Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

About fifteen minutes from Flat 302, in the heart of Manchester, stood a building that looked truly extraordinary from the outside. In the penthouse, life was, in fact, extraordinary. It was the kind of place where mornings started slow, with sunlight spilling through tall windows, where music played softly in the background, and two mugs always waited on the kitchen counter. Between all the deadlines and noise, it was still home, a heaven for two. 

But naturally, not every day felt like heaven on earth. 

Sometimes Harry would wake with a furrowed brow, or Louis would be quietly grieving, or simply overwhelmed with too much on his plate — and on those days, they'd end up a little short with each other. There were days when the bed felt too cold or too warm, and they’d wake tangled but restless. Days when the tea tasted off and the toast burned and neither of them laughed when Clifford did something stupid.

Sometimes Harry would leave the bathroom light on and it would drive Louis mad. Sometimes Louis would forget to reply to a message Harry had sent hours ago, and it would piss him off. Some mornings, Louis would speak in clipped sentences, barely meeting Harry’s eyes over breakfast.

Sometimes it was grief. Sometimes anxiety. Sometimes money. But even on those days, they didn’t fall apart.

The moment Louis caught Harry’s eyes on that morning, he knew today was one of those days.

“Mornin’, love,” Louis said softly as he stepped onto the sunlit patio. Harry didn’t look up, just kept sitting curled in the wicker chair, a blue mug between his hands. His gaze was fixed on the newspaper spread wide across the small table, brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Louis grinned, leaning in close, his lips just brushing Harry’s cheek. But Harry shifted, turning his face away just enough to avoid the kiss, his eyes never leaving the newspaper.

“It’s already ten,” Harry muttered in disapproval.

Louis rolled his eyes and snatched the mug from Harry’s hands, taking a sip of the still-warm tea. “So? Can’t say ‘good morning’ past six, then? Guess I don’t get my own cuppa today, huh?”

Harry’s lips twitched, a reluctant smile at the corner. “Spot on.”

But even on those days—especially on those days—their love always made space for the silence, the short answers and tired sighs. They didn’t force each other into lightness. They didn’t demand smiles when there weren’t any to give.

Instead, they let it be. Let the off-days come and pass like bad weather.

They learned to trust the shape of each other’s quiet. The way Harry would clean a drawer that didn’t need cleaning. The way Louis’ hands always found something to do when he was anxious. 

Sometimes all they could manage was a hand on a back, a shared blanket or a cup of tea left on a bedside table. But their love lived in those things too. Because the love was still there. Always there, steady, making room for whatever the day brought.

So that morning, when Louis clocked that Harry would be a right little brat all day if he didn’t get his way, he figured it was his turn to back down — something he barely did before meeting his bossy, dimpled, furiously handsome boyfriend.

“Harry.” Louis’ voice softened.

“Louis,” Harry shot back, calm but firm.

Louis stepped closer, dropping his voice, “Babe, it’s been a week. You can’t still be that pissed.”

“Exactly. It’s been a week,” Harry said firmly, eyes locked on Louis’. “And you still haven’t talked to him.”

Louis ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his jaw. “Why do I have to be the one to talk to him? You knew him first.”

Harry’s stare sharpened. “You invited him!”

“Months ago! It’s not like I expected him to keep turning up unannounced.” 

Harry sighed. “Sort it out, then.”

Louis’ lips curved into a tired smile as he stepped closer, fingers reaching up to cradle Harry’s face gently. His thumb traced over the tense line between Harry’s brows. “Help me sort it, love. I don’t want him here any more than you do.”

Harry’s guard softened just a fraction. Louis leaned in, pressing a kiss between those furrowed brows. 

Louis laughed softly. “Miss being able to be loud in bed.”

“Well, if you sort it,” Harry said, his voice dipping just enough to make Louis look at him, “you’ll earn yourself a very good reason to be loud.”

He leaned in and kissed him, just a quick press of lips. Louis’ smirk returned immediately, cheeky. 

“He’ll be here any minute, he’s walking Clifford,” Harry added, looking back at the newspaper in his hands.

“Least he’s good for something,” Louis muttered under his breath, releasing him with a roll of his eyes.

Harry scoffed, getting back the now half-empty mug of tea. “He ate all my granola. Again.”

Louis snorted. “Fair play, I used to nick his food all the time back in the flat.”

Harry turned slowly, eyes narrowing in betrayal. “Don’t take his side. You’re meant to be on mine—I’m your boyfriend.”

Louis grinned, unbothered. “You still kiss me good morning after I defend a granola thief. Must be love.”

Harry tried to stay serious, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into reluctant amusement. He shook his head, muttering, “Not sure I still love you,” just as the faint buzz of the doorbell cut through the air.

“You do.” Louis groaned and dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder, whispering dramatically, “Pray for me.”

A few minutes later, the chime of the front door echoed faintly through the house. Before either of them could get up, the familiar thump of paws on wood came bounding through the hallway—and then, like twin hurricanes, Clifford and Niall came barrelling out onto the patio.

“Mornin’,” Louis chirped, crouching beside Clifford and giving his ears a good scratch as the labradoodle squirmed with delight. Behind him, Niall shuffled in like he'd barely slept, his hoodie askew and hair looking like it’d had a fight with his pillow.

Harry stayed glued to his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, pout firmly in place.

“It’s ten,” Niall grumbled as he rubbed his eyes, dropping his phone onto the table with a sigh.

“How’s my best boy, then?” Louis cooed in that infamously ridiculous baby voice, nuzzling Clifford’s fluffy head. The pup responded with pure enthusiasm, tail thudding against the patio floor as he licked every inch of Louis’ face.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “If you want me to kiss your mouth again, it better be clean.”

Louis didn’t even glance his way. “I’ll rinse,” he said flatly, rubbing drool off his cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie before he sat down. Clifford flopped into his lap, tongue hanging out, oversized paws splayed across his knees.

“This thing’s gettin’ massive,” Niall said, dragging out one of the patio chairs and sinking into it. He stared at Clifford like he was trying to do the math in his head. “Wasn’t this size last time I was here.”

“Last time was yesterday. And the day before,” Harry mumbled, barely hiding the bitterness in his tone.

Louis’ foot nudged him sharply under the table, socked toe pressing into Harry’s shin in warning. Harry gave him a look without speaking a word.

“So…” Niall drawled, eyes fixed on his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly. “Invited Zayn and Liam round for dinner tonight.”

“You did what?” Harry’s head snapped up.

“Niall.” Louis blinked, looking over Clifford’s head. “Here? You invited them here?”

Niall finally looked up, blinking like they were being unreasonable. “Yeah? Thought it’d be chill. Haven’t seen Zayn in ages, and Liam’s been texting me about that weird job he’s doing. Thought it’d be nice.”

“Who’s cooking?” Louis asked, already knowing the answer.

Niall gestured across the table as if it were obvious. “Well, Harry, obviously. He’s the one who actually can .”

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging in a slow breath through his nose like he was summoning every ounce of patience he had left. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he muttered.

“Too late,” Louis said, straightening up with Clifford still half in his lap. “You heard it. You’re hosting.”

