was great, but he wanted more. He wanted the podium. The top step. The spray of champagne, the roar of the crowd. He wanted it all.

Of course, the podium had belonged to Harry—who else? P1 in Monaco, with grace and ease like the street had been built just for him. Lewis had taken second, looking like someone had force-fed him lemons on the cool-down lap. Louis couldn’t even blame him.

He smirked at the memory, then reached lazily for his phone on the nightstand.

Notifications.

A few texts from his sisters—sweet, supportive, reliably chaotic. There was a voice memo from Lottie, and he tapped it open, propping the phone on his chest as it played.

Daisy and Phoebe’s voices came through first—high-pitched and excited. "Louis! You were amazing! P5! That’s, like, almost the podium!"

"We screamed when we saw you on the screen!" Phoebe added.

Then Lottie’s voice chimed in, warm and teasing. "You owe us a cake, by the way. And a group selfie. We’ve got receipts."

Finally, Fizzy’s voice, quieter but still clear. "Would’ve been nice to be there. But… Monday, you know? Daisy and Phoebe have school, Lottie's got Uni, and, well… you know me."

Louis swallowed. Yeah. He did know.

Things with Fizzy had been a bit tense lately. She didn’t love the spotlight. Didn’t love what fame did to people. And she was struggling with how far his life had spun from theirs.

Even so, the message ended with a quiet: "Proud of you, Lou. We all are."

A small smile crept over his lips. He didn’t reply—yet. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it stung in a way he couldn’t quite name.

And then: Eleanor.

Of course.

Still lingering at the edges. Since that drunken voicemail he apparently left—something about "us" and "what if"—she’d started texting again. Not pushy, but definitely present. Friendly. Familiar. Like she was waiting for something to shift.

Louis didn’t reply. He didn’t even open the thread.

Instead, his eyes dropped to the last message on the screen.

“Ready for tonight, Boobear?”

From Harry.

A slow smile tugged at Louis’ mouth. Small, instinctive, private. They’d been texting more lately—short, teasing messages that somehow meant more than they should. Nicknames had snuck in. Lou, Harold, Boobear, and many more,  depending on who was feeling cockier. What started as mockery had turned into a rhythm, familiar and comforting. Louis liked it. Liked that it was something just between them.

He typed back: “As I’ll ever be, Harold.”

And that was it. He didn’t answer anyone else. Phone back on the mattress, grin still lingering, he pushed himself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom. The floor was cool under his feet, and the light was too bright when he flipped it on.

He had a meeting with Simon that morning. Something about ongoing strategy. Public image. Sponsorship alignment.

As if bloody Simon Cowell had anything meaningful to say about his image.

Louis rolled his eyes and let the steam rise around him, the water washing away what was left of sleep—and what remained of the peace he’d felt the day before.

When he stepped out of the shower, the suite was still quiet. Zayn and Niall were probably still asleep—unsurprising, considering they had nothing on their schedules today except showing up at the gala later to support him. Lucky bastards.

He threw on a loose T-shirt and jeans, grabbed his pass, and headed downstairs to the conference level of the hotel. The corridor smelled faintly of citrus polish and new carpet. At the far end, behind a heavy wooden door marked “PRIVATE – STAFF ONLY,” Simon had claimed one of the sleek, impersonal meeting rooms.

When Louis stepped in, the first thing he noticed was the temperature—unnaturally cool, like someone was trying to keep tempers from flaring. The walls were lined with faux wood panels, a muted carpet muffled every step, and the long glass conference table gleamed under recessed lighting. At the center, a silver coffee carafe and two untouched cups sat waiting like props in a set.

Simon sat at the far end, posture perfect, dressed in a razor-sharp navy suit. Not a wrinkle in sight. He didn’t look up immediately, too busy scrolling on his phone with deliberate disinterest.

“Louis,” he said eventually, without looking. “Thanks for being on time.”

Louis dropped into a chair, legs sprawled out, every part of his posture a carefully cultivated ‘couldn’t care less’. “I live to serve.”

Simon finally looked up, the smile that met him thin and practiced. “Let’s talk about your week. The race went well—better than expected. Congratulations on the points.”

“Thanks,” Louis said, wary.

“But then there’s the rest of it,” Simon went on, voice light, almost conversational. That made it worse. “The... twosome thing you’ve got going with Styles.”

Louis blinked. “What?”

“Group activities? Great. Public unity? Excellent. But maybe try spending a bit more time with your own team. With Zayn. Or Olli. Or Niall. Not every camera shot needs to be you orbiting Harry Styles like some satellite.”

Louis arched a brow. “Noted.”

Simon’s smile didn’t move. “Do you have a date for tonight?”

Louis tilted his head slightly, the question landing with the weight of something rehearsed. “Zayn and Niall are coming with me,” he said coolly, though he already knew that wasn’t the answer Simon wanted.

Simon sighed in that long-suffering way he had, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose like Louis had given him a migraine. “I meant a female date, Louis. Someone press-friendly. Did you not read the memo I sent? Or was I too subtle this time?”

Louis didn’t flinch. But his jaw did tighten. He leaned back in the chair, arms folded slowly across his chest, watching Simon like someone waiting to see just how deep the knife might go.

Simon’s tone was still pleasant, but his eyes were sharp. Calculating. “It’s a high-visibility event. Rolex, the campaign launch, the cameras, the sponsors. You know the drill. It’s not just about racing—it’s about optics.”

“Optics,” Louis echoed dryly.

“Yes. Appearances. And tonight, you need to look... balanced.”

Something about the way Simon said that made the hairs on Louis’ arms rise. There was something under the surface, something rehearsed and dangerous, and Louis suddenly had the very distinct feeling that Simon had already made arrangements he wasn’t aware of.

He didn’t know what.

But he knew he wasn’t going to like it.

Louis let a beat pass, then offered a tight shrug. "Sorry to disappoint, but I won’t be finding a girl on such short notice. You’ll just have to live with it."

His tone was dry, but inside, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. Winding Simon up was one of his favourite ways to pass the time—especially if he had to spend any of it alone with him. If he had to sit through another one of these perfectly staged lectures about optics and appearances, he’d at least make it entertaining.

Simon stared at him for a long beat, the silence stretching between them. Then, with a subtle exhale, he stood, smoothing the front of his jacket and straightening the cuffs with mechanical precision.

"We’re done here," he said, clipped.

Louis was already halfway out the door.

The rest of the day unfolded in golden hues and easy laughter. Louis found Zayn, Niall, and Gemma already at the beach, stretched out on sun-warmed towels near a quiet cove sheltered by rocks and sea grass. No press. No eyes. No Simon.

They spent hours there, moving between naps and splashing around in the surf, letting the day stretch long and loose. At one point, someone found a half-deflated volleyball, and before long they were stumbling through a messy game of beach rules only Gemma seemed to understand.

Niall tripped more than he scored, Zayn mocked every point he didn’t make, and Gemma officiated with shameless bias. Between serves and sarcastic commentary, Niall kept sneaking little remarks Gemma’s way—“Nice call, ref,” with a wink, or “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed by this athleticism.”

Gemma just rolled her eyes, grinning, and tossed back, “If that’s athleticism, I’m the Queen of Monaco.”

Louis raised an eyebrow more than once at their banter, but he didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Then, while they sat in a semicircle with cold drinks and sun-warmed skin, Zayn turned to Gemma casually, but his eyes drifted to Louis. “Where are Harry and Taylor today?”

The question hung for a second, light on the surface but edged with something that made Louis grateful for his sunglasses.

Gemma took a sip of her water and shrugged. “They had some interview thing for her new clothing line. ‘Supportive boyfriend’ duties, I think.”

Louis kept his gaze on the horizon. He didn’t comment, didn’t react—not outwardly.

But behind his glasses, he blinked hard, and behind his smile, something in his chest knotted tighter.

Still, for now, he let himself laugh when Niall accidentally kicked the ball into the water and declared he’d invented a new sport.

For a little while, he forgot the pressure of the gala, the weight of expectations, and the flutter still there beneath it all.

He just let himself exist. Let himself breathe.

By four o’clock, they returned to the hotel, skin sun-warmed and salt-streaked, sand still clinging to their ankles. As they stepped into the cool marble lobby, Louis spotted her immediately—Lou Teasdale, perched casually near the elevator with a tote slung over one shoulder and a coffee in hand.

“Oi, look who it is!” Louis grinned, instantly brighter as he crossed the lobby.

Lou looked up, smiled, and opened her arms wide. “About time you showed up. I’ve been waiting to get my hands on that face.”

Louis chuckled and pulled her into a quick hug. “Still the best thing to come out of a campaign shoot.”

He turned back to Zayn and Niall, gesturing between them. “Lou, this is Zayn and Niall—my handlers for the day.”

Lou gave them a once-over and raised a brow. “Handlers or troublemakers?”

“Bit of both,” Niall offered with a grin.

“Mostly trouble,” Zayn added, winking.

Lou laughed, then looked at all three of them, arms crossed and eyes twinkling. “Well, I’m lucky then—three devastatingly handsome men to take care of tonight. Guess I pulled the best job in Monaco.”

They chatted for another moment before Louis excused himself. “Alright, I need to rinse off the ocean first. Give me ten?”

Lou waved him off. “You’ve got twelve. After that, I’m coming in with trousers.”

They made it back up to their suite together, still laughing over something Niall had said in the elevator, their arms weighed down with beach bags and damp towels slung over shoulders.

Louis stepped into the shower for the second time that day. This time, he took his time, letting the hot water ease the beginnings of tension in his shoulders.

When he emerged, skin slightly flushed and towel low around his hips, the room smelled faintly of Lou’s products—fresh, clean, expensive.

He pulled on the suit she’d steamed and laid out for him. Midnight-black, tailored so precisely it felt like it had been sewn onto his body, the fabric hugged every line without a wrinkle in sight. The double-breasted cut gave him the sharp silhouette of a villain in an expensive spy movie—elegant and just a bit dangerous. The lapels sat smooth against his chest, the collar crisp, and the black-on-black look was sleek, deliberate, powerful.

The trousers were cut narrow, the kind that clung just right, drawing a sharp line from waist to ankle. They framed his legs perfectly and did scandalous things for his arse—Lou had definitely done that on purpose.

Louis checked his reflection, fingers brushing the front of his jacket, then turning slightly to the side, amused by the effect. He looked... expensive. And lethal.

Yeah. He looked good. And he was going to need every ounce of that confidence for what laid ahead oh him.

He stepped out into the suite’s sitting area where Lou was just finishing up with Niall, brushing a final puff of powder off his cheek. Louis dropped into the chair with a theatrical sigh and spread his knees slightly.

“All yours, Teasdale.”

Lou turned with a smile and cracked her knuckles. “Let’s make you untouchable.”

She ran her fingers through Louis’ hair first, inspecting the texture with a practiced hum. "You’ve still got some salt in there. Perfect. Gives it just enough grit."

She spritzed something light through his roots and worked her fingers through, tousling and shaping as she went. “You’ve got a good wave today. Let’s not mess with it too much. Bit of volume, bit of edge. Bit of rockstar meets Bond villain.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but didn’t move. "As long as I don’t look like I’ve been electrocuted."

"Trust me, I’m a professional," Lou replied sweetly.

As she adjusted the front, giving his fringe just the right amount of controlled chaos, Zayn lounged back on the couch and whistled low.

"Damn, Tommo. You look criminally hot. Should come with a warning sign."

Louis smirked, just as someone knocked at the suite door.

“I got it,” Zayn said, rising to his feet while Lou began misting hairspray into place.

The fine cloud of product hung in the air as Niall, still laughing from Zayn’s comment, suddenly choked on his own breath mid-snort. He coughed, hand to his chest. “You've got to be kidding me," Niall growled under his breath, his voice low and edged with fury.

Louis opened one eye, curious, while Lou fluffed the last bit of his fringe. When he finally turned toward the mirror, blinking through the faint haze of spray, he froze.

Standing just inside the suite were Simon Cowell and Eleanor Calder.

Eleanor wore a floor-length dress that clung to her body in all the right places—deep emerald silk that shimmered when she moved, with a neckline that defied reason. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder in glossy waves, and her makeup was red-carpet ready.

Simon stood beside her with his hands clasped and that insufferably smug look on his face.

“Well, we had that conversation this morning, didn’t we?” Simon said, his tone maddeningly casual as he stepped further into the suite. “You said you didn’t have a date, Louis. So I thought, considering you and Eleanor have a bit of shared history, I’d do you a favor and bring her in.”

The room fell into silence, tense and brimming with unsaid things.

Niall’s laughed sarcastically. He blinked once, then again, as if trying to make sure he was really seeing what he thought he was. His jaw clenched. Out of everyone in the room, Niall had always been the easygoing one—the peacemaker, the class clown, the guy who got along with everyone.

Except Eleanor Calder.

Because Niall remembered the months Louis wouldn’t talk about.

Niall let out a sharp breath. “Some fucking favor?!?” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Louis remained frozen in his chair, fingers tightening subtly on the arms of the seat. Behind the blur of the mirror, Lou Teasdale still had one hand on his hair, the other holding the hairspray mid-air.

His heart pounded. His stomach dropped.

And he had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do next.

Zayn cleared his throat and stepped forward with a quiet, practiced charm. He extended his hand to Eleanor, offering a polite, “Zayn Malik. Nice to meet you.”

Eleanor shook it, her smile flawless. “Likewise. I'm Eleanor, but you can call me El.”

Simon beamed at the interaction, but his words were pointed as he turned back to Louis. “Eleanor’s here for you, Louis. You are happy to have her here, right?”

The question wasn’t a question. Not really.

Louis felt every gaze in the room shift to him. He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Yeah. Of course.”

He didn’t have a choice. Not here. Not now.

Eleanor crossed the room to him, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a careful embrace, brushing a kiss near his cheek—meticulously avoiding smudging her lipstick.

And Louis was glad for the little distance left.

A few minutes later, they were on their way out of the suite.

As they stepped into the hallway, Eleanor tried to slip her arm through Louis’s, a soft, practiced gesture of intimacy.

But Niall was faster. He stepped between them with a casual, almost forced smile, clapping a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “Sorry, love. I need a word with Louis real quick. Just mate stuff.”

He didn’t wait for her to protest. Simon, eyebrow raised, reached for Eleanor’s hand and took it instead, leading her ahead down the hallway as if nothing had happened.

