Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Louis knew he should’ve moved out from his flat ages ago.

Yeah, the location was great—a safe omega neighborhood, close enough to everything. But the flat itself? Ancient. Held together by peeling paint, stubborn ghosts, and Louis’s sheer optimism.

The water heater, though. That bastard had it out for him personally. Which is why, at seven a.m., Louis was standing under a drizzle of arctic misery, teeth chattering while he tried to wash fast enough not to turn into an ice sculpture.

He cursed Martha, his landlord, for the hundredth time. Martha was nice, sure. Lovely, actually—if what you wanted from a landlord was banana bread and unsolicited advice about essential oils. But every time something broke, her answer was the same: send her creepy son.

And that meant Louis had to spend an hour pretending not to notice an alpha gawking at him, while also having the joy of being explained how water works. Like he hadn’t been bathing himself since he was three.

Louis stormed out of his flat already in a mood. He didn’t even have time for tea, so now he was trudging to work on fumes and rage alone. The tube was late—of course. Twenty whole minutes of staring at a flickering timetable while some teenager next to him chewed gum like it was a sport. By the time he finally arrived at the OneHeart Amputee Rehabilitation Center, Louis was half-convinced the universe had it out for him personally.

He skipped the nurse station completely and headed straight for the break room, made himself a cup of tea, and held it like it was a newborn child. The first sip unclenched something in his soul. He should honestly track down the inventor of tea and mail them a gift basket. Or a statue. Maybe both.

“Tough morning?” a voice asked.

Louis nearly spilled scalding salvation down his shirt. He turned to find Niall, one of his best friends and also the best physiotherapist in the center, grinning like the smug little gremlin he was.

“Tough life,” Louis groaned, sinking deeper into his cup.

Niall chuckled. “Someone’s grumpy. Save it for your patients. You’ve got a good one today.”

Louis squinted at him. “Do I? Because last I checked, Liam didn’t mention a new patient.”

“Maybe the hospital decided to unload him on us this time,” Niall said cheerfully. “And I heard him first thing—screaming at the night nurse to ‘get her paws off’ when she tried to help him bathe.”

Louis rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they came back down again. Fantastic. Just what he needed: a feral patient with attitude. If this one turned out to be another alpha who looked at him like he was a bug on their boot, Louis was going straight to Liam’s office to demand a raise. 

Six years at OneHeart had taught him this much: hospital work was a sprint, but the rehab center was a marathon. They didn’t just patch people up and send them home. They took in the tough cases—the ones who needed prosthetics, therapy, the works. The ones trying to relearn not just how to move, but who they were.

It was hard. It was also why Louis loved it. Most days, anyway.

Today, though? He had the sinking feeling the only thing standing between him and total despair was his cup of tea.

Louis groaned louder, dragging his hand down his face. “Brilliant. Just what I needed. Another feral alpha with the bedside manners of a rabid raccoon.”

“Think of it as part of the job description,” Niall offered with a grin.

Louis leveled him with a look. “Pretty sure the job description said rehabilitate patients, not wrestle wild animals.”

“Details,” Niall said, already halfway to the door with his own mug. “Besides, I hear this one’s a real charmer. War hero, all scarred up, brooding in the corner like a painting come to life.”

Louis snorted. “Wonderful. Nothing like a moody alpha with trauma and a superiority complex to brighten my day.”

“Don’t worry,” Niall called over his shoulder. “He only bit the night nurse a little.”

Louis choked on his tea. “What?”

But Niall was gone, and Louis was left clutching his mug like a shield, wondering if “hazard pay” could be retroactively negotiated.

_____________

Louis didn’t have to wait long to discover the new patient. The moment he reached the nurses’ station, he spotted Brent and Natalie whispering in low voices. Brent looked like he was about to faint—though that wasn’t unusual. The new hires, fresh out of university and straight into the center without ever setting foot in a hospital, were always awed and unsettled by what they found here.

Louis arched a brow. “All good?”