Niall grinned. “You love hosting.”

Harry shot him a look over the rim of his mug. “I love peace and quiet.”

“Same,” Niall replied. “Anyway, they’ll be here at seven.”

The moment Niall disappeared down the hallway, humming something tuneless as he went, Harry dropped his mug on the table and turned sharply. He grabbed Louis' arm with both hands. “Get. Rid. Of him.” 

Louis blinked, then cocked his head like Harry had just asked him to evict a puppy. “He’s Niall,” he said simply. “You love Niall.”

“I love him outside my fucking house,” Harry hissed. “I love him on iMessage. I love him in pubs. I do not love him crashing here for three weeks and inviting our friends for a dinner I didn’t agree to cook.”

Louis tried not to laugh. “How am I meant to chuck him out, babe? He’s got nowhere to go.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Harry snapped, barely keeping his voice from climbing. “Tell him to buy a house. Rent one. Sleep on a yacht . I don’t care. Do something, Louis. I’m not joking.”

Louis sighed, rubbing his hands gently over Harry’s tensed shoulders. “He travels nonstop, love. Gets lonely. When he’s back, he just wants to be near us—we’re his family too, yeah?”

Harry stared at him flatly, unblinking. “Remember that thing you’re obsessed with?”

Louis blinked. “Which one?”

Harry’s voice dropped into an icy deadpan. “ Sex. ”

Louis’ lips parted, just the faintest flicker of realisation dawning in his expression. 

“Yeah, that thing?” Harry continued, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “Not happening until he’s out that door.”

Louis gave him a long look, trying not to smile. “You’re actually serious.”

Harry didn’t even blink.

“…Right,” Louis muttered. “Well. I better go talk to Niall then, hadn’t I?”

If his boyfriend demanded it, well, what choice did he have? Obedience wasn’t exactly optional, was it? 

So Louis marched to the guest room, which was now Niall’s room apparently. His clothes were in the wardrobe, his things everywhere. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Niall lay diagonally across the bed like he owned the place, typing on his phone. 

“Alright, mate?”

“What d’you want?” Niall replied without looking up.

Louis cleared his throat, doing his best to sound casual. “Just wonderin’... what’s the grand plan? Like, life-wise.” He waved his hand vaguely in the air. “When you next jetting off?”

“Dunno,” Niall muttered, still tapping away. “Reckon I’ll stick around Manchester a bit. Only got remote work next month.”

“Remote work. Right.” Louis blinked. “Wouldn’t you be comfier in a hotel? Room service, fresh sheets, spa slippers... luxury.”

Niall finally looked up and grinned. “Nah. Love it here with you lot. Proper homely, innit?”

Louis forced a smile, teeth clenched. “Yeah, nothing says ‘home’ like Harry threatening celibacy.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Louis took a deep breath and tried a new angle. “But what about Alice? You two were getting on, yeah? Don’t you want your own place to, y’know... invite her over?”

Niall shrugged. “Could just bring her here.”

Louis blinked. “No. Niall. You absolutely cannot.”

“Why not?” Niall asked, amused. “She likes dogs.”

“This has nothing to do with dogs.”

“Alright, chill—didn’t realise your house came with no girls rules.”

“Not no girls ,” Louis groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Just... not girlfriends. Not... sex in my guest room .”

Niall flopped back against the pillows, laughing. “Jesus. You sound like a dad.”

“Feeling a bit Harry-esque today,” Louis muttered.

“Oh, is that what this is? So, you’re the eviction squad he sent?”

“Mate,” Louis said, finally serious. “You’ve been here for three weeks . But you’re around three weeks every single month. We love you. But we also love our privacy. And silence. And fucking without worrying someone’s gonna walk in to borrow a charger.”

Niall paused, then nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression settling over his face. “I do need to stop nicking Harry’s chargers.”

Louis stared.

“Alright,” Niall sighed dramatically. “I’ll sort something out.”

Louis let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Niall said, already back on his phone. “But I’m taking Clifford with me.”

“Like hell you are.”

Harry spent the entire day in the kitchen, orchestrating dinner. Louis, meanwhile, was on his own shopping spree. At least three times he’d been sent back out the door, clutching ingredients Harry suddenly remembered he needed. Apparently, Harry’s impressive culinary ambitions did not come with a properly planned shopping list.

“Just cook something easy next time, my love,” Louis pleaded for the second time as he walked in, lugging a bag full of mysterious spices and a tub of something he couldn’t even begin to recognise.

Harry snatched the bag from his hands, flashing him a pout that begged for a kiss. “Shut up.”

Louis rolled his eyes but leant in, pressing a quick kiss to those full lips anyway. “We don’t need gourmet food, baby. It’s just Liam and Zayn,” Louis added after at least five pecks were given.

Harry gave a sly grin. “Lemme do the cooking. You take care of cleaning the patio, yeah?”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “What’s Niall doing?”

Harry shrugged, dropping a wooden spoon into the sauce. “Taking a nap.”

“Why can he sleep when there’s work to be done?”

Harry snorted. “He’s not the host.”

“Like hell he isn’t.”

By the time the clock hit six-fifty, Harry still hadn’t managed to sneak in a shower. His hair was tousled in that ‘I’ve been cooking all day’ way, and there was a faint smudge of flour dusting his cheek. 

Just as Louis was about to suggest Harry might want to wash off before the guests arrived, Liam breezed in through the door, grinning and balancing a wide-eyed little person in his arms.

William was a sweet little thing, all wide brown eyes and soft curls. Possibly out of guilt for dating Louis’ supposedly ex-girlfriend , Liam had named him William after Louis' middle name—and Louis hated it. Or he pretended to. He didn’t know how Danielle had let that happen, because Louis didn’t see himself as the kind of person you named a baby after. It felt like a bad joke. Or worse: like a responsibility.

Harry gave him an apologetic smile as he passed through the kitchen, still covered in flour and running late, while Louis approached with the biggest grin plastered across his face, already reaching out like he’d been counting down the minutes to hold the kid again.

“Sorry, had to bring the sprog,” Liam said as he stepped through the door, expertly juggling a toddler in one arm, a bottle of red in the other, and a nappy bag slung over his shoulder. “Dani’s on a girls’ night.”

“Ooooh, who’s my favourite lad?” Louis practically sang, abandoning the hallway and sweeping William out of Liam’s arms. 

“Thought that was Cliff,” Niall quipped, reaching behind Louis to swipe the wine from Liam’s hand.

“Different leagues,” Louis shot back, already peppering Will’s face with noisy kisses. The toddler blinked up at him sleepily, dressed in soft beige pyjamas covered in bears. His curls were mussed and his eyes heavy, which was the only reason he was letting himself be carried—otherwise, he’d have been toddling through the hallway. “Don’t flatter yourself, Liam, we only invite you to see the little one.” 

“Alright, Li?” Harry appeared from the kitchen and pulled Liam into a quick hug, then bent to kiss the top of Will’s curls, hand resting lightly on the boy’s back. “Hey, trouble. Your godfather’s on duty—but only 'til I’ve showered and rescued you, yeah?”