Louis clenched his jaw. His blood was boiling. This was supposed to be his night. His campaign. His story. And Simon had dragged Eleanor into it to make sure the hetero fairytale stayed intact.

Beside him, Niall was still glaring at Eleanor’s retreating figure before turning to Louis. “What the hell is this?” he asked under his breath. “Seriously, mate. What the fuck is this?”

Louis didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because he didn’t have one.

The limousine ride to the gala was, without exaggeration, the most suffocating car ride Louis had ever endured. The air inside was thick enough to cut with a knife—tension sitting heavy in every corner.

Simon sat across from him, legs crossed, utterly unfazed. Eleanor was next to Louis, far too composed for someone who’d crashed back into his life like a PR grenade. Zayn and Niall flanked him on the other side, both notably silent.

Simon cleared his throat and began briefing them like they were in a corporate boardroom. “The event is at the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo, Salle Empire. First, Louis and Eleanor will walk the red carpet together for photos and a few press stops. Then, Louis, you’ll do a couple of interviews—brief, positive, polished.”

Louis barely nodded.

“There’ll be a formal dinner. You’ll be seated with your guests—Zayn, Niall, Eleanor, and of course, Styles will be sitting there two with his guests. You are the campaign’s dual faces, after all.”

Louis’s jaw twitched at the mention of Harry.

“After dinner, the CEO of Rolex will give a short address, followed by a live performance. Then the campaign reveal—Harry and Louis will be brought on stage for that. You won’t need to speak, just look presentable and engaged.”

Simon glanced between them. “After that, you mingle. Socialize. Smile.”

Louis heard none of it. Not really. The words filtered in, droning like an engine behind the louder noise in his chest. He would go with the flow. Keep his head down. Stay as far away from Eleanor as physically possible.

And try, somehow, to make it through the night.

When the limousine finally pulled up in front of the Hôtel de Paris Monte-Carlo, Louis had to force himself to look out the window. The building stood like something out of a dream—or a nightmare—depending on his mood. Belle Époque architecture, grand and gilded, with marble columns rising from the cobblestone drive and wrought iron balconies lining the upper floors. The golden glow from the crystal chandeliers inside spilled out onto the front steps, where staff in white gloves stood ready to receive guests.

The Salle Empire had been transformed for the Rolex Gala—red carpet rolled out across the entrance, velvet ropes guiding the crowd of press, fans, and elite guests. Flashbulbs strobed in controlled bursts, voices called out names, and security stood like silent statues between worlds.

Louis took a breath. Then another. The building might have looked like a palace, but tonight, it felt like a cage.

Simon shifted slightly in his seat and gave a nod toward the door. "Showtime," he said smoothly.

The door opened with a soft click, and the roar of the waiting press surged into the limousine like a wave. Louis stepped out first, the cameras immediately flashing in rapid staccato. Behind him, Eleanor emerged with practiced grace, her arm already sliding around his.

They stepped onto the red carpet, the calls beginning almost instantly.

“Louis! Louis, this way!”
“Over here, Louis!”

He kept his smile easy, his jaw relaxed despite the tension behind it. With a practiced hand, he let his fingers rest gently on Eleanor’s hip, guiding her through the chaos. She leaned in to sell the picture, her smile dazzling and controlled. Louis tried to match it.

“I'm so glad to be here with you tonight,” she whispered through her smile, lips barely moving.

Louis gave a small nod, throat tight. He didn’t trust himself to respond. Not honestly. She wasn’t the villain here. He’d been the one to send the wrong signals, the one who couldn’t say no when she reached back out. And now—this.

Good face, he reminded himself. Strong angles. Play the part.

He didn’t need to say anything. He was a man—his job was to look composed, in control. One practiced glance, one confident step, and the narrative was written for him.

But every camera flash was a reminder: this wasn’t his choice. And the woman on his arm wasn’t the one who made him feel anything real.

Then came the interviews—two, maybe three, four. It was hard to keep track. They blurred together, each one lit by a different spotlight but asking the same questions in slightly altered tones. It was all short, polite, carefully choreographed along the velvet rope.

Louis smiled, nodded, charmed. He answered just enough to keep everyone happy, but not enough to let anyone too close. The trick was knowing exactly how to be warm without being open.

The cameras clicked, flashes burst around them, and Eleanor leaned into his side just slightly, laughing at something a reporter said—one of those empty, harmless questions. Her hand rested lightly against his back, her body language polished and familiar. Louis' fingers stayed at her hip, posed, automatic.

He didn’t feel any of it.

"How does it feel being part of Rolex’s new campaign?"

"It’s a huge honour," he said. "To be part of something so timeless—pun absolutely intended—it’s surreal."

"You’re having a strong rookie season in Formula One. How would you describe it so far?"

He let a bit of truth sneak in. "Intense. Fast. Every race teaches me something new. But I’ve got a solid team behind me, and we’re making it count."

"And Harry Styles—how did that friendship start? I mean, if we’re honest, it looked more like murder was in the air at the start than friendship."

Louis gave a dry laugh, arching a brow. "Yeah, fair enough. We’re both competitive, opinionated, and maybe a little too stubborn for our own good. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight."

He shrugged, the edge of a smirk tugging at his lips. "But sometimes it turns out you’ve got more in common with the person you butt heads with than you’d like to admit. Dumb luck and a shared sense of mischief did the rest."

The reporter chuckled, clearly pleased with the bite of drama. Louis smiled, though it felt tighter this time. His body ran on autopilot.

Until the shift in energy hit him.

It started with a ripple through the crowd—flashes bursting faster, heads turning, voices calling a new name.

Harry.

He stepped onto the carpet like it belonged to him, and maybe it did. Draped in a black suit that was anything but simple, the high collar and sharply tailored waist framed his tall silhouette with ruthless elegance. The fabric hugged his form with architectural precision. Under the lights, the belt at his waist gleamed like a subtle line of command.

But it was his face that stole the breath. High cheekbones carved with unfair symmetry, his jawline clean and proud, lips a little too soft for how severe he looked tonight. His green eyes swept the crowd with deliberate calm, and his hair—those soft, controlled waves—was pulled lightly back, catching the light like it had been kissed by fire.

He looked like he’d stepped out of a noir dream and into every camera lens at once.

Taylor stood on his arm, luminous in silver, her gown clinging in all the right places, her movements graceful and camera-ready. Together, they looked untouchable.

Then Harry looked up.

And his gaze found Louis.

Or rather, Eleanor. Still leaning into him, laughing at another empty question, her hand grazing Louis’ back like they were something they hadn’t been in a very long time.

For a split second, Harry’s smile faltered. Not a full collapse—just a moment’s pause, the corners of his mouth losing their upward curve as his eyes caught on the image in front of him. His gaze hovered not on Louis, but on Eleanor. On the way she moved with ease, draped so familiarly against him. His jaw twitched. Surprise flickered first—followed by something tighter, harder to name.

Louis blinked, thrown. His pulse stumbled.

What the hell was that?

He didn’t know what he’d done to earn that look. But something in his chest clenched, and the air around him suddenly felt stifling.

Fucking fantastic. What a great night this was shaping up to be.

As if on cue, one of the reporters leaned in again, eyes bright. “And who’s this stunning woman at your side, Louis? I'm speculating— is she the woman spotted next to you in a blurry photo taken in a restaurant a few months ago?”

Louis opened his mouth—nothing came out.

The reporter was clearly proud of their homework.

Before he could form a sentence, Eleanor answered for him, her voice soft and warm. “We’ve known each other a long time,” she said, her smile perfectly demure. “I’m happy to be here supporting Louis tonight.”

It was a flawless response. The kind of soundbite designed for headlines.

And then—

“Harry! Harry Styles, over here!”

A publicist waved them together, too well-timed to be accidental. Before Louis could think, Harry and Taylor were beside him, drawn into the same halo of flashbulbs.

Now they stood—four perfect silhouettes, two picture-perfect couples. Louis and Eleanor. Harry and Taylor.

The reporter beamed. “What a line-up! Harry, Louis—how does it feel to be the faces of Rolex’s new campaign tonight? You two seem to be everywhere together these days.”

Louis turned, but Harry beat him to it.

“Apparently so,” he said. Smooth. Civil. But not warm. “Though it’s never quite where I expect.”

Taylor’s brow flicked in the subtlest motion. Eleanor held her smile.

Louis hesitated a beat too long before his own grin snapped back into place.

The reporter laughed, oblivious. “Well, the chemistry is undeniable. Can we get a photo of the four of you together?”

They aligned for the cameras, shoulders squared, smiles switched on. Louis stood beside Eleanor, hand light on her waist again. Harry stood next to Taylor, posture perfect. But Louis’ eyes—just for a second—found Harry’s.

And Harry’s green eyes, bright under the flashing lights, glinted with something unreadable—held just a moment too long before the flash severed the tension.

Click. Click. Click. The sound of camera shutters echoed like gunshots in the pause between their expressions.

Then handlers swept in, ushering the four of them inside. The heavy doors closed behind them, muffling the crowd. The change was immediate: from the cool night air and shouting reporters to the plush hush of the Hôtel de Paris’ grand lobby.

Louis caught sight of Niall and Zayn waiting near the grand staircase. Between them stood Gemma, glowing in a rich orange satin gown that shimmered like liquid fire. Her hair was pinned back in loose waves, her expression unreadable—but Louis knew her well enough to recognize the sharp gleam in her eyes.

“Louis,” she greeted with a small smile, but there was something behind it—something that felt like a quiet warning. Her gaze dropped to Eleanor, then returned to him, slightly arched.

Louis felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

Before he could offer any sort of explanation, Gemma raised an eyebrow and asked, “And who’s this?”

He barely suppressed a sigh. Of course.

“This is Eleanor,” he said, tone clipped. “An old friend.”

Before he could add anything, Niall made a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. Louis didn’t need to look at him to know exactly what that meant.

Why was it suddenly his job to parade around his ex like they were something out of a marketing brochure? He knew damn well this was his doing. His inability to say no. His stupid idea of damage control.

With a stiff gesture, he added, “Eleanor, this is Taylor. Gemma. And Harry.”

Eleanor stepped forward, all glossy charm. “Lovely to meet you all,” she said with a gleam in her voice. “I’ve heard such wonderful things.”

And Niall—bless him—made no effort to stay quiet. “Really?” he muttered darkly. “Because I’m pretty sure you two haven’t spoken in months.”

Louis felt his jaw tighten.

Harry remained stone-faced. Taylor, on the other hand, gave Eleanor a bright smile and hooked her arm through hers like they were already best friends.

“Well,” Taylor said sweetly, shooting Louis a look, “would’ve been nice if someone had done the intros sooner.”

She didn’t wait for a response. “Come on, Eleanor, let’s find our table.”

As they walked off, Taylor glanced sharply at Harry—one of those silent messages. Louis didn’t miss it. He knew that look. Behave yourself.

Behind them, Niall muttered, “Still don’t like her.”

Gemma, still holding Louis’ gaze, tilted her head just slightly, her brow creased in the faintest trace of confusion. She leaned in toward Niall and whispered, just loud enough for Louis to hear, “You’ll fill me in later, won’t you?”

Louis barely held back an eye roll as they started moving again. He walked alongside Zayn, Harry trailing just behind them.

Zayn let out a quiet breath. “Well,” he said, “the vibes are immaculate.”

Louis didn’t even try to hide his bitterness. “Yeah. Tell Simon thanks for that.”

Brilliant. Just fuckin brilliant.

Then, finally, they passed beneath gilded arches into the Salle Empire, and Louis momentarily forgot how to breathe. The ballroom was breathtaking: gilded cornices gleamed overhead, framing a ceiling painted like a Renaissance fresco. Enormous chandeliers sparkled above with hundreds of cut-glass prisms, scattering golden light over every inch of the room. Marble columns flanked towering windows draped in velvet, and the air was thick with the scent of luxury—polish, wine, and money.

They were led to a long, polished table near the stage. Place cards and menus sat folded like origami at each setting. Taylor and Eleanor fell into conversation almost instantly—both of them too practiced at this sort of setting to need a guide. Louis was just glad he didn’t have to entertain Eleanor himself.

Niall and Gemma had drifted to the side, deep in conversation. Louis didn’t need to guess what they were talking about—he could already imagine Niall laying out every gory detail of his and Eleanor’s romantic and probably more so not so romantic history like a witness in court.

He dropped into the seat beside Zayn, just as Harry slid into the one directly opposite him.

Great.

Of course.

Shortly after the CEO of Rolex Jean-Frédéric Dufour stepped onto the stage, his voice echoing through the vast ballroom as the lights dimmed ever so slightly. With practiced charm, he welcomed the guests and thanked them for their presence. He spoke briefly about precision, resilience, and the spirit of performance—principles that had led to the launch of their new sport watch line. "We wanted to create something that meets the demands of the boldest, most relentless professionals," he said, casting a glance toward the many drivers and athletes scattered among the crowd. Then he turned slightly, his eyes settling on Louis and Harry. "And of course, a special thanks to Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, the faces of our new campaign. Their participation brought energy and visibility to this project, and we’re thrilled to have them with us tonight."

More polite applause. Louis could feel Harry shift across from him.

"We'll be showing you the full campaign—exclusively—after dessert," the CEO added with a smile. "Until then, please enjoy the evening."

Moments later, the first course arrived: a delicate arrangement of poached lobster medallions with citrus foam and microgreens. It was artful, barely the size of a palm, and probably worth more than Louis’ favorite takeaway meal back home.

He stared at it for a second, then leaned slightly toward Zayn. "I think this thing winked at me," he said.

That earned a chuckle from Zayn and a small laugh from Gemma, who had returned to her seat.

Louis relaxed—just a little.

Until Harry looked up from his plate, eyebrows raised in that dry, unreadable way of his. "You know," he said, voice cool as the wine in his glass, "they don’t serve kebabs and chips at events like this. Might be a bit out of your comfort zone."

Louis blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and a rising flare of annoyance. "Didn’t realize classism was on the menu tonight too," he muttered.

Zayn froze, eyes flicking between them.

That’s when Desmond Styles appeared at the edge of their table, exuding an air of polished disdain—at first.

“Harry,” he said, voice clipped and controlled. “What exactly is that you're wearing? I thought we agreed on simple. No glitz. No showmanship.”