They froze, snapping their heads up, both nodding far too quickly to be convincing. Louis had always been good at sniffing out when something was off, so he lifted his brow a second time. That was all it took for Brent to shrink under the weight of his stare.

“We… we’ve got a new patient,” Brent stammered, eyes dropping to the floor as if he was afraid to say more.

“Yeah, I heard. So?” Louis replied, unimpressed.

An uneasy silence lingered until Natalie broke it, sliding a file across the desk. “He’s… something else.”

Louis flipped it open and scanned the page.

Patient: Styles, Harry.
Age: 24.
Designation: Alpha.
Background: Six years of active duty, Special Forces officer. Injured in an ambush—threw himself over a grenade to save his team. Sustained head trauma, severe burns on the right side of his face, right leg amputated after delayed extraction.

Louis’s eyes lingered on the words longer than he meant to. Ouch. That was… brutal.

He handed the file back to Natalie with a soft, “Poor thing.”

Natalie gave a weary nod. “Yeah, he’s not in the best shape—”

She didn’t even get to finish before the shouting started.

A door slammed across the hall, followed by a bellow loud enough to rattle the charts on the wall.  

“Get lost, will you? I don’t need your fucking help!”

Every head in the nurse station swiveled as one.

Liam emerged a moment later, looking like he’d aged twenty years in five minutes. He shut the door with exaggerated care, then spotted Louis and made the universal get in here before I throttle a patient gesture.

Louis trailed after him into an empty room. “Was that Harry Styles?”

“Yep.” Liam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell.” He dropped his hand and fixed Louis with a look that carried both desperation and command. “I need you on him. Mornings are yours. Nights… we’ll divide later. He’s refusing everything. Treatment, food, even conversation.”

“Can’t blame him on the food,” Louis said, sliding onto a chair. “It’s been dire since Dan quit. Have you tried bribing him with something edible? Like the chocolate pudding?”

Liam gave a humorless laugh. “I did. He told me to stick it up my arse.”

Louis winced. “Charming. Bet you didn’t find that in any rehab handbook.”

“I’ve spoken with his mum and sister,” Liam went on. “Same behavior at the hospital—shut everyone out. No visitors, no team, no treatment. Barely sleeping. He won’t even let me draft a plan. Just growls, shouts, and hurls the odd insult.”

Louis let out a groan fit for a Greek tragedy. “Okay, so: nightmare patient. My specialty. Do you honestly think he’ll listen to an omega?”

Liam arched a brow. “Probably not. But you live for that, don’t you?”

Louis pulled a face. Annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong. He had a reputation for breaking the unbreakable. That one patient who once muttered, ‘why do omegas even have jobs?’—practically sobbed when Louis handed him over to Natalie two months later.

“Fine,” Louis declared with dramatic resignation. “I’ll give it a go. But I expect payment in the nicest lunch you could buy me. The good curry from town, not that watery cafeteria sludge.”

Liam chuckled. “Done.”

Louis rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of a grin. Humor, sass, and a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit—that was his brand. Patients loved him for it. Staff adored him.

But Harry Styles? The grenade-diving, scar-faced alpha with trauma stacked higher than the files on Liam’s desk?

Louis closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to the universe.
Please let Harry Styles be less of a disaster than those charts. I cannot do this today.

_____________

Harry Styles was not nice.

When Louis walked in with the treatment kit, he was greeted with a growl and a pair of stormy green eyes glaring at him like he’d just kicked a puppy. Harry sat hunched on the bed, arms locked tight across his chest, blanket pulled up like armor. The curtains were clamped shut, the room so dark Louis half-expected bats to swoop down. All very tragic, very coffin-chic.

Even from a distance, Louis could see the exhaustion in his eyes. The right side of Harry’s face was swaddled in bandages, hiding the burns Louis knew lay beneath.

“They send the omega now?” Harry muttered, dripping disdain.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis replied cheerfully, stepping closer to the bed. “Not the omega, thanks. I’m just Louis. You’re not the alpha, are you?”