“Excuse you,” Louis sniffed indignantly. “I was practically born cradling babies. Niall’s the one who let Will roll off the bed at five months.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry!” Niall groaned, already on his way to the cupboards, opening them like he lived there. “Besides, I’m using you lot as practice for when I’ve got my own.”

“Brilliant,” Liam deadpanned, setting the nappy bag by the door. “If my boy ends up as daft as his Uncle Niall, we’ll know why.”

“Daft,” Niall repeated, pretending to be offended. “Love how we soften the language for tiny humans.”

Louis adjusted Will’s weight on his hip with ease, the little boy’s head lolling briefly against his shoulder. “Where’s Zed? He texted saying he wants to talk.”

Liam, who was trying to uncork the wine, raised his brows. “That’s odd.”

Niall, still rummaging around for glasses, nodded in agreement. “Zayn never wants to talk. He just turns up, smokes a bit, and nods.”

“Hope he hasn’t split with Hannah,” Harry murmured, leaning against the counter.

Louis gasped like he’d just heard a scandal on the telly and clapped a hand over Will’s ear. “ Harry! You can’t say that in front of the baby!”

Will blinked at him sleepily.

“What? He’s two,” Harry defended, “he doesn’t know what I’m saying.”

“That’s how it starts,” Louis whispered dramatically.

“Long-distance is rough,” Niall offered with a shrug, finally triumphantly pulling down four wine glasses.

“They’re fine ,” Liam cut in, with that gentle finality he always used when something wasn’t up for debate. “Pack it in.”

Zayn arrived not long after Harry stepped out of the shower, knocking once before letting himself in like he always did. He looked suspiciously cheerful for someone they’d all silently assumed was either freshly dumped or preparing to do the dumping. He was bringing two bottles of red and not one baby.

They gathered around the table like they weren’t waiting for Zayn to drop some life bomb. Harry’s roast sat proudly at the centre and it smelled divine. It tasted even better. But no one was really enjoying it, because Zayn was enjoying it too much . He was entirely unbothered, helping himself to seconds like he wasn’t holding a secret. 

“So—” Louis tried once, hopeful.

“Mmm,” Zayn said, biting into a roast parsnip with satisfaction. “Proper crispy.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly, offering Liam a small smile as he handed over a bowl.

“How’s the school going, H?” Zayn asked, spoon already in hand. “Been—what, six months since you opened?”

“Seven, yeah,” Harry replied. “Going really well. Today I had to—”

“Have you told them, babe?” Louis cut in, turning toward him with that proud sparkle in his eyes. “Someone’s offering to buy one of Harry’s songs.”

“That’s bloody brilliant ,” Niall said, already halfway through his plate. “Is this what you two were whispering about during my shower?”

Harry dropped his spoon with a clink. “Christ, I’m so glad you’re finally leaving my house, Niall.”

Niall clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Thought you loved having me round.”

“I did,” Harry said flatly. “The first dozen times. It’s been a year , mate. Surely you can find somewhere else to crash when you’re in Manchester. Just buy a flat, for fuck’s sake.”

“Don’t want a flat,” Niall said with a shrug. “I’m never here.”

“Then stop travelling,” Louis chimed in, eyes narrowing slightly. “You said it yourself—you wanna settle here. You love it here. And now you’ve met Alice, and miraculously she’s put up with you for more than six months. Maybe actually try, yeah?”

Niall opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again just as quickly. He glanced down at his plate. “I mean…” he said after a pause, quieter now. “S’not that easy.”

“It’s not hard either,” Louis said, less harsh this time, nudging his foot under the table. “You’re not twenty anymore. You’ve got money. You’ve got options. If you want something permanent, you’ve got to give it roots.”

“Ouch,” Niall complained.

"What about your publisher, Lou?" Liam asked after a sip of wine.

"Christ, we've become those people, haven't we?" Louis groaned. "See each other once in a blue moon and have to do bloody life updates like we're at a board meeting."

"What he meant ," Harry interjected, "is that the publishing house is doing surprisingly well. We were shitting bricks when Mr. Taylor retired but—"

"You said we ," Louis cooed, suddenly perking up. "Like it's our problem. That's adorable, babe."

"Well it is our problem," Harry retorted. "Unless you fancy living off Cliff's dog food when the royalties dry up."

"That was cute," Niall agreed through a smirk.

"How's the old man anyway?" Zayn asked. "Healing up alright?"

"Yeah, s'pose," Louis shrugged. "So that’s why he kept confiscating my fags. Had a fucking black lung. Had to give it up now—fair enough. Shame he dragged me down with him. Harry made me quit too. Two weeks clean and I’m in hell. Honestly, Marlboro might’ve been my one true love—no offence, babe."

"Offence taken," Harry deadpanned.

"He's alright," Louis continued. "Just resting at home now. His daughter texts me updates daily 'cause the stubborn git blocked my number. Can't stand that I give a toss."

"Honestly see you turning into Mr. Taylor in a few years," Niall mused, nodding sagely.

"What, coughing up a lung to death?" Louis quipped.

"He's not dying , Louis, for fuck's sake—" Harry swatted his arm.

"People do die, Haz. It's natural. We should be able to say the word," Louis countered, but the room had gone uncomfortably quiet. Harry's hand found his knee under the table.

“How’s Dani, Li?” Harry asked, settling deeper into the chair, a warm glass of wine between his fingers.

Liam smiled faintly. “She’s alright. Tired. We both are, to be honest.” He glanced across the living room where his toddler, William, was fast asleep, one tiny hand buried in Clifford’s fur. “He doesn’t take it well when Dani works late. Gets clingy, throws little tantrums. But… we’re happy. Really happy.” There was a pause. Liam shifted in his seat, suddenly thoughtful. “We’ve actually been thinking about… moving. To a bigger place. More space for William to run around. Maybe an extra room, finally.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “No way. We could check if there’s one in this building. That’d be amazing. You could just pop William in the lift and send him up whenever you need a break.”

“Tempting,” Liam chuckled.

“I’ll ask around,” Louis offered. “Pretty sure one’s opening up on the third floor soon.”

“How’s Alice, Niall?” Zayn asked casually, turning slightly to look at him. “We seeing her again anytime soon?”

Niall nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. She’s good.”

“That’s it?” Louis said, squinting at him. “Just ‘good’?”

“Yeah.” Niall gave a tight-lipped smile and looked down at his drink. “Anyway, Zayn, what was it you wanted to say earlier?”

Zayn leaned back, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “Oh. Right. I’m moving to Pennsylvania.”

The room stilled.

“You’re what?” Louis blurted, nearly spilling his drink.

“Pennsylvania,” Zayn repeated, as if it were obvious.

“As in—America?” Harry blinked, frowning.

“No,” Niall cut in sarcastically, shaking his head. “The other Pennsylvania.”

“I’m happy for you, mate,” Liam said after a beat, quiet but sincere. “If you love her, go. That’s what matters.”

“Don’t encourage him!” Niall’s voice rose suddenly, sharp with panic. “Zayn, don’t be an idiot. Stay the fuck here. You can’t just drop everything and move across the bloody ocean because of a girl.”