Harry barely flinched, posture still as ever, but Louis noticed the subtle tightening of his jaw.

Desmond didn’t wait for an answer. His eyes traveled slowly over the tailored jacket, the bold collar, the cinched belt. The entire look was deliberate—structured, striking, and unmistakably Harry.

“You look like a bloody stage magician,” Desmond added with a scoff, then pivoted, and the shift was immediate.

“Oh—but where are my manners?” he said, suddenly all charm as his gaze landed on Zayn. “Zayn Malik. Haven't seen you in a while - absolute pleasure. Your overtake in Silverstone—masterful. I hope we get a chance to speak more later.”

Zayn blinked once, clearly taken off guard, but nodded politely. “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

Desmond’s smile widened as he turned to Louis. “And you must be Louis Tomlinson. Finally. I've heard quite a bit.”

Louis arched a brow, reaching for the offered handshake with polite disinterest. “All good things, I hope.”

Desmond laughed a touch too loudly, eyes sweeping over Louis’ suit like he was assessing a purchase. “Absolutely. This look? Sharp. Understated, but commanding. And fifth in Monaco?” He gave a small, theatrical whistle. “In that car? That’s what I call talent.”

Louis gave him a half-smile, the kind that said he’d heard compliments before. “We made it work. The car did its part.”

Desmond turned slightly, directing his next words toward Harry without really facing him. “Now that,” he said, gesturing toward Louis, “is how a man wears a suit.”

Louis took a slow sip from his glass, eyes fixed on the swirl of red at the bottom. Then, without missing a beat, he said, “Funny—always thought a real man could pull off a dress too.”

His voice was smooth, almost lazy. But the glint in his eyes said exactly what he didn’t: fuck off.

He didn’t look at Harry, but the jab was clear enough—and so was the quiet shield buried beneath it.

Desmond chuckled at Louis’ remark, clearly mistaking it for wit rather than the quiet dig it was. “Clever,” he said, tapping a finger against the rim of his glass. “I like you.”

Then, with a final nod—equal parts polished and rehearsed—he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind a swirl of expensive cologne and the distinct sense that he’d missed the point entirely.

Across from him, Harry had gone still again. Louis didn’t look directly at him, but he could feel it—the heat, the weight, the unsaid things hanging like smoke between them.

Brilliant.

Absolutely fucking brilliant.

 This night is shaping up to be one for the books.

Before the silence could stretch further, Taylor leaned toward Harry with a subtle frown. "You alright?"

Harry didn’t answer right away, eyes still on his plate, but gave a small nod that didn’t convince anyone.

Meanwhile, Eleanor turned to Louis with a smile that was soft, almost hesitant—less rehearsed, more real. She placed a hand on his arm, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his sleeve. “That’s why I always liked you,” she said, her voice dipping into something far more vulnerable. “You never back down. You always know exactly who you are.”

Louis glanced at her hand, then back up at her face. There was something earnest in her expression—too soft to be faked.  She wanted him back.

But Louis didn’t feel the same. Whatever they’d had was long gone—ended abruptly, like someone cutting the power mid-song—right when everything else in his life was already falling apart. She’d walked away when he’d needed her most, he wasn't angry anymore at her, he had forgiven her, but she meant nothing more to him than a friend.

He gave her a careful smile, polite but distant. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember.”

She leaned in a little closer, clearly hoping for more, but before Louis had to untangle himself with words, a low sound came from Harry—somewhere between a snort and a grunt.

It was enough.

The servers swept in then, placing the main course in front of them—an artfully plated filet of veal, surrounded by truffled root vegetables and a smear of something Louis was sure had a name longer than the actual cut of meat.

Niall cleared his throat theatrically. “Well,” he said, eyeing the plate, “it’s not quite a Sunday roast, but I suppose it’ll do.”

Gemma let out a quiet laugh, and even Zayn cracked a small smile. Louis glanced up, grateful for the break in tension.

“You think if I ask nicely, they’ll bring me gravy and mash?” Niall added, nudging his fork with mock suspicion. “Or is that considered high treason in Monaco?”

Louis smiled faintly, playing along. “We could stage a quiet protest. For gravy and dignity.”

Taylor joined with a soft chuckle. “You’d have my vote.”

The table exhaled as if collectively. Conversation resumed in a lighter rhythm, and cutlery clinked politely over china.

Louis took a bite of the veal. Rich. Delicate. Fussy. The wine he’d been sipping was warming his face now, and he could feel the start of a buzz blooming at the back of his head. Not enough to be dizzy, but enough to blur the edges of his thoughts.

“It tastes,” he said slowly, laying his fork down, “like money trying too hard to be charming.”

Eleanor laughed—bright and far too loud for the moment. Louis felt it ripple through him like static. He didn’t need to look. He could already feel the tension spike to his left, like someone had lit a fuse.

The sound that followed was unmistakable: part grunt, part sigh, all annoyance. Harry’s signature tell. It curled around the table like smoke.

Louis set his jaw, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem of his wine glass. He didn’t look at Harry—not yet. Instead, he swallowed, repositioned his napkin, and said with a quiet edge, “Don’t be such a fuckin’ diva. What is your problem?”

A clink. Harry’s fork met his plate, unmoving.

“What could I possibly have a fuckin’ problem with?” he muttered, his voice razor-sharp as he rolled his eyes.

Zayn leaned in, voice calm and low, attempting to hold the thread together. “Let’s not do this now, yeah?”

But Harry was already in motion. The legs of his chair scraped gently against the polished floor as he stood—too quickly, too stiffly. His napkin landed on the table with a dismissive flick, more insult than etiquette.

He didn’t say a word. Just turned, shoulders drawn tight, and strode off, the fabric of his jacket shifting like tension given form.

Silence fell around the table. Eyes followed. Conversations faltered.

Louis stared after him, jaw ticking. His head throbbed and the wine had begun to pool just enough warmth in his limbs to make everything seem a little less sharp. A little more dangerous.

“What the fuck is his problem?” he muttered. He was too exhausted to filter it.

Taylor shook her head, lips pressed thin. “He’ll cool off.” But her voice held no certainty.

Louis rose too, the legs of his chair whispering across the floor. “I need a cigarette,” he said, voice rough. “What a fuckin’ night.”

Eleanor moved to stand with him, but Niall caught her wrist lightly before she could fully rise. “Let him go,” he said, his voice low and edged with irritation. “He doesn’t need your company right now.”

Louis didn’t even glance back. For once, he was glad someone else had said it. He slipped away from the table, tension in every step, heading for the balcony like it was the only place left to breathe.

Outside, the cool air hit him like a slap. The balcony stretched in quiet elegance—ornate balustrades lined with white roses, flickering lanterns casting long shadows across the marble floor. From here, the lights of Monte Carlo glittered like scattered jewels below, but Louis barely noticed them. The hush was a balm.

Everyone else was still inside, dining, networking and things were fine for them. But Louis had no appetite left. His veins were hot with irritation, confusion, and something rawer, sharper, that he couldn’t name.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack, slipping one between his lips. The tiny flare of his lighter glowed in the growing dark, briefly painting his features in amber as he lit the end. He inhaled deeply, the smoke coiling in his lungs, and tilted his head back.

Exhaling slowly, he rolled his neck, trying to shake the knots from his muscles, but they stayed wound tight—like the frustration boiling under his skin. He closed his eyes, letting the sharp scent of roses and ocean air fill his lungs, trying to anchor himself in the calm. It didn’t work.

And then—

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

His eyes flew open.

Harry stood before him, framed by the open doors like something conjured from a fever dream. His tuxedo was perfect, his hair tousled just enough to be maddening, and those green eyes—furious and bright—burned into Louis like twin torches.

He looked like a fucking fallen angel. A storm in silk and fire.

Louis stared. “Harry,” he exhaled, taking another drag, “what’s going on? What happened tonight? Why are you so—”

“Angry?” Harry snapped, his voice rough, nearly trembling with restraint. “You really don’t understand. You don’t see it.”

Louis scoffed, pushing off the railing. “Don’t be such an arse.”

He turned, ready to go—ready to walk away before the fire consumed them both.

But Harry’s hand closed around his shoulder. In a flash, Louis was spun back, stumbling, until his spine met the cold stone between the balcony doors.

“What the—”

Harry loomed over him, hands braced on either side, his breath harsh, his jaw tight. The roses shifted in the breeze beside them, white petals brushing Louis’s shoulder like an afterthought.

Louis shoved against him, palms flat against his chest. “Are you serious right now—”

“What, you gonna play dumb now?” Harry hissed, voice sharp with disbelief.

“I’m not playing anything, you’re the one throwing a tantrum like a bloody child,” Louis snapped back, the words biting, angry.

Harry stepped in closer, eyes blazing. “You think dragging Eleanor here doesn’t mean anything? You paraded her around like she meant something—to you. Like she was yours."

Louis scoffed, fire rising in his chest. “You don’t get to decide who’s on my guest list, Harry. I didn’t ask for your approval. And besides—did you already forget you have a girlfriend? Taylor’s been glued to your side all night. So tell me—what’s your fucking problem?”

“That’s not the same and you know it,” Harry growled. “But of course, Saint Louis never does anything wrong.”

“Oh fuck off, Curly. You don’t get to act like the victim here,” Louis spat. “You’re the one giving me daggers across the table all night instead of just saying what the hell your deal is.”

“My deal?” Harry barked a short laugh. “You’re my fucking deal, Louis.”

And then—

Silence.

Not the awkward pause of hesitation, but the kind of silence that claims everything. That stills the air, stills the heart. As if the world itself had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go.

They stood locked in place, chest to chest, fury to fury. Their breathing shallow, erratic—as if they’d been running their whole lives just to arrive in this very second. Louis wasn’t sure if it was Harry’s heartbeat he felt, or the riot in his own chest echoing back.

A breeze wound its way through the roses, making the petals shiver around them. A single pale bloom had caught in Harry’s dark curls, haloing him like a cruel joke. He looked ethereal. Terrible. Beautiful. Like a fallen angel sent to destroy him.

Harry’s eyes were wild, unreadable, but when they dropped—slowly, unashamedly—to Louis’s mouth, Louis felt the ground shift beneath him.

And suddenly, there was no fight left in him.

Harry moved closer, though Louis hadn’t thought it possible. His hand rose, deliberate and trembling only slightly, threading into the back of Louis’s neck with the kind of reverence that made it worse.

Then—Harry kissed him.

And it wasn’t sweet.

He kissed him like he’d starved for it, like his survival depended on it. His mouth crushed against Louis’s with a ferocity that stole the air from his lungs.

Louis gasped into it, startled by the heat, by the need—by how completely it overtook him. His hands, traitorous and aching, slid up into Harry’s hair, pulling him closer.

Wanting more.

 Needing more.

Harry’s tongue slid along Louis’s bottom lip—asking, taking—and Louis gave in like he always knew he would. With every cell in his body screaming yes.

There was no space between them now.

There was no logic. No past. No audience.

Only the sound of their breath, tangled and desperate, and the sharp edge of everything they’d tried to deny crashing between their teeth.

Because Louis’s greatest weakness had never been the chaos.

Since the past two years, it had always, always—been Harry.

The balcony door creaked open.

They flew apart as if jolted by lightning, breathless and wide-eyed, the fragile cocoon around them torn open in an instant.

Desmond Styles emerged like a shadow in polished shoes, his hands folded behind his back, posture so perfect it felt unnatural. A smile played on his lips—polite, practiced—but his eyes gave him away. There was something lurking beneath: a flicker of calculation, of cold amusement, of power held delicately on the edge of a blade.

"Harry. Louis," he said, calm as ice. "You’re on. The campaign reveal is starting."

His gaze dragged between them, pausing just long enough to suggest he knew more than he let on. It wasn’t a question. It was an exposure.

Harry didn’t respond. He slipped past Desmond with a clenched jaw, his silence a louder statement than anything he could’ve said. Just before stepping inside, he turned—briefly—and looked at Louis.

The fury in his eyes was unmistakable. But it wasn’t just anger. It was betrayal, fear, want—all twisted into something volatile. The mask fell, just for a heartbeat.

And then he was gone and Desmond followed on his heels.

Louis stood frozen, breath uneven, ears roaring. His hand had closed around something soft without thinking. Slowly, he opened his fingers.

A single white rose petal rested in his palm—delicate, curved, torn at the edge. He hadn’t even noticed when he’d taken it from Harry’s hair. Hadn’t felt it there, trapped between heat and need.

It looked absurd now, trembling slightly in the breeze, already wilting.

He stared at it, a cold seeping in through his suit, pressing down on his skin, his ribs, his heart.

He tucked the petal carefully into his pocket.

Then he straightened his jacket, exhaled through his nose, and stepped back inside, as if he hadn’t just kissed the one person who could ruin him.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The first thing Harry registered was the throb. Not the dull, predictable hangover kind, no. This was sharper, coiled somewhere behind his eyes, like his skull had been used to store champagne regrets and a handful of ill-timed emotions.

He cracked one eye open.

The cabin ceiling stared back—smooth mahogany, warm-toned, vaguely judgmental. The yacht shifted beneath him in slow, indulgent rolls. Somewhere above deck, seagulls laughed like assholes who hadn’t made out with their rival on a fuckin' balcony.

He groaned, arm flung over his face.

He was fairly certain his brain had collapsed in on itself sometime around two a.m.

The kiss.

God.

He’d kissed Louis.

No. He hadn’t kissed him—they had kissed. That was the thing. It hadn’t been one-sided. Louis had kissed him back.

Unless Harry had imagined the part where Louis’ fingers had slid into his hair, soft and searching, like he was anchoring himself, or the way he’d leaned in, like maybe, maybe, he’d been waiting for it.

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the headache blooming behind his eyes. His palm caught against the stubble on his chin. He felt rough. Unmoored. Like someone had taken all the logic out of his body and replaced it with something wild and drunk and deeply unadvisable.

It had been a mistake.

Had to be.

Except—Louis had been standing there, laughing at something Eleanor said, hand on the small of her back like it belonged there. And something in Harry had just snapped. Or maybe not snapped. Maybe it had clicked—like a line finally connecting in his mind.

He’d seen Louis with her. Had assumed—of course—that she was his date. Why else would she be there? Why else would she look at him like that, smile like she knew something?