“Excuse me?” Zayn blinked, caught off guard. “We’ve been together for nearly three years.”

“Yeah, well, William’s nearly three too, and look at him.” Niall pointed at the sleeping toddler, eyes wide with frustration. “He doesn’t know anything about life! You’re not thinking straight. It’s not worth it, Zayn. Your whole life’s here—your family, your friends—us.”

Zayn snorted, though his smile was gentle. “Is Niall Horan saying he’s going to miss me?”

Louis let out a weak laugh, wiping under his eye. He wasn’t crying—yet—but the shine was there. 

Zayn met his gaze knowingly, then turned back to Niall. “Darling, you’re barely ever even in the UK yourself. You live out of a fucking suitcase. If I go, you can visit me whenever you like.”

“It’s a mistake, Zayn,” Niall said again, no less desperate. “I’m telling you.”

Zayn’s expression shifted. “Niall, if this is about Anna and that shite in France, years ago—"

“It’s not,” Niall interrupted, a little too quickly. 

“When?” Louis murmured. 

“In a month,” Zayn said. “Just couldn’t see myself living here without her since we got that fucking job, so I might as well just go.” 

Niall kept staring, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, like the words Zayn had just said were still echoing in his head louder than they should’ve been. His brows pulled together slightly.

Zayn noticed it immediately. “C’mon, Ni.” His voice softened. “We’ll be us forever, even if I’m away. We’re bros.”

That night, after Zayn, Liam, and a very drowsy William had all said their goodbyes, Louis felt something shift in the air. The house felt bigger without them, a bit hollow. They’d done the usual tidy-up. Harry washed, Louis rinsed, Niall dried, somehow managing to complain the entire time despite doing the least. When the last plate was stacked and the kitchen light dimmed, Louis noticed the way Niall was still silent. 

Instead of going to bed, they pulled on hoodies, grabbed blankets and wandered out onto the patio like they had a dozen times before.

The night air was cool and still and the patio was quiet, Clifford padded out after them and curled up under Harry’s chair without fuss. Louis pulled a blanket over his lap and leaned back, gazing at the dark sky.

He really, really missed smoking.

Not even for the nicotine, just for the ritual of it. Something to do with his hands. The inhale, the pause, the exhale that let your thoughts settle for a moment. He glanced at their glasses of wine and hated that there wasn’t a lighter next to it.

Niall stretched out on one of the chairs, arms tucked behind his head, blanket bunched under his knees. He looked up at the stars like they were saying something to him.

“You alright?” Louis asked eventually.

Niall didn’t answer straight away. “Yeah.”

“That didn’t sound convincing.” Louis frowned. Harry looked in silence between them. “Is she the one, Niall?”

“Excuse me?”

“Alice.”

“How am I supposed to know that?” he shrugged. 

“She’s not, then,” Harry whispered. 

“Zayn’s moving half a world away because Hannah is the one.” Louis explained. “If Harry wanted to move to Tokyo, honestly, I’d have no option but to follow. Because I can’t imagine a life where I don’t wake up and the first thing I see is his eyes.”

“You’re a sap,” Niall chuckled. 

“No, Nialler, I’m honest.” Louis sighed. “Also, I’m older. I know what I'm talking about.”

“How did you two figure out you were each other’s one?” he asked, quieter.

“The world lights up, Ni,” Harry said. “I just knew. One day I looked at him and the world made sense.”

Louis went still beside him, as if love had exploded in his chest all over again. Sharing a life with Harry did that sometimes, catching him off guard with moments so full of feeling they took his breath away.

Harry didn’t look away. “We acted like we couldn’t stand each other, at first, but even then I couldn’t stay away. Eventually, we became friends, and I really got to know him—know his laugh, the shape of his moods, the way he always leaves the cupboard door open after making tea. But then, one day, I looked at him and it was like…” He paused, searching for it. “Like everything that didn’t add up in my life suddenly had a reason. Like I’d spent years speaking a language I didn’t fully understand, and then he translated it just by smiling at me.”

Louis swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“I didn’t say anything at first,” Harry went on, quieter now. “I think I was scared I’d ruin it.”

Niall sat back, watching them, completely still.

Louis finally spoke, voice soft. “You’re ridiculous.”

Harry smiled. “I know.”

“But you’re right.” Louis lifted his eyes. “I didn’t know all at once. I think I fell for you in pieces—every time you looked at me, every time you remembered the small things I forgot I’d said.”

Harry smiled softly, his eyes sparkling, his dimples piercing his cheek. 

“The day I realised I loved you,” Louis added, almost to himself, “was the day I stopped needing to be right all the time. You stopped feeling like a fight. You just felt like peace.”

Harry reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against his wrist. Louis’ chest exploded once more.

Niall blinked slowly. “Bloody hell. I just meant like… did you have a conversation or something.”

The night had gone quiet, the air crisp now, biting just slightly at their cheeks. The warm glow from the kitchen window spilled out onto the patio, catching in the rim of Harry’s wine glass as he swirled it absentmindedly. Clifford gave a faint snore from beneath the chair.

Harry shifted in his seat, eyes still fixed on Niall. “Is she the one, Ni?”

Niall glanced up.

“You’ve barely left Manchester these past few months,” Harry went on, his voice soft, curious. “Is Alice why you’re sticking around?”

Niall drew in a long breath, fingers raking back through his hair, leaving it a mess. “Dunno,” he admitted, staring somewhere past them. “She’s brilliant—proper hilarious, like. Loud as hell. Funniest person I know. Think you'd love her, Lou, actually. She takes the piss constantly. Doesn’t let me get away with anything.”

Louis grinned. “Sounds like my kinda woman.”

“But she’s still at uni,” Niall continued, his smile fading as he rubbed at his jaw. “And I’m...” He gestured vaguely at the patio, the half-empty glasses, the dog curled at their feet. “Here.”

“You’re what, three years older?” Louis scoffed. “Hardly cradle-snatching.”

“It’s not the age,” Niall muttered, brows knitting. “It’s... I dunno. It’s like—used to feel like I was winning at life, y’know? Now I wake up and everyone else is off founding schools and running publishing houses and raising actual tiny humans and I’m just... still me. Floating around. Crashing on sofas like I’m twenty and invincible.”

Harry took a slow sip of his wine, then set the glass down carefully. “D’you even want to be with someone right now?”

Niall blinked. “What?”

“Like, genuinely,” Harry said, eyes meeting his. “Do you want to build something with her? Or are you just holding on ‘cause it’s nice having someone there?”

Louis leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, voice gentler than usual. “Don’t go wanting it just ‘cause we’ve all caught adulting like it’s the fucking flu.”

Niall let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a groan and looked down into his glass. “Maybe love’s not my thing, yeah?” he said, quietly. “Not like it is for you lot. Not all that steady, let’s-get-a-dog-together love. I’m just... not built like that.”

“You’re the most lovable person I know, Nialler,” Harry said, reaching across and squeezing his wrist. Niall didn’t pull away. “Anyone’d be lucky to have you,” Harry added.

“Say one more word of that bullshit, Niall, and I’ll book a ticket to Paris just to spit in Anna’s fucking wine,” Louis snapped, knuckles clenched white around his glass. 

Across the table, Niall rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Oh, wasn’t it?” Louis barked, straightening up in his chair. “She hurt my best mate. That makes her a—”

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warned sharply, aiming a precise kick to Louis’ shin under the table.

Louis jolted, then immediately sulked. “—a rotten person , was what I was saying,” he muttered, rubbing his leg with dramatic flair as he buried his face in his glass.

Niall let out a long sigh, fiddling with the rim of his glass, not quite able to look either of them in the eye. “You don’t get it. It’s not about Anna. I’m not heartbroken. I’m just—” He broke off, words failing him for a second.

Harry leaned in, “Listen. Just ‘cause one shitbird cheated doesn’t mean love’s not for you.”

“Yeah,” Louis added darkly. “Fuck her. Fuck Paris. And fuck anyone who cheats.”

“I cheated once,” Harry said suddenly, leaning back in his chair, swirling the last of his wine lazily and inspecting his nails.

Louis nearly dropped his glass. “Excuse me. You did what now, love?” he barked.

Harry shrugged, maddeningly nonchalant. “Bradley.”

“That’s absolute bullshit ,” Louis said.

“I meant emotionally,” Harry added. 

“Oh, fuck off ,” Louis groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it looked like it physically hurt. “That’s not cheating, love, that’s just—what’s the word— politeness to a fault .”

Harry raised an eyebrow, lips quirking. “So if I cuddled another man now…”

“I’d feed him his own teeth,” Louis said brightly.

“So it is cheating,” Harry said, one dimple just starting to show.

“Not when we’re literally a love story, darling,” Louis countered smoothly, tipping his chair back two dangerous inches. “Different rules apply.”

“Might wanna check that.” Harry narrowed his eyes, smirking. “Just saying, love pops up in the weirdest places, Nialler,” Harry said gently, nudging Niall’s shoulder with his own. “When you least expect it. But if it doesn’t, you don’t need someone to be happy.”

“What d’you actually want to be doing?” Louis asked, sharp as ever, cutting through the haze.

Niall sighed, scrubbing both hands over his face until his hair stuck up at weird angles. “Is it mad if I say I just wanna focus on work?”

Louis blinked. “How’s that mad?”

“I dunno.” Niall shrugged, slouching back in his seat. “Just—can’t fucking stand planes anymore. I’ve got air miles coming out of my arse. Think I wanna stay put for good. Manchester’s… it’s nice. This job’s doing my head in. Probably why I keep crashing here instead of getting a hotel.”

Harry nodded, voice soft. “You’re always welcome here, Nialler.”

Louis gaped at him. " No he fucking isn’t. ”

Niall snorted.

“Don’t listen to him, Ni—” Harry began, giving Louis a warning look.

“He’s sad ,” Louis hissed dramatically, pointing at Harry. “He’s saying that because he can’t stand seeing a wounded puppy.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Lou.”

But Louis turned to Niall, his expression softening. “Nialler,” he said, with something dangerously close to fondness in his voice. “We love you. Too much. You’re like—Christ—our adopted son or some shit. But,” Louis continued, eyes wide, hands gesturing emphatically, “sort your fucking life out, mate.”

Niall blinked. “Right.”

“I’m serious!” Louis said, gesturing to the house like it was under siege. “I miss fucking my boyfriend on the sofa. I miss walking round bare-arsed. I miss Clifford actually remembering who feeds him and not running to you like you’re the second coming. I miss my domestic bliss with Hazza.”

Harry tried not to laugh but failed spectacularly, nearly snorting his wine.

“And you,” Louis said, pointing at Niall, “need to find your own flat and make your own weird little life, yeah?”

Niall looked at them both, cheeks flushed, trying not to grin but failing. “Alright. Fine. Message received.”

“Good,” Louis said, folding his arms. “Doesn’t mean we love you less. Just means we love you somewhere else .”

Harry reached across to squeeze Niall’s wrist. “He means it in a nice way.”

“No, I don’t,” Louis muttered.

“Yes, he does,” Harry said, smiling despite himself.

Niall looked between them. “Love you two,” he said as he took a long sip of his wine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said, waving him off.

That night, Harry was so damn relieved that Niall would soon be leaving the penthouse, he kept his promise alright—loud as hell. Every moan and gasp spilled out like he was trying to make sure the whole building knew just how happy he was to finally have Louis all to himself again. By the time it was over, Louis was left breathless and pretty sure the neighbours—and Niall—were wondering what on earth was going on.

Just like that, they slipped back into their perfectly ridiculous little routine.

Harry would wake up at some ungodly hour, throw on a hoodie and take Clifford out for a run through the quiet streets. When he got back, flushed and smug with endorphins, he’d sometimes bake—banana muffins if he was feeling healthy, chocolate chip if he wanted to please Louis. Then he’d creep back into the bedroom, plant a string of kisses along Louis’ jaw until he stirred, and lure him into a shared shower with warm water and warmer hands.

They’d part ways after that, both pretending not to pout about it.

Harry would walk to the music school he'd opened with Ed—still a little shocked that people took him seriously as an adult. He wore wired earphones, always tangled, mouthing the lyrics to himself as he passed cafés and bus stops. Louis, meanwhile, would slide into their new car and drive to the publisher’s office, coffee in hand, radio on low, ready to spend the day editing someone else’s work while grumbling under his breath about misplaced commas.

It was all very domestic. Very them. And if anyone ever teased them about how settled they’d become, they’d deny it to death—right before going home to make non-carb pasta and watch three episodes of Love Island.

Then, after hours of giving music lessons or planning which book to publish next, they’d go back home and find comfort in each other. 

Harry would usually get in first, arms full of groceries or a new vinyl he insisted they “absolutely had to own on record.” Louis would arrive not long after, kicking off his shoes in the hallway and dropping his bag wherever it landed. He’d mumble something about traffic or typos or how someone at work had tried to explain a semicolon to him like he hadn’t been in publishing for years. Clifford would bark, Louis would roll his eyes, and somehow the day would start to soften.

They’d cook together most nights—Louis chopping too slowly and Harry adding too much garlic, but neither of them complaining. Music would play in the background, sometimes jazz, sometimes a playlist Harry had made with the songs from the old CD Louis had given him when they were still only friends. Dinner was rarely fancy, but it was always shared, with legs tangled under the table. 

And afterwards, they’d collapse on the sofa, sometimes talking, sometimes not. Sometimes Louis would read aloud whatever manuscript was driving him mad. Other nights, they’d just curl up under the same blanket, skin against skin. And most nights, they fell asleep with Clifford curled between them.

There was nothing spectacular about it. But everything about it was very spectacular to both of them. 

But then again, Louis wasn’t always easy.

Some mornings he’d wake up already tired, irritable, and quiet. He wouldn’t speak, not because he was angry with Harry, but because he didn’t trust himself not to be sharp. And he hated the idea of hurting him, even by accident. Harry, for his part, had patience in spades—until he didn’t. And God knew Louis had a way of dragging out the same stubbornness in him. He could poke and prod without saying much at all. Just a look, a silence too long, a sigh too heavy.