It had gutted him. And instead of walking away or breathing or—I don’t know—functioning like a rational adult, he’d followed Louis out onto the balcony, jaw tight, heart tighter, fully intending to start a fight—say something cruel, sharp, something that would hurt. But instead, somewhere between the salt air and the low murmur of the crowd inside, he’d grabbed him—pushed, pulled, maybe both—and kissed him. Kissed him like he’d been drowning all evening and only just found air.

Brilliant.

Utterly. Fucking. Brilliant.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what to do with himself.

He hadn’t seen Louis since. Hadn’t spoken to him. After they’d reentered the ballroom, Desmond had pounced like a hawk in couture, dragging Harry off toward the stage with a hand on his back and an agenda behind his smile. There hadn’t been a second to catch his breath.

Louis—God, Louis—on the screen was breathtaking. Not just handsome. Ethereal. All sharp jaw and soft eyes, light catching in his hair like it was contractually obligated to adore him. The way he moved, confident and unguarded, it was enough to knock the air out of Harry’s lungs.

And the worst part?

They looked so fuckin' good together. Him and Louis. On screen. The way their glances played off each other. The contrast of light and shadow. Electricity. You couldn’t fake that. Not even with the best camera work money could buy.

The film faded out—and for one breathless moment, the room held still. Harry could feel the collective awe hanging in the air, taut as wire. It had hit them all at once: the impact of that film, the elegance of it, the intimacy.

Someone shoved a microphone into Harry’s hand.
Of course they did. Because why wouldn’t the guy having a full-blown identity crisis also be the one expected to make a charming speech in front of Monaco’s elite?

He said something. He had to have.
Probably about teamwork. Or Rolex. Or whatever marketing-friendly platitude his mouth managed to cobble together while the rest of him stood somewhere far, far away—on a balcony, with Louis’ mouth on his.

He remembered the lights. The pressure of Louis’ presence beside him. The way their shoulders aligned for the cameras, too close and not close enough. It probably looked perfect—like symmetry. Like a brand.

The applause had been deafening, but the silence in Harry’s head had been louder.

And Harry—Harry felt like he was standing next to a fuse box with a match in his hand.

His heart had rattled behind his ribs like something unhinged.

After the speech, he turned—he meant to speak to Louis, to say something—but before he could even find the words, Taylor materialised at his side. All bright eyes and practiced charm, like the perfect girlfriend, she played.

She wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed him—overly warm, overly rehearsed.

Then, softly, against his ear, she murmured, “Are you okay?”

Define ‘okay’, Harry thought. Is ‘okay’ when you’ve just publicly launched a campaign with the boy you kissed in secret fifteen minutes ago? Is it when your head feels like a live wire and your heart’s beating in Morse code?

Harry nodded. A small, automatic movement—barely perceptible. As if the question had registered somewhere far away, deep underwater. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Desmond appeared out of nowhere. Perfectly timed, perfectly pressed. One hand on Harry’s back, the other already steering them toward some over-accessorised millionaire with too much cologne and not enough personality.

Another handshake. Another glass of champagne. Another performance.

Harry smiled. Laughed. Agreed to things he didn’t register. His skin felt wrong—tight in places, loose in others, like he was wearing someone else’s body and the zipper was stuck.

Taylor never left his side. Her touch was gentle, constant. Supportive. Strategic.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

By the time he peeled himself away—hours later, or minutes, he couldn’t tell—Louis was across the ballroom, half-turned in conversation with Simon and a man who looked like he bought politicians for sport.

Louis glanced over.

Harry met his gaze.

And that was all.

Maybe it’s better, Harry thought bitterly. What would I even have said? Sorry for kissing you? Sorry I liked it? Sorry I can’t stop thinking about it?

Because the truth was—Harry didn’t know.

The yacht swayed gently beneath him, a slow, rhythmic lurch that made the ceiling above him tilt and blur. The sheets were too soft. The air too quiet. Everything around him felt borrowed. Fragile. Unreal.

He pressed his fingertips against his lips, like he could still feel it. The kiss. Louis’ breath mixing with his. Fingers in his hair. The impossible heat of it all.

Louis Tomlinson.

Loud. Infuriating. So cocky it bordered on performance art. Harry had spent months disliking him on principle. The swagger, the smug grin, the way he always had a comeback ready like he’d been waiting for the chance to throw it. He’d gotten under Harry’s skin without even trying—like a pebble in a shoe you can’t shake out.

He talks too much, Harry used to think. He thinks he’s the funniest person in the room. He’s not.

And yet...

Over the past few weeks, Harry had started to see something else. Quiet moments between the noise. The way Louis always checked in with the mechanics, knew their names, made them laugh even on shit days. How he never let anyone sit alone for too long. The way he threw himself into everything—conversations, arguments, late-night training runs—with the kind of honesty Harry didn’t know how to touch.

Louis was loyal. Unfiltered. He didn’t hide behind charm or distance the way Harry did. He was all there, all the time. And maybe that had annoyed Harry so much because part of him wanted to be like that too.

There was a kind of gravity to him. A pull. Maybe it was the way he laughed like he meant it. Or the way he looked at people like he saw straight through the bullshit and still stayed anyway.

Harry had been jealous. He could admit that now, lying here on a yacht that felt more like a stage than a sanctuary. Seeing Eleanor draped over Louis like she belonged there—it had twisted something bitter and ugly in his chest. Something reckless. Primal. He hadn’t meant to act on it.

But fuck, he had.

He’d kissed Louis.

And it had been a damn good kiss.

The kind that knocked the air out of you. The kind that stayed in your mouth hours later, like smoke.

Maybe the best. Maybe even better than that night two years ago—the one he only half-remembered, lost in pulsing lights and bad vodka, with a stranger who might have been a dream. A fantasy, wrapped in neon and static.

But this—

Louis had been real. Tangible. Right there. Fingers in his hair, lips parting like a secret. And now? He might as well have been across the world.

Harry exhaled, the motion shallow, chest heavy. The sheets rustled under his limbs as the yacht rocked gently beneath him. A slow, taunting rhythm. Too calm for what churned inside him.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Because this wasn’t part of the plan. None of it was. Falling for someone—if that’s what this even was, which it definitely wasn't, right? This wasn’t just inconvenient. It was impossible.

Not that I’m in love, he told himself again, firmer this time. God, no. That would be pathetic.

But something had cracked open. And whatever love was—whatever strange, quiet shape it sometimes took—it had never been on the roadmap. Not for someone like him. Not for someone who had been built, piece by piece, into a product. Into a persona. The version of Harry Styles that smiled perfectly, said the right things, wore the right suit, kissed the right girl for the cameras.

Nobody wanted the real thing. Not the messy, aching, restless boy who hated long dinners and couldn’t sleep in silence. Not the version of him that felt too much and said too little. People wanted the poster. The polish. The product.

There had never been space for anything else. Certainly not for love.

That's what his father had told him, what Nick repeatedly said like a broken record.

Still.

Louis had kissed him back.

We should talk, Harry thought, turning his face into the pillow, the scent of salt, silk, and last night clinging to his skin. The yacht shifted beneath him with a soft groan, a gentle sway that made the world feel like it was sliding just out of reach.

He exhaled—sharp, decisive—and reached blindly for his phone. His hand knocked over a glass on the nightstand. It didn’t break, just rolled onto the carpet with a soft thunk.

Don’t think. Just move.

His thumb hovered above the screen. One beat. Two.

Then he typed, quick and deliberate:

“Can we meet in an hour? Rooftop bar, Port Palace Hotel?”

He hit send before doubt had time to bite.

For a breathless second, nothing. Then Louis was online. The three dots appeared.

Three dots. Jesus. That stupid little pulse—like waiting for your sentence to be handed down.

Then: “I’ll be there.”

Harry stared at the message. Simple. Certain.

And his heart—traitorous bastard—did a small, startled flip in his chest. Like it had just remembered how to beat properly. Like it had been holding its breath too.

He flopped onto his back, eyes wide, adrenaline sharp in his veins.

What did someone even wear to this kind of conversation? What was this kind of conversation?

Would they talk it out? Would Louis yell? Would he yell? Would they pretend it hadn’t happened, chalk it up to bad champagne and worse decisions?

Or would they not pretend at all?

Shit.

He needed to shower. And shave. And probably take a sedative.

First: shower. Then: panic. In that order, Styles.

The shower helped. A little. The water was scalding, and maybe that was the point—to burn the nerves out of him, or at least wake up whatever part of him had been sleepwalking through the past twelve hours.

He towelled off with quick, efficient movements and wandered to the small closet in the corner of the cabin. No drama, he reminded himself. No overthinking. Just clothes.

He pulled on a clean white shirt—tight enough that the definition of his arms and shoulders was unmistakable, the fabric stretching ever so slightly over his chest. It clung in a way that was both effortless and deliberate. Then came a pair of loose-fitting jeans, worn soft with age, hanging just low enough on his hips to flirt with indecency. Almost too low. If he raised his arms—and he tested this in front of the mirror—his V-lines peeked out, sharp and unapologetic. Casual. Intentional. Borderline dangerous. Disarmingly effective, he decided.

He paused at the mirror. Not to preen. Just to... check. One final glance.

I don’t look like someone having a breakdown, he told his reflection. That’s something.

Phone. Wallet. Keys. Sunglasses. He slid them into place like armour. Cool. Composed.

And, strangely—he felt good. Not calm, not really. But better than he had in a long time. Lighter. Like he was finally about to stop running from something and walk straight into it instead.

Am I allowed to have something good? Just once?

He didn’t get time to answer that question.

Because as he crossed the lounge of the yacht, his father’s voice cut through the morning like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Morning. Already off somewhere?”

Harry froze mid-step. Desmond stood at the bar, the morning sun catching in his cufflinks, backlit like a villain. In one hand, he cradled a lowball glass filled with something that looked like juice but almost certainly wasn’t. The other hand rested casually on the marble counter—casual like a predator playing with its food.

He didn’t wait for Harry’s answer.

“I thought we might have a word” Desmond said, tone so smooth it grated.

Harry’s spine stiffened. He knew that voice. That voice meant control disguised as concern. That voice never led anywhere good.

Desmond turned to the sideboard and reached for the whiskey. Eleven in the morning. Of course.

"The Rolex deal’s doing well" he said, pouring with the practiced ease of a man who’d been closing deals and manipulating headlines since before Harry could walk. “Press is strong. Numbers even stronger. Your market value’s climbing again. Finally.”

He didn’t look at Harry when he said it—he didn’t have to. The words weren’t praise. They were assessment. Ownership wrapped in a spreadsheet.

“Drink?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s a bit early.”

Desmond poured anyway. Of course he did. Refusal was just a ritual. The choreography of a conversation they’d danced too many times. He handed Harry the glass like it was a contract already signed.

Harry took it. He didn’t want to, but not taking it would’ve said more than he could afford. The weight of it was familiar—cold, expensive, expected.

Desmond didn’t back off. He prowled in that slow, circling way of his—never raising his voice, never needing to. His presence was a net, and Harry was already tangled in it.

“This campaign’s done wonders” Desmond said, voice light with implication. “The numbers look good. You look good. The suit. The posture. Even Tomlinson—well, the boy’s got taste. At least in tailoring.”

Harry looked down into the amber swirl of the whiskey. He didn’t drink. Just stared. It was easier than meeting his father’s eyes.

Then the mood shifted—just a fraction. Enough to turn the air sharp.

“But that little stunt on the balcony?”

Desmond took a sip from his own glass, slow and theatrical, then looked at Harry over the rim, eyes gleaming like steel just before the strike.

“Harry, imagine if someone other than me had seen it.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. The kind that carried weight without sound.

Harry didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because this was how it always went. This was the moment the conversation became a verdict. When his father stopped seeing a son and started seeing a risk.

It had always been a hunt.

And Harry? Harry had always been the prize Desmond was polishing—not for affection. Not for pride. But for display. For profit.

Then it happened.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was methodical. Efficient. A backhand so controlled it almost didn’t register as violence—until it did. The crack of skin on skin was sharp and intimate, and Harry’s head snapped to the side like a doll jerked by an unseen string.

A second passed before the pain bloomed. Hot. Immediate. Stunning.

His breath hitched. He couldn’t inhale. The air had vanished, replaced by static.

The glass in his hand jerked violently, sloshed whiskey over his knuckles, but didn’t fall. His fingers locked around it like they were clinging to the last rule of engagement: don’t break character.

His cheek flared with heat. His jaw ached. His eyes stung from the sudden jolt—not tears, not yet, just the body reacting to betrayal in its most physical form.

And then Desmond was closer. The scent of whiskey. Cologne. Power. Breath brushing his temple like mock affection.

His voice dropped low, every syllable a cold, deliberate incision, each one sliding beneath Harry’s skin like a scalpel.

"Consider that a warning, son."

Harry stood frozen. The world narrowed to breath and blood and the crushing weight of stillness. He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t move. His body locked itself in place, instinct curling inward, like prey bracing for the second blow.

"I don’t care who you let fuck you," Desmond said, voice so calm it scraped like ice along a nerve. "But let yourself be seen? Let yourself be caught? It’s over. No one wants a gay Formula One driver. You’ll be torn apart."

Then his hand was at the back of Harry’s neck. Not a touch. A claim. Fingers tight, thumb pressing into the base of his skull. Dominance masked as fatherly concern. A hold that didn’t bruise, but told him exactly who was in control.

"And don’t delude yourself about Tomlinson," he said, his voice a scalpel cloaked in silk. "He might get off on you, might enjoy the thrill of having something secret and breakable in his hands—but he won’t ruin himself for it. You’re not worth that. He knows it. And deep down, so do you."

The words slithered into Harry’s ear like poison dressed in silk, thick and slow and irrevocable. And then—Desmond let go.

Abrupt. Dismissive. Like Harry was something unclean on his sleeve. An inconvenience. A flaw.

And Harry? He didn’t move. His body refused to respond. Everything inside him retreated, curled tight into itself, into that small place where fear lives quietly and endlessly.

He knew this - knew it too well. The quiet after. The stillness. The moment the world kept spinning, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t the first time Desmond had hit him. Not the first time his body had betrayed him by standing still, by surviving instead of resisting.

He wanted to say something. Anything. A no, a why, a fuck you. He wanted to push back, to shove Desmond into the mirror behind the bar, to crack something open with all the years he’d held his tongue. But nothing came. Nothing ever came. He stood there with a burning cheek and burning shame, held in place by muscle memory and fear dressed as obedience.