So sometimes they bickered. About small, silly things that weren’t really about the things at all. 

Because the truth was: every perfect love story is just a normal love story. Built not just on kisses and slow mornings, but on miscommunication and making up, on knowing when to give space, and when to crawl in beside someone and hold them. And somehow, through all of it, they always found their way back to each other.

Because love, the kind that lasts, doesn’t need to be easy. It just needs to be chosen every single day.

“You didn’t take Cliff for his walk this morning,” Harry accused the moment Louis stepped through the door, arms folded. “He pissed on the carpet , Lou.”

“Ah, fuck ,” Louis groaned. He dropped his keys in the bowl with a clatter just as Clifford launched himself at his legs, tail wagging so hard it thumped the wall. “It was pouring! Thought he’d use his mat like a civilised creature.”

“He’s a dog, Louis,” Harry snapped, striding across the room with a sodden towel dangling in one hand. 

Louis bent down to ruffle Clifford’s ears. “You’re such a little traitor,” he muttered to the dog, who was wagging with pride, tongue lolling. “Betrayed your own father.”

“He also peed next to the mat,” Harry continued, voice rising as he dropped the towel into the laundry basket with unnecessary force. “Not on . Next to .”

“Sorry, babe,” Louis said, leaning against the doorframe with an infuriating grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than it ever should’ve. “What’ll stop your whinging, then? Fancy me on my knees?”

Harry’s glare could’ve killed him. “ ‘Whinging’ , really?”

Louis winced like he’d forgotten that part. “I’ll cook dinner,” he offered brightly. “Will that cheer you up?”

“Not if it’s chicken wrapped with parma,” Harry deadpanned, arms firmly crossed.

“Who said anything about chicken?” Louis scoffed, crossing into the room.

“Literally every meal you know how to cook,” Harry said, unimpressed.

“ Not! ” Louis whined, dragging the vowel out. “Also, you always say you love that shit. That’s literally the reason you’re not a vegan anymore.”

“ Vegetarian .”

“Whatever,” Louis muttered automatically, already reaching for Harry’s waist like physical affection could solve his problems. “C’mon, baby, you look like a hurricane behind that fucking door. Just wanna—”

Harry sidestepped him so smoothly it looked rehearsed. “Don’t.”

“—cuddle you,” Louis finished anyway, arms flopping against his sides, “tell you about my day, maybe suck your—”

“ Louis. ”

“Right, sorry. Too soon.”

Harry gestured with both hands toward the living room in exasperation. “This creature is a pest ,” he hissed, as Clifford—the creature in question—gleefully tore apart what used to be a perfectly nice cushion. 

Louis gasped, clutching his heart. “Oi! He’s pure love with legs. And he understands every word you say, love.”

Harry dropped to Clifford’s level dramatically, peering at the puppy with wide, fake-sweet eyes. “Clifford, darling, if you’re listening—piss on your mat like a good lad, yeah? Not Mummy’s side of the room.”

“Cliff,” Louis cooed, crouching to the dog’s level. “Tell your mummy how hot he looks today.” 

Harry shot him a side-eye so sharp it could’ve powered the National Grid.

“Go on, lad,” Louis encouraged, scratching behind Clifford’s ears as the puppy wagged happily, entirely unaware of the filthy monologue he’d been dragged into. “Tell him he’s the love of my life. Tell him I’ve been counting the minutes to get home just to touch his gorgeous skin, kiss those soft lips, and grab that perfect little arse in my hands.”

Harry didn’t even blink. “Cliff,” he said sweetly, “tell your daddy he’s about three seconds away from sleeping in your dog bed.”

Clifford let out a contented huff and flopped onto his back, clearly enjoying the attention. Louis, undeterred, leaned in closer, “Tell mummy I know exactly how he could punish me,” he argued, then finally stood and brushed dog hair from his knees.

“Cliff,” Harry said crisply, “remind daddy you are an infant who should not be exposed to his filth.”

Louis grinned, leaning in close enough to almost kiss him, breath warm against his cheek. “Clifford. Bed. Now. And no peeking, lad.”

But some days, Louis couldn’t even be on Clifford’s side—because, frankly, Clifford was a menace. 

He’d wake Louis up far too early by standing on his chest, panting like he’d just completed a marathon, tail thumping the duvet with dangerous enthusiasm. He’d nick socks straight from the laundry basket and stash them under the sofa. He once chewed the corner of Louis’ annotated manuscript, which was not forgiven, even after Clifford rolled over with the kind of eyes that usually got him out of murder.

One Saturday afternoon, during their deep cleaning day, Louis came into the room with tears in his eyes and sad news on his hands. He found Harry with a bun on his hair, sorting clothes he wanted to donate or not. Louis’ clothes, by the way. 

“Babe…” Louis' voice cracked as he held up the mangled sock, blinking rapidly. The last remaining googly eye stared back at him, its magnetic hand dangling by a thread.

Harry’s breath caught, instinctively opening his arms before Louis even asked. Louis collapsed into him, the ruined fabric still clenched in his fist.

“Fucking done with that little bastard,” Louis muttered into Harry’s neck. “Niall can have him. Free to a good home. Preferably far away.”

Harry rubbed slow circles on Louis' back, soothing. “You’re just sad. He’s a silly pup, Lou.”

Louis pulled back just enough to glare at the sorry thing in his hand. “We’ve got dozens of socks. Why’d he have to pick this one?”

He looked down at the silly sock Harry had given him back before they were even dating—the one with little arms, googly eyes, and magnetic hands that used to cling to the other sock like they were holding hands. His thumb brushed over the surviving arm, still soft despite the chewing, the same one that used to cling to its partner. 

That same night, instead of making love or watching crappy telly like any normal couple with a quiet evening ahead of them, they ended up at the bloody vet’s.

Because apparently, Clifford had eaten one of the silly socks. Not just chewed it— eaten it. Fully, completely, no evidence left behind except the suspicious way he’d been sulking in the corner and the faintest thread of googly-eyed fabric caught between his teeth. Louis had gone pale, Harry had gone into full panic mode and Clifford had thrown up on the hallway rug.

And before they knew it, they were in the waiting room of the 24-hour clinic, Louis in joggers and Harry in a hoodie that had seen better days, both trying to keep it together while Clifford sat between them looking smug and entirely unbothered.

The vet was calm, like she dealt with hungry labradoodles and their sleep-deprived owners every night of the week. After confirming Clifford had, in fact, ingested half a sock and would likely pass it “the natural way,” she sat them down for a Serious Chat. 

“You need to ask yourselves,” she said gently, peering over her glasses, “ why is he doing this?”

Louis blinked. “Guess he’s got a taste for cotton?”

Harry gave him a look. “Don’t joke, Louis.” Then, to the vet, he said “We walk him, feed him, let him sleep on our bed. We’ve done everything: he has toys, he has us, he has that weird duck that squeaks when he breathes on it—”

“And yet,” the vet interrupted with a kind smile, “he’s still finding other ways to entertain himself. That tells me something’s missing.”