He hated himself for it. Hated that he didn’t fight. Hated that his body chose submission before his mind could object. And worse—hated that a voice in the back of his head whispered, maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you should’ve known better.

His cheek pulsed, but it wasn’t the pain that undid him. It was the humiliation. The sharp, bone-deep awareness that he hadn’t stopped it. Again.

He looked down at the drink in his hand, like there might be a message buried in the amber swirl— a command, a reason to move. But it was just a drink. A cold, silent witness. And he was just a boy in a man’s skin, a son carved into obedience, shaped by the kind of love that looked like discipline and sounded like strategy.

Harry drank it anyway. Because pretending was easier than facing the truth of who he was in that room.

Desmond turned away, his back already retreating into the comfort of control, dismissing the moment like a stain to be wiped from his morning.

“So go ahead,” Desmond said, his tone almost indulgent, like he was giving permission for something trivial, something amusing. “Let him fuck you, if that’s what it is. Let him use you - and use him in return - for a few stolen nights and quick fixes. Have your little fun. I won’t stop you.”

He took a sip from his glass, unbothered, casual. “As long as it’s behind closed doors. As long as no one sees. No cameras, no leaks, no drama. Enjoy the thrill of it—just don’t mistake it for anything more. Because it won’t be. Not for him. And certainly not for you.”

Desmond turned to face Harry fully, his smile a slow, sharp curve. “But if you fuck this up—if you’re careless, if someone catches on—I’ll speak to Simon. And believe me, what I’d say wouldn’t ruin you. It would ruin him. And I don’t think Louis would recover from that nearly as gracefully as you would.”

Harry’s jaw locked, breath shallow, and though every part of him screamed to stay frozen, his feet carried him forward anyway.

He moved through the yacht like a shadow, past polished surfaces that reflected a version of himself he couldn’t bear to see.

Down the gangway. Onto the pier. The sun was up, but it brought no warmth. No comfort.

He didn’t walk because he was strong. Or brave.
He walked because staying meant breaking beyond repair.

And through all the noise in his head, through the sting in his cheek and the hollow behind his ribs, one thought rose sharp and clear:

Louis.

He needed to see him. Even if his chest still ached and his father's voice echoed like rot in his bones. Even if he knew this wasn’t allowed to be anything more than a game. He needed to see Louis—because right now, he was the only thing that felt real, that wasn’t poisoned. Even if it terrified the shit out of him.

Chapter Text

Louis’s POV

The rooftop bar of the Port Palace Hotel was quiet at this hour—too early for tourists, too late for the kind of Monaco nightlife that reeked of money and imported perfume. The Mediterranean stretched out beyond the terrace, flat and silver under the hazy morning sun. Below, yachts glittered in the marina like polished lies.

Louis sat alone at a table near the railing, one leg bouncing like it was trying to escape the rest of him, fingers curled around a half-finished coffee he couldn’t stop drinking even though it was making everything worse. He liked coffee. Loved it, actually. Just not when it made his nerves feel like exposed wires. Now it was just a bitter reminder of how long he’d been waiting.

Half an hour.

Thirty fucking minutes.

He checked his phone again. No new messages. Nothing.

Maybe he’s not coming.

The thought hit like a sucker punch, right between the ribs, and for a second he genuinely forgot how lungs worked. He tried to focus on anything else—the breeze tugging at his shirt, the occasional clink of glass behind the bar—but none of it mattered. His eyes kept flicking to the door like it owed him an explanation.

Because Harry had kissed him.

And it hadn’t been like the last time—no dark club, no alcohol-soaked bravado to pin it on. This one had been sharp, clear, impossible to ignore.

And Louis? He’d let it happen. Hell, he’d leaned in.

But it hadn’t started with him. That counted for something. Right?

He sat there, staring into his coffee like it might offer some kind of divine insight. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was making a fool of himself. Niall had certainly thought so when Louis left the suite earlier that morning.

He’d stood in the doorway, cradling his mug like it was the only thing keeping him from launching into a full-on intervention. His look was classic Niall—concern barely disguised as sarcasm.

“You’re really going?” he’d asked. “For coffee? With this arrogant Prince Charming? Just as friends, right?”

Louis had tried to brush it off, said something vague about clearing the air. It sounded thin even to his own ears.

“Just remember” Niall said, his tone suddenly too sharp to ignore, “he’s got a public life and a private one—and you’re not part of either, Lou. Don’t forget that.”

Niall wasn’t wrong.

But he didn’t even know about the kiss.

Louis hadn’t told him. Hadn’t wanted to see that look shift from concern to disappointment. Besides, what would be the point? It wasn’t like the kiss had changed anything.

And, Niall had to mention Taylor—again. As if Louis could’ve possibly forgotten. "She’s still in the picture, y’know" Niall had said, not cruelly, just... pointed. "Still very blonde, very polite, very press-approved."

Louis had rolled his eyes. “It’s just coffee, Ni. We’re talking. Like Friends do. Nothing dramatic.”

Niall’s look said he didn’t buy it for a second.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt again,” he muttered. “I know you say it’s nothing, but come on. After the way you fell apart last time?”

Louis let out a sharp breath, lifted a brow. “Wow, thanks for the reminder, Niall. Nothing like a little emotional archaeology over breakfast.”

He meant it as a joke—mostly—but his voice had just enough edge to betray the twist in his stomach. Because Niall wasn’t wrong. And he definitely wasn’t stupid.

“Whatever this is” Niall had added with a sigh, “I just don’t trust him, Lou. He’s not honest—not with you, not with himself. And I don’t want you walking into that with your eyes closed.”

When Louis hadn’t replied, Niall had simply stepped aside with a shrug. “You’re a grown man. Do what you want. Just... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

So yeah.

So what exactly was Louis doing here? Waiting to talk? Hoping for... what, a clean emotional handshake and a reset button?

Or was he just waiting for Harry to confirm what Louis already feared—that the kiss had been nothing more than a moment. One that didn’t mean anything at all.

Louis didn’t know. He hated not knowing. He liked having the script, the edge, the upper hand.

Right now he had none of it.

But then – fuckin’ finally — Harry appeared.

Louis spotted him the second he stepped onto the rooftop, tall and unfairly gorgeous in that way that made Louis’ heart do something it really shouldn’t. The morning sun hit his curls just right, casting soft gold along his cheekbones like the universe had a favourite. His shirt clung in all the right places and that stupid necklace he always wore caught the light like a weapon. And of course—because Harry Styles never did things by halves—he wore sunglasses. Dark, sleek and infuriatingly effective. They hid his eyes completely, which felt almost like cheating.

Louis’s heart gave an involuntary jolt.

Stupid thing. Fuckin' Traitor.

But as Harry walked toward him, something in the air shifted.

Louis had the feeling that he looked... tense. Like his whole body was braced for impact. His jaw was tight, shoulders squared, the set of his mouth unreadable. There was a stiffness in the way he moved, like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

Cool. Distant. Off.

Not how someone looked when they were about to talk about a kiss in a positive way.

And suddenly Louis wasn’t sure if this was the beginning of something—or just the end, spelled out slowly and dressed like a Calvin Klein ad.

Harry slid into the seat across from him without removing the sunglasses. His jaw moved like he was about to say something important—but then he smiled. That awful, strained smile that didn’t reach anywhere near his eyes. Not that Louis could see his eyes anyway.

"Hey" Harry said, too casually. He grabbed the menu, glanced at it like it contained the secrets of the universe, then cleared his throat. "The coffee’s good here, right? Or should I just get—uh—tea?"

Louis blinked, slow and unimpressed. Really? This was the opener?

Harry’s hands were restless. He kept adjusting the menu, tapping it lightly, then freezing mid-movement.
His jaw was tight, his mouth drawn into a faint line and despite the sunglasses, Louis could see the tension radiating off him like heat.

The silence stretched between them like wire. Louis could feel it humming. He took a deep breath, counted to three, reminded himself not to let Harry see the ache crawling up his throat.

He would not fall for this. Not again. Not if Harry didn’t have the guts to name what happened.

When the waitress appeared - a nice girl with blond hair - Harry shut the menu and said, “A martini. Dirty.”

Louis raised an eyebrow so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. It wasn’t even noon.

Harry gave him another one of those crooked not-smiles and said, “Still not sober from last night.”

 what. the. fuck, Styles?

Louis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Barely.

“Great” he muttered. “We’re off to a brilliant start.”

But Harry, apparently, wasn’t done making it worse.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned the goddamn skyline, stretched out like they were at some glossy photo shoot and not sitting in the fallout of whatever-the-fuck-this-was. His shirt rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin—sharp V-lines cutting toward his waistband like punctuation. Louis caught the glimpse, cursed under his breath, and immediately looked away.

Hot. But disgusting, he thought bitterly. The worst kind of nightmare in designer denim.

“Gotta say” Harry added, voice loud enough for the waitress still within earshot to hear, “the last time I had a martini before noon, I woke up with two trophies and someone else’s shirt. Monaco’s got good luck.”

She gave a polite chuckle. Louis didn’t.

He stared at Harry, deadpan, jaw clenched.

And when the drink arrived, Harry took the glass with exaggerated flair, gave the girl a wink, and muttered, “Cheers, darling.”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it almost felt like an exorcism.

"Seriously?" he muttered. "Are you trying to win some kind of award for worst brunch companion, or is this just your natural charm bleeding through?"

Harry chuckled—tight, hollow. Like he didn’t quite know how to stop performing.

Louis pushed back his chair with a scrape. “You know what? Fuck this. If I wanted to watch someone implode in Gucci, I’d scroll Instagram.”

He was just done with this shit.

And then—barely a whisper—Harry’s voice caught the air.

“Wait.”

Louis froze. One step away from leaving it all behind. One breath from making the smarter choice.

Then fingers curled lightly around his wrist. Not tight. Just there. Steady. Cool skin against his own. And then—Harry’s thumb, brushing once across the inside of his wrist, soft and maddening, like he was checking if Louis was still real.

He turned.

And there it was.

Harry wasn’t wearing the smirk anymore. No bravado. No sunglasses to shield him. Just that face—unguarded and too quiet, like someone who’d finally run out of lines.

He looked wrecked.

Louis hated the way his chest responded. Like something fragile had shifted inside him.

He sat back down, there was something in the way Harry touched him—hesitant, like an apology without words—that made it impossible to walk away.

God, you’re pathetic, he thought. Soft for the worst person possible.

He crossed his arms, locked his jaw.

He wouldn’t say a thing. He wouldn’t offer a lifeline.

If Harry wanted to talk, he’d have to stop hiding behind silence and actually mean it this time.

Harry cleared his throat, but his voice still came out quiet, uncertain. “I didn’t mean to make a scene,” he said, mostly to the space between them. “I just... I didn’t know how to show up and not fuck it up. I never do. And you— you always seem to know what you’re doing, and I—” He broke off, fiddling with the glass in front of him, fingers twitching like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.

“I like you” he said next, too fast, too quiet. “Didn’t think I would. Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I just... I started to really appreciate you. As a— as a friend.”

There was a pause. A sharp, inevitable one.

Friend. Sure. That old classic.

Louis felt his chest tighten. He’d known that word was coming, and yet it still managed to land like a stone.

Harry shifted in his seat, eyes glued to his drink like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. “Sometimes I think maybe it’s not just girls. Maybe it’s... I don’t know. Certain people. You. I mean, not you you, just... yesterday, I— I wasn’t thinking. Or maybe I was. I don’t know.”

Louis didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched him spiral.

“And I have Taylor. My girlfriend?” Harry added, like he wasn’t quite sure anymore.

Louis flinched at the phrasing. Not because it was news, but because of the way Harry said it. Like he was asking for permission. My girlfriend... right?

“Right,” Louis said dryly. “Taylor. The girlfriend.”

Harry winced, he looked like the world had tilted slightly and left him off-balance. Like everything he was saying felt thin, like plastic stretched too tight.

Louis tried to meet his gaze, but Harry didn’t let him. He kept his eyes down, away.

“Okay” Louis said finally, tired. “What’s going on, Harry?”

Harry looked up like he’d been caught doing something shameful. “Nothing,” he said too fast. “Nothing’s wrong. I just... I needed to say I’m happy with Taylor. And that I’m sorry. For yesterday. I don’t know what got into me.”

Louis studied him for a long moment, then ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath that felt like resignation.

“It’s fine” he said, tone light but practiced. “Really. We’re just friends. That’s all this is.”

He gave a small shrug, the kind that says it doesn’t matter, even when it does. “And the kiss? That was nothing. Just—one of those things that happens when you're caught up in the moment. You know how it is.”

The lie tasted bitter, even as it left his mouth. But he told it anyway.

Because if this was all there was, he’d find a way to live with it.

“Really?” Harry asked, then hesitated, fingers drumming nervously on the glass. “I guess I’ve just... gotten used to you being around. You know your annoying comments. Your judgmental little eyebrow thing.”

He glanced up with a crooked half-smile. “It’s honestly kind of tragic. I think I’d miss it.”

Then, too quickly, he looked away again. “Not in a weird way, obviously. Just... friend stuff.”

Louis gave a quiet, humourless laugh. Not cruel—just tired. Hollow around the edges.

He looked out across the marina, blinked once, and then flagged down the waitress. “You know what?” he said, mostly to himself. “Fuck it. Let’s make it a day-drinking Thursday.”

The waitress arrived, and Louis didn’t even bother with the menu. “Vodka. Straight. No ice,” he said, because of course. He always drank vodka.

He turned back to Harry, one brow raised. “Might as well get something out of this Chaos.”

Inside, something in him muttered you’re doing it again, but he ignored it. Vodka was easier to stomach than unspoken feelings. Wanting more wasn’t the issue—it was knowing it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

So he smiled. Easy. Unbothered. Like his insides weren’t chewing themselves to pieces.

“Friends” he said, lifting his glass when it came. “To that.”

And surprisingly, Harry seemed to relax. Not completely—but something in his shoulders eased, the tension leaking out like air from a balloon. He took a sip of his drink, and for a moment, the two of them just sat there, letting the awkwardness dissipate like morning mist under the sun.

Conversation came easier now. They fell into a rhythm, trading small stories and casual jokes. Laughter slipped into the spaces between them, tentative at first, then brighter. Louis found himself talking more than he expected—about Doncaster, about growing up in chaos and loving it despite everything. And Harry listened, really listened, his eyes crinkling in that way Louis remembered but hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

"My sisters are the best people I know—and the most exhausting" Louis said with a fond shake of his head, swirling the vodka in his glass. "You give them five minutes and no supervision, and suddenly the world’s on fire."

Harry raised an eyebrow, amused. "That bad?"

He leaned forward a little, grinning. "So Daisy and Phoebe—brilliant minds—decide Clifford needs a makeover. What do they do? They sneak into the neighbour’s garden with a pair of craft scissors. Gave him the worst trim you’ve ever seen. Patchy as hell, and they tried to give him bangs. Bangs, Harry. On a Labradoodle."

Harry burst into laughter, full and loud.

"But that’s not even the worst part," Louis continued, delighting now. "They were so proud of themselves they gave each other matching haircuts. Walked into the kitchen like some deranged cult, with lopsided fringes and bits of Clifford’s fur still stuck to their sleeves."

Harry clutched his drink, wiping tears from his eyes. "Please tell me there are photos."

"Unfortunately for them—and fortunately for me—yes."

Louis took his phone and showed Harry the pictures.

Harry laughed. Real, unfiltered laughter that lit up his whole face.

And Louis felt it, low and sharp in his chest—that traitorous flicker of warmth he tried very hard to ignore.

He set the phone down and let the laughter linger a moment longer. Then, almost without meaning to, he said, “I miss the old Doncaster sometimes, when Mum was still there, you know. More than I admit.”

Harry looked over, the amusement softening into something quieter, more attentive.

“It’s just... without my mum, it’s different” Louis added, voice low. “She was the heart of everything, y’know? The house, the family, all of it. Loud and alive and somehow always in control—even when it was chaos.”

Harry didn’t say anything. Just watched him, really listened.

“I don’t even know why I’m bringing this up” Louis muttered, eyes on his glass. “Gosh, it's hard you know beeing the big brother but also like a father to them. Mum was.... She just... she kept it all together. And sometimes I feel like I’m doing everything wrong without her. Like I’m not enough to keep it going.”

Harry didn’t speak right away. Then—quietly—he reached across the table and laid a hand on Louis’ forearm. Warm. Steady.

“You are” he said simply. “You’re doing it. Even when it’s hard. Especially then.”

Louis looked up, and Harry’s expression was open in a way he hadn’t seen in ages. No sarcasm. No mask.

“Your mum would be proud” Harry added. His thumb brushed lightly, almost absentmindedly, over Louis’ sleeve. “I mean, I don’t know how you are as a brother, but... you’re honest. Loyal. You show up when it counts. That has to count for something, yeah?”

He gave a small, crooked smile. “If you're half as decent with your sisters as you are as a friend... then yeah. She’d be proud. No doubt.”

Louis gave a small nod, then lifted his glass and took a slow sip of vodka, letting the warmth spread through him, dull and familiar. It didn’t fix anything, but it helped take the edge off.

And then, as if the universe had impeccable comedic timing, his phone buzzed again.

A message from Zayn.

It was a picture—Gemma and Niall from behind, walking side by side through a narrow sunlit street, the golden light catching in Gemma’s hair and Niall gesturing mid-story like always. Zayn’s caption read: Third-wheeling so hard I’m about to fake a tragic scooter accident. When are you showing up, idiot? 😒

Louis let out a loud, involuntary laugh, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. He turned the phone toward Harry without a word, the grin still tugging at his mouth.

Harry leaned in, squinted at the screen, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, that looks suspiciously like a date.”

Louis smirked. “Right? Something’s definitely brewing there.”

Harry smiled, softer now. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing. Gemma deserves someone who makes her laugh. Even though I get the feeling he doesn't like me.”

He glanced at the photo again, something fond crossing his expression. “She’s... everything, really. Took care of me when Mum was running ragged. I swear half my personality’s just stolen from her. Still call her when shit hits the fan.”

Louis lifted his glass again, his expression warm.
“To sisters, then. And all the chaos they drag into your life.”

Harry clinked his glass against Louis’s. “To that.”

From there, things slid into easy chaos.

The drinks kept coming, their laughter growing louder, sloppier, easier. It didn’t feel like pretending anymore. It felt like something real—even if it wouldn’t last past the afternoon.

Louis blinked down at his empty glass and let out a quiet laugh.
“I’m mildly drunk” he said, almost proudly. “And it’s not even noon. With you, of all people.”

He leaned back, letting the sunlight warm his face.
“Could be worse.”

Louis leaned back again, the vodka humming gently in his veins, and for a second the breeze felt like it might actually be doing something useful—cooling the heat in his cheeks, smoothing out the last frayed edges of their conversation.

Harry swirled what was left of his drink, voice light. “So... are you expected back with Elena at some point?”

Louis blinked. “Elena?”

Harry shrugged, a little smug. “You know. The girl from last night.”

Louis burst into laughter. Loud, open, tipsy. “You mean Eleanor?”

Harry winced. “Right. That’s it.”

Louis shook his head, still grinning. “God, no. That wasn’t me. That was all Simon Cowell, the manipulative bastard. Said it made me look more ‘settled’ for the sponsors.” He paused for a beat, then added, “Look, El and I—we’re not a thing. Not now. Not for a while. She’s nice, we’ve known each other forever, but there’s nothing going on. She flew back this morning.”

Harry seemed... relieved. Just a flicker. But Louis caught it.

The moment hovered between them for a beat, quiet and oddly weightless, like it could tip either way.

Then Harry’s phone buzzed, breaking the pause. He glanced at the screen and chuckled.
“It’s Gemma,” he said, holding the phone so Louis could see.

Still alive or have you two killed each other already?
If not, come join us on the yacht. 🍸☀️ Niall, Zayn and Taylor are here
And don’t worry—  the Idiot calling himself father is gone 🚫

Louis lit up like someone had handed him the keys to the getaway car. “Finally” he said, draining the last of his vodka like it owed him rent. “Let’s go. Just need to grab my swimshorts.”

Harry looked at him, one brow arched in lazy amusement. “You brought swimwear to a rooftop confrontation?”

Louis smirked. “Lucky coincidence. I’m checked in here? The fuckin' most expensive suite in this hotel is ours—mine, Niall's and Zayn's. I got it mostly for Niall— the bloke deserves a bit of glam.”

He stood, scooping his phone, wallet and whatever shreds of dignity were left. That was the moment he realized how drunk he actually was. The floor tilted in that friendly, treacherous way it did when the alcohol caught up all at once.

“Oof,” he muttered under his breath.

Harry rose too, far less gracefully. His long legs tangled like a newborn deer on a frozen pond. Before gravity could do its worst, Louis reached out instinctively, catching him by the elbow.

Harry stumbled straight into him, warm and solid and far too close.

For a breathless second, Louis held him there. Just held.

And the air changed.

That crackling thing between them surged back to life, electric and immediate. Louis could feel it again—that hum beneath the skin, that treacherous pulse that made his spine go rigid and his hands tighten just a little too much.

He felt sober. Horrifyingly, maddeningly sober.

Pull yourself together. He said it meant nothing. Just friendship. Classic, soul-destroying, PR-friendly friendship.

And yet—Harry looked at him.

With a stare so sharp and deliberate, it knocked the air from Louis' lungs.

Murderous. Or hungry. Hard to tell.

Louis swallowed hard, throat dry, and stepped back. Quickly.

“Right” he muttered. “To the elevator, then. Before we both pass out or worse.”

Harry didn’t answer. He just followed, silent, eyes unreadable behind those lashes that should not be allowed on a mortal.

And so they walked—Louis leading the way, heart pounding like it was trying to file a noise complaint against itself—toward the elevator.

The tension between them eased somewhere along the ride down.

Maybe it was the ding of the elevator or the ridiculous muzak playing overhead, but by the time they reached the suite, Louis was cracking a joke about Zayn’s obsession with silk robes and Harry had laughed—really laughed—like the moment upstairs hadn’t happened at all.

The suite door swung open with a soft beep, and Louis gestured Harry inside with a crooked grin. “Make yourself comfortable. Living room’s yours. Just don’t mess with Niall’s snack stash unless you’ve got a death wish.”

Harry wandered toward the plush couch, but Louis didn’t stay to supervise. “Be right back,” he added, already heading for his bedroom. “Gotta dig out the world’s most questionable swimshorts.”

Inside, he dropped to his knees beside the suitcase and started rummaging through it, still buzzing faintly from the vodka.

He didn’t hear Harry move. But somehow, he felt him before he saw him. Like a shift in pressure. Like a storm about to break.

When he looked up, Harry was leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved out of temptation itself—shirt clinging just enough, one hip cocked against the frame, and that expression?

Murderous. Again. Or maybe worse. Intent?

Louis startled, fingers frozen mid-rummage in the wreckage of his suitcase. His mouth opened, then closed. Rebooting.

“Jesus” he muttered, throat dry. “Don’t sneak up on people unless you’re trying to haunt them.”

Harry didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Just watched him.

One side of his shirt had hitched up, flashing a cruel sliver of skin and the precise geometry of a V-line that belonged in a museum or an arrest warrant.

Louis got up and looked. Then looked again. Does he wear that shit on purpose?

His chest tightened. Something fluttered beneath his ribs, wild and breathless.

Then Harry spoke, voice smooth, offhanded—as if he hadn’t just rewired the entire air supply in the room. “Have you ever heard of the concept of... friends with benefits?”

Louis blinked, his brain crashing like a laptop thrown down a flight of stairs. “I—what?”

Harry stepped closer. Unhurried. Predatory. “It’s just—we’re young. Obscenely successful. Ridiculously fit, if I may.” He gave a vague gesture between them, like they were both exhibits in a sex museum.

“And we’ve got chemistry” Harry added, now close enough that his cologne curled around Louis like smoke—rich and warm and full of sin.

Louis’s mouth moved. No actual words formed.

Harry tilted his head. “No drama. No pressure. Just... one time. Out of curiosity. We scratch the itch - and that’s it.”

Each step brought him closer until he was standing just inside Louis’ personal space.

Louis’s heart slammed against his ribs. This wasn’t casual. Not to him. Not even close.

This was the thing he’d told himself never to want again.

But Harry was in his bedroom. Harry was offering.

And Louis? Louis had imagined this exact moment more times than he’d admit to anyone—even himself. The weight of Harry. The way his voice might sound full of want. How it’d feel to lose control with him.

His mouth went dry. His thoughts dissolved into static.

And Harry—those fucking green eyes locked on his, like they could strip him down without ever touching him.

Louis swallowed hard.

He opened his mouth, but his voice barely cooperated. "What about Taylor?"

Harry blinked, like the name had only just entered the room. Then he shrugged, casual to the point of cruelty. "She’s fine with it. We’re... open. Sort of. She doesn’t mind."

Louis nodded once. Sharp. Mechanical. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Fuck.

Harry lifted a hand—slow, deliberate, like he was testing the water before diving headfirst—and let his fingers graze along Louis’ jaw. Then his thumb followed, tracing the curve of Louis’ cheek and brushing lightly over his bottom lip, slow enough to be deliberate, soft enough to leave a burn. On Louis’ mouth, a tingling heat bloomed and lingered, cruel in its gentleness.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Harry murmured, voice low and almost reverent.

Louis couldn’t look away. He had to tilt his head back just to meet Harry’s eyes. He hated how small he felt in that moment—cornered, undone, wanted.

Then Harry kissed him.

Just a soft, searching press of lips. Testing. Tasting.

Louis didn’t move. At first.

His body locked, breath caught, mind screaming in seven languages. But then—God, then—he gave in.

His hands reached blindly, sliding under Harry’s shirt, fingers hooking against his hips. The hips he’d been staring at all goddamn day. The ones that had no right to look that good under a shirt that offensive.

And Harry made a sound, low in his throat, half surprise, half approval.

Louis didn’t know what this was.

But he knew he didn’t want it to stop.

He pulled Harry closer—just a little at first, then all the way in, until their bodies aligned like a match and a fuse. His hands roamed higher, skimming over the taut muscle of Harry’s back, under that stupid shirt, until he could shove the fabric upward, exposing more skin, more heat.

And then—Harry’s hands found his ass. Firm. Possessive. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d earned this.

Their kiss turned feverish—teeth, breath, tongues tangled in something raw and ravenous. It wasn’t delicate. It was a need years in the making.

Harry broke away just enough to murmur against Louis’ mouth, “I want you to fuck me.”

Louis froze for a second.

Then—no thoughts. No hesitation.

His brain short-circuited in the best way possible.

He grabbed Harry by the hips and pushed him—firm, deliberate—backward until his knees hit the edge of the massive bed. And then he shoved him onto it.

Hard enough to bounce.

Harry laughed, breathless.

Louis didn’t. Couldn't. Because he felt like he was about to implode. Like every nerve ending had turned inward, pulsing, crackling, ready to burst. He felt everything.

This wasn’t just lust. It was hunger, yes, sharp and overwhelming—but beneath it, something deeper simmered. Something far more dangerous. Like every glance, every fight, every accidental touch between them had been a prelude to this.

He hovered over Harry, breath shallow, hands braced on either side. And Harry—Harry looked up at him like he was the answer to a question neither of them had dared ask.

Louis leaned in, lips brushing Harry’s jaw, his throat, his collarbone. Every inch felt like sacred ground and uncharted warzone all at once. His hands moved instinctively—one sliding under Harry’s back, the other still wrapped around his hip like he was afraid this might vanish if he let go.

This wasn’t about power. Or pride. Or even sex.

This was about finally. About yes. About every unspoken thing between them unraveling at once—breathless, burning, inevitable.

They began to move—slow at first, grinding against each other, testing friction, testing limits. Louis bit down a groan as their hips met, as heat pooled in his stomach and spread outward like wildfire.

That damn shirt. That fucking shirt.

He gritted his teeth, fingers bunching in the fabric, and yanked it up and over Harry’s head in one swift, frustrated motion.

“Better” Louis muttered, more to himself than to Harry.

Harry’s answering smirk was cut off by Louis’ mouth—this time moving lower, worshipful and hungry. Lips, tongue, teeth along collarbone and chest, each kiss a silent curse and a prayer.