Louis looked genuinely offended. “He’s got the entire living room to himself. He hogs the bed.”

The vet chuckled. “I’m sure he’s very loved. But he’s also a large dog… in a flat. And judging by the chewed sock and the unfortunate hallway incident—I’d say he has a lot of energy and not nearly enough space to burn it off,” she said kindly. “He’s a big, clever boy with more energy than your square footage can handle. He needs more stimulation. More space to run. Maybe a few afternoons at a dog park, or a doggy daycare a couple times a week.”

They left the vet in silence, jogging side by side beneath the rain. Clifford trotted ahead without a care in the world, blissfully unaware that he’d just cost them several hundred pounds and a considerable amount of panic. He looked proud of himself, as if swallowing an entire sock had been an achievement.

As soon as they got into the car, Louis barely had time to shut the passenger door before Harry turned the engine on and spoke, eyes already on the road. “We should move to a house,” he said, almost casually.

Louis’ head snapped round so fast his seatbelt yanked tight across his chest. He blinked at Harry. “ The fuck? ”

“A house. With a garden,” Harry continued, keeping his eyes fixed on the road as he indicated left, knuckles pale on the wheel. His voice was too even, like he was trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “Could sell the penthouse to Liam and Dani—”

Louis let out a short, disbelieving laugh, scrubbing a hand through his fringe. “Is this about Clifford?” His mouth twitched, but there wasn’t any real humour behind it. “Christ, you’re panicking, babe. Proper new-parent shit.”

“I’m serious, Lou.”

Something in Harry’s voice made Louis look again. His shoulders were tense, jaw tight, like he’d been bottling this up for days. Weeks, maybe. The rain seemed louder now, a steady drumbeat over the roof of the car.

“ Hazza. ” Louis’ voice dropped, the one he used when Harry got worked up. 

“We could at least talk about it.”

“Not now. Not when you’re like this.”

“He needs space!” Harry snapped, a flicker of frustration bleeding through. He reached to adjust the heating vents, as if that might release some of the pressure in the car. “We could look in Glossop—”

“ Harry, please, ” Louis cut in, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his temples with the pads of his fingers. “You’re talking absolute fantasy. Need I remind you what our bank accounts look like?”

"We'd be selling the penthouse." 

Louis' following laugh was sharp. "I only just bought my half, Haz. You can't just—what, drop this on me during fucking traffic and expect me to—"

"You told Niall you'd move to Japan for me," Harry countered, fingers drumming the gearstick.

"Haz."

"Lou."

Somewhere near their perfect, lovely—and theirs—penthouse, Louis exhaled. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"You never take me seriously."

"You don't even believe this shite right now," Louis shot back. "Just—tomorrow. Yeah?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

The wipers screeched. Harry's next words came quiet: "We want kids. Someday. You've got the label, I've got the school. We'll be getting married. The penthouse isn't—"

"Christ, not everything gets fixed by throwing money at it!" Louis' voice cracked. "Maybe we just train the fucking dog proper!"

"Enough about the fucking money!" Harry's voice cracked. "I gave up everything."

"Not for me !" Louis fired back, knuckles whitening on the door handle. "Don't you dare put that on me, Harold."

"No, I know," Harry said, voice softening. He reached across the gearstick to squeeze Louis' knee. "But it's not about the money. This is me being an adult for once. Can't you see us, Lou? That cottage you described to me years ago?"

Louis stared at the rain-smeared window. "Not like this, Hazzy. Not because we're panicking."

"Babe," Harry's thumb rubbed circles on Louis' jeans, "life never goes to plan, yeah? But this could be brilliant. We sell the penthouse, find some quiet spot..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Make a proper home for those kids we keep talking about."

Louis turned Harry's hand over, tracing his palm lines. "That'll all happen, love. But not because Clifford's a furry little vandal."

"It's not about the dog!" Harry laughed wetly. "It's about me finally being brave enough to ask for what I really want. That dream’s always been yours. But it's mine now too."

That night, when they got home, Louis didn’t say much. He shrugged off his coat, toed off his shoes, and wandered through the penthouse like he was walking through someone else’s house. The rain had stopped by then, but the windows were still streaked with it. 

He moved slowly, his eyes flicking to every familiar detail—the stack of records gathering dust on the sideboard, the chipped tile by the fridge he always meant to replace, the crooked photo of their first weekend away, still slightly tilted from when Clifford had crashed into the console table chasing his tail.

Every corner of the flat held something, memories layered into the walls. Their home. Their lives.

It had been so fucking difficult to come up with his share of the money for that penthouse. Every part of it, every pound, had been scraped together out of sheer determination and pride. Because he knew, deep down, that Harry would’ve never asked him to contribute. But that wasn’t the point. Louis needed to know it was his too, that he wasn’t just along for the ride.

So he worked his arse off. Took every shift he could. Helped Mr Taylor build their publishing house into something that actually meant something in the industry. Worked late nights, early mornings, weekends without blinking. He became the person clients wanted on emails, the one editors trusted, the name on the bottom of the deals no one thought would go through.

He sold his car—his mum’s old thing, the one he swore he’d keep forever—just to pad out the deposit. And from then on, he drove Harry’s ridiculous BMW across the city like a man cosplaying someone richer than he was, always paranoid about scratching the alloys.

And even then, it still wouldn’t have been possible if it hadn’t been for his dad, who surprised the hell out of him by paying off both his student loans in one go. There was no speech, just a simple, unexpected message: Figured this might help. Proud of you. That was it.

Louis had stared at the text for ages. It wasn’t just the money, but a way for him to throw everything he had into the home he was building with Harry without that weight dragging behind him. So he took it. And with a quiet sort of pride, when he looked around the flat—their flat—he didn’t feel like a guest. He saw the result of sleepless nights, double shifts, and help he hadn’t asked for but was finally learning to accept.

At the end, maybe that was the biggest shift of all: letting people love him without feeling like he owed them something in return.

It was his. Theirs. All of it. And fuck, if that wasn’t something to be proud of. And now, a bit over a year later, Harry wanted to sell it. To Liam, Danielle and their amazing, perfect, wide-eyed little son who babbled nonsense and left tiny socks in every corner, who absolutely deserved everything good in the world. But maybe not this flat.

It had been the first place he let himself imagine a proper life with someone. With Harry . Their mornings, their dinners, their birthdays and lazy Sundays. The quiet routines and louder nights. All of it soaked into the walls. He wasn’t ready to let go of that.

That night, they got ready for bed like they always did after a disagreement: overly polite. Louis handed Harry his moisturiser without being asked. Harry asked if he wanted the big towel. They moved around each other in silence that was too gentle to be comfortable, like they were just roommates playing at intimacy. They weren’t this polite even when they were just roommates.

Clifford was already curled on the bed by the time they got in, snoring softly like he hadn’t caused emotional chaos all day. He’d sprawled right across the middle, as usual, leaving only narrow margins on either side. They didn’t fight him for space. It didn’t feel worth it tonight.