Then Harry sat up just enough to grab the hem of Louis’ shirt and pull it up, over, off—exposing tattooed skin, muscle, want. He didn’t look away. His eyes swept over Louis slowly, hungrily, reverently. Then he reached out, and with a single finger, traced the words inked across Louis’ chest: It is what it is. He smiled—soft, intimate. “Of course it is” he murmured, like he was reading a secret. “You’re beautiful” he added, almost like he couldn’t help himself.

His fingertip followed the lines of the tattoo, then drifted lower, down Louis’ sternum, tracing the curve of ribs, the ridge of muscle, the lines Louis had always tried not to think too much about. Like he wasn’t just touching him—he was memorizing him.

Louis couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. He just let him.

Then Louis kissed his way down, emboldened by the look in Harry’s eyes, hands already at Harry’s waistband, fumbling with the button, the zipper, until he could slide a hand beneath.

Under the boxers—soft fabric, hot skin, and—

God.

That ass.

Louis’ brain almost blue-screened.

He groaned into Harry’s throat, desperate, undone, like he’d been handed everything he ever wanted and didn’t know where to start.

Harry gasped—sharp, needy. And then another sound followed, softer, broken, impossibly hot.

Those little noises—half-stifled moans, breath hitching, lips parting helplessly—they drove Louis mad.

He wanted to bottle them. Frame them. Live in them.

And still—he needed more.

Eventually, they were tangled between the sheets, stripped down to nothing but boxers and sweat-slick skin. The heat between them throbbed like a second heartbeat, wild and insistent.

Louis lay half on top of Harry, his thigh pressed between Harry’s legs, their breath mingling in the space between almost-kisses.

And still, the tension coiled tighter.

Until Louis couldn’t bear it anymore.

He reached for the toiletry bag resting on the nightstand—fingers trembling, breath catching in his throat—and unzipped it. Lube. Condom. His fingers closed around them like muscle memory, but inside he felt like it was the first time all over again. Ridiculous. Like some awkward virgin in a teen drama. But that’s what Harry did to him—unmade him in the most intimate, infuriating way.

Harry’s eyes followed every movement, lips parted, pupils blown wide. His voice curled through the tension, low and teasing. “Well” he murmured with a crooked grin, “someone came prepared.”

Louis snorted, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow.
“We’re Formula One drivers, Harry. We could fuck someone different every night if that’s what we were after.”

But that’s not what this is, he thought—and the weight of it lodged somewhere deep in his chest.

He turned back toward Harry, the lube and condom still in his hand, and leaned in—slow, deliberate, close enough to feel the shift in Harry’s breath as the space between them disappeared. He pressed a kiss to Harry’s neck, slow and anchoring, before shifting lower.

He kissed his way down—chest, stomach, hip—taking his time, letting Harry feel every inch of want. Then his fingers slipped under the waistband, tugging the last barrier down, and he whispered something soft, low, that made Harry shudder beneath him. "You're gorgeous, Curly."

When he reached between Harry’s legs, it wasn’t rushed. It was reverent. Careful. Fingers slick and steady, sliding between heat and want. He circled once, slow and teasing, just to watch Harry gasp, hips twitching like his body couldn’t decide between wanting more and combusting on the spot.

“Fuck,” Harry whimpered, already breathless.

Louis pressed in with a single finger—slow, patient, impossibly gentle. He felt the initial resistance give way, Harry clenching around him before softening with a sound that was all exhale and surrender.

“Good?” Louis asked, his voice low, rough.

Harry nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck, yeah.”

After a while, when it felt like Harry could take it, Louis added a second finger, moving with care but unable to stop the way his pulse thundered. Harry arched into it, grinding back, seeking more. And when Louis slipped in a third, Harry let out a broken noise that made Louis feel like a goddamn earthquake.

“Please” Harry breathed, “don’t stop.”

Soft praises spilled from Louis’ lips—things he didn’t even realize he was saying. “So good... taking me so well... Christ, you feel unreal.” His mouth moved along Harry’s hipbone, kissing, mouthing, anchoring himself. But he didn’t stop there.

He dipped lower, lips brushing the crease of Harry’s thigh, lingering. Then—slowly, reverently—he kissed along the base of Harry’s cock, soft and deliberate. Just to feel him twitch. Just to hear the gasp that punched out of Harry’s lungs.

Louis exhaled, warm breath ghosting over sensitive skin. He pressed another kiss, then another, lips mapping want and awe and hunger across every inch. He didn’t take him in—not yet. But he let his mouth speak all the things he wasn’t ready to say aloud. You’re stunning. I want you. I want this.

Harry writhed under him, hips rolling helplessly, one hand flying to Louis’ hair like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull him closer or hold on for dear life.

“Louis,” he moaned, wrecked and wanting, like his name was the only thing keeping him tethered.

And Louis—God, Louis wanted to burn that sound into his skin.

He felt like a live wire, like a boy touching fire for the first time and begging it to consume him. This was what it meant to want someone so badly it made you dizzy.

He wanted to hear it again.

And again.

And forever.

But then—Harry moved.

Desperation cloaked in elegance, like he couldn’t take one more second of the space between them. He reached for the condom Louis had left lying on the bed, movements fluid but urgent. His fingers wrapped around the foil packet, eyes locked on Louis—dark, unblinking, intent.

Then—teeth bared, he tore it open with a sharp rip that made Louis’ breath catch— he did it with such a controlled motion. Sexy, deliberate, a little dangerous. Like watching someone peel the wrapping off a sin they fully intend to commit.

Louis stared, entranced. He’d never seen anything like it. Like him.

Harry tossed the wrapper aside and reached for Louis’ waistband.

“Off,” he murmured—low, commanding, the kind of voice that wrapped around Louis’ spine and tugged.

He tugged the boxers down in one fluid motion and tossed them aside like they offended him. Then he leaned in, warm breath ghosting over Louis’ neck, lips brushing his ear.

“I need you,” he whispered. “Now. I want to feel you. All of you.”

His hand curled around Louis’ cock, firm and reverent at once, like he knew exactly what power he held and exactly how to wield it. And as he slid the condom on—slow, careful, devastating—Louis thought he might shatter from the heat in that gaze alone.

Harry lay back again —intimate, deliberate, filthy poetry. He propped himself on his elbows just enough to watch, eyes burning into Louis like he was the center of the universe. His torso stretched, muscles drawn taut like a painting come to life, skin flushed, hair mussed, lips red.

Louis felt his knees falter.

He looked like a fucking revelation.

And Louis? Louis felt like a man drowning in holy water.

Some small, rational part of him whispered that he would regret this later. That he was already in too deep.

But Louis had never been good at listening to the smart voice in his head.

He wanted this Harry. Wild. Wanting. Undone.

He moved between Harry’s legs with a reverence that bordered on worship. Spread them open with gentle hands, as if Harry were something precious, breakable. And there he was—laid out, flushed, waiting. His.

Louis reached down, lined himself up, his hand trembling around his cock as he guided it to where Harry was open, ready. He looked down, pausing a second to take him in—Harry, spread out and wrecked beneath him, and the way his own cock twitched in anticipation at the sight of it. Harry was big, hard, flushed at the tip and stunning. And Louis had the absurd, dizzying thought that no one this beautiful should ever be this undone. Not for him. He paused—just a breath—watching Harry, reading every flicker of expression. The way his brows drew together, the way his chest rose in anticipation, the way his lips parted on a quiet, shaky gasp.

And then, slowly, achingly slow, Louis pressed in.

Harry’s mouth fell open, a raw, wrecked sound escaping him—half moan, half sob.

Louis thought he might die from the feel of it. Tight, hot, overwhelming. His lungs stuttered in his chest. He had to force himself to breathe, to move carefully, to stay grounded.

He stilled once fully inside, braced on shaking arms, forehead dropping to Harry’s shoulder as he whispered, “Fuck. You feel so good. So fucking good.”

He kissed along Harry’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw—anywhere his mouth could reach. Trying to ground himself. Trying not to lose it too fast. Trying to give Harry time to adjust.

Harry clutched at his back, breath ragged. “Louis.” he whispered. “Move.”

And Louis did.

Because nothing in the world had ever felt more right than being inside him.

He rolled his hips slowly, and Harry’s body met him like a wave finding its shore. And Louis—Louis surrendered to it all.

Each movement was a whispered promise, but it didn’t take long before the hunger bled through. His hips began to move faster, the rhythm steady and deep, pulling moans from Harry that made Louis’ vision blur.

Harry clung to him, nails dragging down his back, head thrown back, lips parted in a series of breathless gasps. “Fuck—Louis—don’t stop” he panted, body arching up to meet every thrust.

Louis groaned, forehead pressed to Harry’s, breath hot against his skin. “God, you feel unreal.”

Their bodies moved in sync, all slick skin and stuttered breaths, and the sounds—their stifled moans, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed beneath them—filled the room like music only they could hear.

Louis buried himself deeper, angling his hips until he found that perfect spot—Harry’s prostate—and when he hit it, Harry cried out, the sound sharp, raw, helpless. His back bowed, legs trembling as pleasure crashed through him and Louis did it again. And again. Each thrust more desperate, more certain, hitting that spot that made Harry see stars and made Louis feel like he was worshipping him from the inside out. Until Harry was gasping his name on repeat like a litany.

And still—he wanted more. All of it.

His hand slid between them, wrapping around Harry’s cock in time with the rhythm and Harry bucked, a strangled moan tearing from his throat.

“Louis—fuck—please—”

“I’ve got you” Louis breathed, voice wrecked. “Let go for me.”

Harry’s whole body arched, every muscle drawn tight, and then—

Louis felt it first in the way Harry’s cock twitched in his hand, thick and pulsing, warm against his palm. He kept stroking him, steady and sure, his thumb brushing over the tip just to see Harry fall apart. And then it happened—the gasp, high and wrecked, a stuttering cry of Louis’ name that punched the air from the room. Harry’s head tipped back, curls clinging to sweat-damp skin, lips parted, eyes shut tight. He came hard, his whole body trembling as hot release spilled across Louis’ hand and his own stomach, the aftershocks rippling through him in waves.

The way Harry clenched around him in that moment—tight, desperate, real—sent Louis spiraling.

His rhythm faltered. His body jerked.

One more thrust. Two.

Then his world cracked open.

“Fuck,” he gasped—guttural, helpless.

He came with a groan that tore out of him like it had been buried for years. His hips drove forward, deep and final, and he spilled into Harry with a heat that made his whole body convulse. The pleasure rushed over him like fire and ocean all at once—sharp, infinite, unbearable in its beauty.

His breath shattered in his chest, teeth clenched, muscles locked tight as he rode the wave to its end.

And then—stillness. Heavy, breathless, golden.

He collapsed forward, catching himself on trembling arms, forehead resting against Harry’s temple.

They were both panting, bodies slick and tangled, the world narrowing to sweat and skin and the wild thrum of shared heartbeat.

“Holy fuck” Louis muttered, barely audible.

Harry just hummed, dazed and flushed and smiling like he knew exactly what he'd done to him.

A moment passed. Then Louis shifted, slow and careful, withdrawing from Harry with a breathless hitch. He rolled onto his back, pulled off the condom with a practiced flick, knotted it absently, and tossed it to the floor.

The cool air against his sweat-damp skin made him shiver. He exhaled, long and low, before reaching blindly for Harry’s arm and pulling him close again.

They lay there for a while, limbs tangled, still catching their breath. The room was thick with heat and the fading echo of what they’d just done.

Then—Harry spoke.

“You ever think about how weird it is that seagulls exist in cities?” he murmured, voice rough and sleep-heavy. “Like... why? They’re beach birds.”

Louis blinked, turned his head slowly. “What the fuck, Styles?”

Harry smirked into the pillow. “Just saying. I saw one outside the paddock once. Looked like it wanted to file a complaint.”

Louis turned his head, grinning against the pillow.  “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” Harry said, eyes still closed. “It’s part of the charm.”

Louis chuckled, the kind that vibrated low in his chest. Harry joined in, their bodies still close, bare legs tangled, their laughter soft and secret and suspended—just for them.

Until Louis’ phone lit up on the nightstand, vibrating insistently against the wood.

Niall.

The yacht. Of course.

And barely a beat later, Harry’s phone began buzzing too—Gemma’s name flashing across the screen like a headline neither of them wanted to read.

They didn’t answer. They didn’t even move.

But it was enough. Enough to shatter the stillness, to remind them that there was a world outside this bed, outside this moment. A world full of expectations and people who called at just the wrong time.

They lay there, eyes on the ceiling, hearts thudding a little too loud now—not from sex, but from the quiet return of reality.

The bubble they’d built—fragile, golden, perfect—popped without ceremony.

Louis felt the shift—how quickly the intimacy was replaced by something cooler, thinner.

Harry turned to him, still smiling, but there was something rehearsed in it now. “Well. That was... educational.”

Louis blinked. “Educational.”

“I mean, a great experience, yeah? We’re still friends. Obviously.” Harry sat up, casual like it was no big deal. “Not saying we can’t do it again sometime. If we feel like it. No pressure.”

Louis forced a smirk. “Right. Friends.”

“Exactly.”

Harry stood, stretching, muscles glistening with sweat, and for a second Louis thought—maybe he’d stay. Maybe he’d lie back down. Kiss him again. Let it mean something.

But instead, Harry turned and walked toward the door to Louis' bathroom.

“Gonna take a quick shower” he mumbled over his shoulder, already halfway gone.

The sound of running water followed a second later. The en suite door clicked shut.

And Louis was alone.

Alone in the middle of a bed that still held the shape of what they'd done. Still smelled like him. Like them. Like something that had almost been real.

He stared at the ceiling. Felt the silence crawl over him, heavy and smug.

This is fine, he told himself. You're fine. You're an adult. You knew the deal.

Friends-with-benefits. No strings. No expectations. Totally modern. Totally rational.

Totally bullshit.

He forced a smile. You’re chill, remember? Totally fine. Not the guy who catches feelings.

His chest felt too tight.

What the fuck did you even think this was going to be?

After a moment, he got up, moving on autopilot, found the condom and tossed it in the bin with surgical precision. Then grabbed his phone and called the front desk.

"Hi, yeah—can you send housekeeping in about an hour? Just... fresh sheets, please."

His voice didn’t crack. Small victory.

He ended the call and stared at the bed, stripped of illusion now. There was no way in hell he could sleep in it. Not when it still smelled like Harry. Not when every wrinkle in the sheets looked like a memory.