In bed, Harry turned slightly, his fingers brushing Louis’ arm, voice soft. “Babe?” he whispered.

Louis didn’t open his eyes, just hummed, “Mm?”

“When I talked about the money earlier… I wasn’t blaming you. You know that, right?”

Louis blinked slowly, then reached up to trace the curve of Harry’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “I know,” he said gently. “Don’t forget—I know you.”

Harry exhaled, his eyes searching Louis’. “Thank you. For understanding me. And for like—”

“You don’t have to say it,” Louis cut in, shaking his head with a small smile. “I didn’t do anything. It was all you, my lovely.”

Harry frowned slightly. “No, but… you are part of it. I’d never have figured out what it meant to stand on my own if you weren’t standing beside me.” He hesitated, words tripping slightly as he added, “Not that I built what I built without my parents’ help or anything, but—”

Louis leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s not a bad thing, having help,” he murmured, smiling. “My beautiful little nepo baby.”

Harry gasped, scandalised. “Loueh.”

“It’s a joke !” Louis laughed, a soft rumble in his chest. “I’m honestly so proud of you, baby,” he said, voice soft. “You’re so smart. And yeah, they gave you a head start—but you turned it into something real. You took what they handed you and made gold . You grew up. You realised you couldn’t rely on them forever, so you started building something of your own. I’m proud as fuck of you.”

Harry let out a shaky breath, his eyes flicking over Louis’ face like he was still searching for the right words. “Can I say something?”

Louis' brow furrowed gently. “Is it about the house?”

“Kinda.”

“We said we’d talk about it tomorrow, babe,” Louis said softly, tired.

“I know. I just… I need to say it now,” Harry murmured, voice barely above a whisper. He hesitated, fingers twitching slightly where they rested against Louis’ cheek. “When Mum gave me the BMW, I was so chuffed at first. Thought it was this big, grown-up thing. Flashy, y’know? But then it started feeling… wrong, like it didn’t fit me. Felt like I was showing off something I didn’t earn.”

Louis stayed quiet, just nodded, watching him closely.

“And then it got worse,” Harry went on. “It started to sting, like it wasn’t a gift at all, just another way for her to have a bit of power over me. I love her. I do. But she gave me that car to try and keep me on her side. To make me pick her instead of my dad.”

Louis’ expression softened, and he gave the smallest nod, urging him to keep going.

“One of the best days of my life was when I sold that fucking car,” Harry said, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “And we bought one together. Something simple. Felt like I’d finally taken all that weight and turned it into something good. Gave it a new meaning.”

“You did,” Louis said, resting a hand over his. “And you didn’t just spend that money on anything. You invested it. In music. In a school. That’s not just smart, that’s brave. That’s fucking amazing, Harry.”

Harry smiled, small and grateful, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked around the room for a moment, then back at Louis.

“And I think… that’s what I’m trying to do with the house, too.” He took a deep breath. “I look around this penthouse sometimes and... it still feels like it’s my dad’s. I know it’s ours. It’s got both our names on the deed and everything. Not that we need a piece of paper from the City Hall to say it’s home.”

He paused. Louis didn’t rush him.

“It is our home,” Harry went on, “but I still feel like it’s his. Like no matter how much I try to scrub the walls clean, he’s still in the corners somewhere.”

“I get that,” Louis said softly. “I do.”

“I haven’t even spoken to him in years,” Harry continued, voice tight. “And still… I walk through here and I feel like I owe him. Because he did one decent thing. Bought this place. Tried to tie it up with a ribbon and pretend it fixed everything.” He swallowed hard. “But that’s not what I want, Lou. I want a home —a real one. With you. I want to wake up and look around and only see us. Just... the life we’re building. Our future. Not his shadow.”

Louis reached up, cupped his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.

“Okay then,” he said softly.

“Okay what?”

“Let’s buy the fucking house,” Louis said, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“Really?”

“We sell the penthouse, find something we can actually afford on our own. No help from your parents, just us. We’ve got some savings in the bank. It’s doable.”

Harry looked at him. “Yeah… but will you be alright with that? I mean, really? I know you always feel like you’ve got to take care of the girls. And Ernie.”

Louis’ smile softened. He reached out, lacing their fingers together. “I’ll always look out for them, of course I will. But we’re young, Haz. And I’ll keep working—publisher’s doing really well at the moment. If that ever changes, I’ve still got my degree. I can go into psychology. There are options. You were right. We have to try.”

Harry blinked. “You’re sure?” he asked.

Louis nodded. “I’m sure.”

Harry leaned in and kissed him softly, sweetly. His eyes glinted when he pulled back, still close, and Louis could only stare, a little stunned, a little breathless, thinking not for the first time that love might be the best thing anyone had ever come up with. Then, Harry finally collapsed onto Louis’ chest, careful not to kick Clifford who was still sprawled across the end of the bed. 

Louis shifted a little to make room, running a hand lazily through Harry’s curls. “Babe,” he said, voice low and a bit sleep-rough. “There’s something I need to say.”

Harry hummed, eyes half closed against Louis’ skin. “Mmh?”

Louis smirked. “I’m saving for our wedding. You know that, right? So if we dip into that fund for the house, I’m warning you now—we’re getting married at The Pub.”

Harry let out a sleepy laugh, cheek pressed against Louis’ chest. “We’ll get married in our back garden.”

Louis raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh, will we?”

“Yes,” Harry said, absolutely certain. 

Louis chuckled. “Anything else I should know?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “It’ll be in July. Or August. Depends on the flowers.”

Louis tilted his head, grinning. “Brilliant. So I’ve got ten months to propose, then?”

Harry hesitated just a second too long. “I might do it sooner.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “You what ?”

“What? I’ve got ideas.” Harry blinked up at him, smirking. 

Louis shoved his shoulder lightly. “I swear, if you propose before I get the chance, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Harry grinned. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Want to go to Paris with me?” Louis asked suddenly, voice low against Harry’s hair.

Harry caught it without even looking. “Not if you’re planning some cliché knee-drop by the Eiffel Tower.”

Louis gasped, indignant. “It’s romantic!”

“It’s not ,” Harry said flatly, not looking up. “Do it properly or don’t bother. Surprise me. Catch me off guard. You’ve got flair, use it.”

“And how , exactly,” Louis shifted, rolling halfway on top of him, one leg slotting between Harry’s, the other trapped under Clifford, “am I meant to hide a ring when you reorganise my fucking pants drawer twice a week?”

“Only when you incorrectly fold them!” Harry replied, smirking.

“How would you propose to me?” Louis asked, voice quiet now.

Harry hummed, eyes fluttering open. “Trying to steal my ideas now, are you?”

Louis grinned. “Just curious. Want to know what I’m up against.”

“I’m not telling you.” Harry said, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“But I love you so much.”

“And I love you more,” Harry shot back, grinning, “but I’d never tell you that.”

“Stop lying,” Louis said with a smirk. “I love you more.”

“We’ll be fighting about this all night again, won’t we?” Harry chuckled, pulling Louis closer. 

“Yeah—’til we’re old and grey in our house.”