Chapter Text

Harry’s POV

The late afternoon sun spilled across the Monaco pavement like it had something to prove, every cobblestone catching the light like a spotlight. Harry laughed—too loud, too quick, like the sound had escaped without permission. Polished, charming, effortless. The Harry people expected. The one who could make Louis roll his eyes and still smirk. The one with the perfectly timed punchlines, the easy grin, the armor of anecdote.

He wore the role like a tailored suit. But beneath the silk, the seams were splitting.

They walked side by side toward the harbor, the yacht a distant gleam against the sea, all angles and arrogance. The sky was a brutal kind of blue, too clean, too sharp, like it was mocking how frayed he felt inside. So he talked. He filled the silence like it might crack open and swallow him if he didn’t.

Keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t let it catch up to you.

“When I was sixteen, I came here with Gemma—absolutely convinced we could sneak into a casino. Do you know how far you get looking like a scrawny teenager with too much bravado and not enough facial hair? Six feet. Then a very polite man escorted us out by the elbows.”

Louis laughed. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was reflex. He was good at both. Just like Harry.

It was almost laughable, how neatly it all stayed locked inside that hotel room. Folded up with the sheets, sealed in sweat and silence. Harry had decided—somewhere between the second drink and the second orgasm—that if they just didn’t talk about it, if they performed normalcy with enough conviction, they could rewind. Slip back into whatever pretense they’d called friendship. Friends. Sure. Maybe with the occasional lapse in judgment. Nothing heavy. Nothing dangerous.

Nothing that could ruin you. Nothing that could make you want.

We’re fine.

I’m fine.

This is fine.

Say it enough and it becomes true, right?

He wasn’t going to spiral. Not now. Not over this. He’d made a decision—clear, clean, adult. This wasn’t love. It was a fuck and a laugh and a shared toothbrush they’d both pretend to forget. Two grown men being stupid and hot and completely in control.

Just like buying an overpriced shirt you’ll never wear but keep anyway, because it made you feel like someone else for five minutes.

Except the shirt didn’t crawl under his skin every time it laughed.

He pulled out his phone, fingers a little too quick, voice deliberately light. “I should text Gemma we’re almost there,” he said, like his mouth wasn’t lined with rust.

Louis hummed, gaze straight ahead. “Tell her I want a drink in my hand before I step on that boat.”

Harry smiled—reflexive, automatic, wrong. “Demanding.”

“Efficient,” Louis replied, and threw him a grin that could’ve lit a match.

Harry looked down at the screen. Froze.

His hand trembled. Barely. Not enough to draw attention. But enough that he felt the crack beneath the surface.

Not now. Not here. Keep walking.

He forced the message out, the text clumsy, fingers wooden. Then shoved the phone back into his pocket like it might explode.

Louis launched into a rant about a miniature dog in a rhinestone harness. “That leash costs more than my first car. That dog should be paying fucking taxes.”

Harry laughed—really laughed. Sharp and sudden and involuntary. Louis' voice did that to him. Dragged him back from the edge without even trying. “At least someone around here’s contributing to society.”

Louis grinned sideways at him, and for a second—just a second—Harry's ribs loosened. The sky softened. The breath in his lungs didn’t scrape quite so much.

It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t make it mean something. It’s just Louis.

He told himself it was ideal. Easy. No strings. Fucking perfection.

And if you say it again, maybe it’ll finally be true.

This was what adults did, right? Navigate lust like logistics. Keep it clean. Keep it compartmentalized.

Harry’s Thoughts wander of to his father.

If he could see Harry now—walking toward his yacht like he belonged there, laughter weaponized, charm perfectly calibrated, every real feeling locked behind his teeth—he’d nod in that cold, approving way of his.

Good boy. No weakness. No shame. No faggot tears.

Harry’s jaw tightened, the memory slamming into him like a knee to the ribs. The sting of it still lived somewhere in his cheekbone. Or maybe lower—in the place where disgust had dug its roots.

He hated how much of that man, that called himself his father, still lived in him—in the polished mask, the practiced distance, the way he laughed too loud to drown the silence.

He didn’t want to think about Desmond. Not here. Not with Louis' smile still curling in the corner of his vision like a dare.

Harry swallowed hard.

They turned the final corner, and the port unfolded before them with the quiet arrogance of obscene wealth—rows of yachts gleaming like wedding cakes on steroids, chrome railings flashing in the sun, every surface polished to a point of hostility. The kind of place where even the salt air smelled rich.

Harry squinted against the glare. And there it was.
His father’s yacht.

A floating ego trip with too many decks and not enough soul. Every curve screamed money without meaning. It was white in the way teeth are white after too much bleach.

He hated it.
Hated the way it took up space.
Hated the way it smiled with all the false charm Desmond had ever wielded.

It was a fuckin’ monument to everything Desmond values — control, dominance, surface over substance. It was hideous.

Harry’s throat tightened, but he kept walking. Because that’s what you do with ghosts—you walk past them and pretend they can’t follow, right?

As they reached the gangway, the deck erupted in noise.

“Finally!” Niall shouted, already shirtless, sunglasses crooked, drink in hand like he was hosting some chaotic holiday special.

“Get in, losers,” Gemma called from her sunbed, bright and biting. “We’re about to become sea trash.”

Zayn raised his glass from the pool, legs dangling like art. He and Niall looked sun-drunk and stupidly content, caught in that perfect haze of too much sun and not enough shame.

Taylor emerged beside them in something pastel and filmy, her smile as smooth as a well-rehearsed line. She leaned over the rail, radiant and knowing. Harry found his own smile crawling into place as he stepped up.

He kissed her cheek. “Hey, babe. You alright?”

“Peachy,” she said with a wink. Like she didn’t see right through him.

Gemma launched herself from the lounger, pulling him into a tight, coconut-scented hug. “God, finally. It was getting exhausting without the two of you. Niall’s ideas are a full-time job.”

“You love them,” Niall hollered, just before vanishing into a dramatic cannonball that drenched half the deck.

“Debatable,” Gemma muttered, but she grinned anyway.

Behind him, footsteps thudded up the gangway, light and deliberate.

“Oh, come on, Gem,” Louis drawled, voice already soaked in sunlight and mischief. “You knew what you were signing up for when you let Niall bring more than one pair of swim trunks. That man packs chaos like other people pack socks.”

Gemma let out a laugh. “Please, he is a sock. A loud, mismatched one that’s always slightly damp.”

Louis snorted. “And still everyone’s favorite.”

He stepped fully onto the deck, sunglasses perched like armor, a lazy grin stretching his mouth—too sharp to be careless, too smooth to be sincere. He looked perfectly undone: shirt unbuttoned, hair kissed by wind, his entire posture screaming ease.

Harry turned toward the sound, already smiling before he could stop himself.

Louis' gaze flicked to him—brief, unreadable. Then he winked.

Just a blink. A twitch of connection.

Niall swam to the edge of the pool, wiped water from his face, and squinted up at Louis. His hair clung to his forehead, his grin crooked, but something in his eyes was just a bit too sharp.

“You good?” he asked, voice casual—too casual.

The question hung there for a beat, heavier than it should’ve been.

“Yeah,” Louis said quickly, flashing a grin. “Just hot as hell.”

Niall gave a slow nod, but didn’t look entirely convinced. His gaze lingered for a second longer—evaluating, maybe even questioning—before he pushed off the wall and drifted back toward Zayn, who met him with a lazy splash.

Harry watched the exchange a beat too long. The way Niall’s gaze lingered. The edge in his voice.
There was something there. Or maybe Harry was imagining it.

God, don’t be absurd. He doesn’t know. He can’t know.

Still—the way Niall looked at Louis, then at him—it tugged at something low and coiled in Harry’s gut. A whisper of suspicion that didn’t quite have the decency to disappear.

Then Harry stepped closer, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Hey, mate.”

Niall mirrored the gesture, but the smile that followed was tight. Not unfriendly, just... distant. Practiced.
Too polite to be real.

Harry felt the chill of it settle under his skin.

It wasn’t new—this subtle frost—but today, it felt heavier. More deliberate.

Everyone gets on with me. That’s the whole point. That’s the currency.

But Niall never fully had. And Harry had never known why. He wasn’t used to being a question mark in someone’s eyes. Especially not someone like Niall—easygoing, loyal to a fault, Louis’ best friend.

So what the hell is it?

And just as the question began to loop, tightening, Taylor appeared at his side like a perfectly timed distraction.

She held two sweating glasses, the lime wedges bright against the salt rim.  

“Margarita time,” she announced, her voice sunny and effortless.

Harry almost sagged with relief. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said, too fast, but with genuine warmth.

Harry took one gratefully, lips curling into a practiced smile.

Louis murmured a quiet thanks, lifting the glass and sniffing at it like it might explode.

He gave the glass a dubious look. “Margaritas,” he muttered, nose wrinkling. “Tequila dressed up like it’s going to brunch. But sure.”

He took the tiniest sip—more performance than consumption—then flashed them a grin and turned toward the pool, already moving with that infuriating ease. “I’m gonna go remind Niall he’s not actually a dolphin.”

And with that, he strolled off, glass still in hand, leaving behind the faint echo of citrus and trouble.

Taylor’s fingers brushed Harry’s wrist—light, grounding, familiar. She was his compass in all this, the one person who understood the game and played it with him. She anchored him. Because she knew - always knew - what he needed—especially when he was too proud to ask.

Without thinking, Harry slipped an arm around her waist. They were always pretty close, but here, now, with Louis’ laughter still echoing in his chest like an aftershock—he needed he needed her to hold onto. And Taylor had always known how to hold without clinging.

She leaned into him without hesitation, let her body rest lightly against his side like she’d done it a thousand times—which she had. For the cameras, for the press, for the people who needed the fairytale. But now, it wasn’t for show, it was just for their friendship

“What’s wrong?” she asked under her breath, her smile perfectly intact for anyone watching.

Harry’s eyes stayed on the water, the shimmer of late sunlight breaking into fractured gold. “Nothing,” he murmured. “Just... hot.”

Taylor raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Funny. I heard almost the exact same thing earlier—from someone with blue eyes and a laugh you can hear across the bay.”

Harry groaned softly, tipping his head back in theatrical protest. Of course Louis had said that. “Great, now I’m quoting him without realizing. Kill me.”

But Taylor just smiled, her gaze warm. She always knew when to push—and when not to. "You’ll tell me when you’re ready," she said softly. But Harry wasn’t even ready to tell himself.

She just let her fingers rest at the small of his back, quiet and steady, like a reminder that she was still there, still real.

Harry exhaled, barely. Then brought the glass to his lips. The tequila slid down his throat, sharp and familiar, but instead of clarity, it left static in its wake. A soft blur at the edges of everything.

And that was the point.

Get drunk. Get numb. That’s the plan.

It hadn’t always been his go-to, but somewhere along the line, he’d learned that all his usual tricks worked better with a drink in hand. Softer. Easier to bear. If you drank enough, fast enough, everything eventually stopped feeling like it mattered. And tonight? He needed that silence. Desperately.

Time slipped sideways.

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in rose and bronze. The laughter around the pool softened, stretching into lazy conversation and quiet teasing. Towels were draped over sun-warm shoulders, hair still damp from impromptu swims. The day was slipping into something slower, looser. Beautiful, if you didn’t look too close.

Harry stayed close to Taylor, laughed when he should, nodded when expected. He played his part. Perfect boyfriend. Golden boy. Gleaming teeth, loud laughter, a carefully choreographed ease. He flirted playfully with Taylor, sprawled theatrically across a lounger, spinning self-deprecating stories like sugar floss—light, sweet, hollow.

But his eyes—

They kept drifting.

To Louis.

Across the deck, Louis was sunlight weaponized. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the delicate ink under his collarbones —it is what it is—a phrase that now felt like a cosmic joke. Harry's stomach clenched. He could still taste that skin, still remember the sound Louis made when Harry's mouth had traced those words with reverence, with hunger. It was ridiculous. That had been what—six hours ago? Less? And now Louis was out here acting like gravity was the only thing that had ever pulled them together. Sunglasses slung low on his nose, his laughter a melodic riot above the waves. He was telling some wild story about a Barcelona nightclub and a stolen conga line, and the group hung on every word—helpless, orbiting. Louis drew people in like gravity.

Harry watched, drink in hand, vision just a little too slow to keep up. He sipped again, let the tequila burn down his throat like it owed him something. He was well past the safe line—buzzed had given way to blurred. Limbs loose, pulse too loud in his ears, the world smudged at the corners.

But he didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

Because the ache in his ribs—the one carved out by Louis’ smile, his voice, his everything—was still there. Still pulsing. And Harry didn’t know how to make it stop. So he drank. And watched. And told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Even as his body kept proving him wrong.

Zayn emerged from the pool, water cascading in thin rivulets down his chest, looking like a frame out of a glossy music video—effortless, slow-motion cool. It was absurd. Offensive, even. He moved like a god on holiday, all muscle and nonchalance, the kind of beauty that didn’t have to try. The kind that made Harry feel like a badly drawn sketch.

He padded over to one of the loungers and grabbed a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from the side table, fishing one out with fingers still wet. He lit it with a lazy flick, the smoke curling like a sigh in the sunlight.

Louis sauntered over, swagger in every step, without missing a beat, and plucked the cigarette from Zayn’s hand. “You know this kills your sex appeal, right?” he said, voice light with mockery.

Zayn snorted. "Funny, 'cause the last time I opened social media, you were trending for that photo with the cigarette. The internet lost its mind. Apparently, 'dangerous and devastating' was the general consensus."

Louis smirked. "Must’ve been a slow news day."

He raised it to his lips and took a long drag. As he inhaled, his cheeks hollowed, pulling taut to reveal the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Harry stared—openly, helplessly—as the smoke curled between Louis’ lips like a secret. It wasn’t fair. How could a single moment be that sexy?

And how could Zayn be the one standing next to him?

Zayn raised a brow, then lunged without warning, fingers jabbing into Louis’ sides. Louis yelped, twisting away in mock outrage, laughter spilling out of him like music. It was unfiltered, bright, and it hit Harry right in the chest.

Something twisted inside him—hot, irrational. A flash of something ugly he didn’t want to name. Jealousy. Insecurity. Fear. Blame the tequila. Blame the way Louis' laugh made his skin feel too tight. Blame the way Zayn got to be close. Effortlessly close.