“I can be the alpha if you insist,” Harry shot back curtly.

Louis raised a brow. “What are you, a savage? Our parents gave us names for a reason. If you’re feral, I’ll just let you loose in the wild and save everyone the trouble.”

That earned him a startled look. “Are you even allowed to speak to patients like that?”

“Eh.” Louis shrugged, flipping Harry’s chart open and scribbling down his vitals. “They only send me to the nightmares. Management turns a blind eye when those same nightmares walk out of here on a prosthetic and a popsicle.”

Harry just stared at him like Louis had grown a second head. Louis let him. He had a nice face, after all. Patients were welcome to admire it while he worked.

When Louis finished jotting in the chart, he turned to find Harry looking even grumpier than before—an achievement in itself.

“Right,” Louis said brightly, “now for business. I’m your nurse. Your designated one. Meaning I’ll also drag you to the treatment rooms—”

“So you’re my chauffeur,” Harry cut in, dry as sandpaper.

Louis tilted his head. “If that makes you actually accept treatment, sure. Call me Jeeves.” He flicked the chart closed. “Here’s the deal: when Dr. Payne—yes, the alpha you kicked out half an hour ago—finalizes your treatment plan, you’ll attend every session. I don’t tolerate laziness, and I don’t have the patience for bad moods, so please, be cooperative.”

Harry frowned, and Louis caught the flicker of surprise that anyone dared talk to him like that. “And if I’m not?”

“We sedate you,” Louis said sweetly, smiling. “But really—you don’t want to rot in here forever, do you?”

Harry shrugged, his voice flat. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

The words were low, but Louis recognized them instantly: that hollow note of powerlessness he’d heard from too many patients before. The ones who believed their lives ended with their injuries.

Louis softened, laying a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You will,” he said quietly. “You’ll have somewhere to go. There’s always hope.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to him, disbelieving, like hope was a language he didn’t speak anymore. Louis didn’t push, just switched gears. “Anyway—how’s the pain?”

Harry blinked, thrown by the sudden change. “Fine.”

Louis squinted. “Fine as in ‘I’m a tough alpha who can power through excruciating agony,’ or fine as in ‘it actually doesn’t hurt’?”

Another shrug. Nothing else.

Louis exhaled through his nose. “Alright. I’ll give you something for the pain, and something to help you sleep. You look like you haven’t closed your eyes since you were injured.”

That was when Harry’s whole body tensed, his green eyes flashing wide with fear. “Don’t. Please.”

Louis froze, brows furrowing. “Why not? You don’t want to sleep?”

Harry shook his head, looking at Louis almost pleadingly.

Louis studied him for a long beat, then sighed. “It’s best for your treatment if you sleep, Harry. I’m sorry, but sleep helps me do more than clean your wounds without you wanting to punch me. It also helps your appetite. And I’m guessing you’re not eating because of the pain?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “Constant nausea.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” Louis said gently. Then, brightening, “Alright, how about we make a deal?” He waited until Harry’s wary green eyes lifted to him.

“I’ll crank up the pain relief until you feel properly floaty. Then I’ll slip in a little something to help you sleep. While you’re under, I’ll treat your wounds so you don’t have to see or feel a thing. And we’ll start you on tube feeding—tiny doses, so your stomach doesn’t riot. Just for today. Sound fair?”

Harry’s jaw worked. “But… the nightmares.”

Louis’s chest pinched, but he forced calm into his voice. “I’ll be here. Alright? You won’t be alone. The nightmares are something to tackle with your psych sessions later, but right now—your body needs rest.”

Harry looked so sad it almost broke Louis, but eventually, he nodded. His gaze didn’t waver as Louis drew the meds into a syringe.

“You’re going to feel really good,” Louis promised with a crooked grin. “Best pain meds on the market. Only the finest for my grumpy patient.”

Harry didn’t smile, but his eyes stayed on Louis as the meds slipped into his IV. A moment later, he exhaled, tension softening from his face.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered.

“Told you,” Louis chuckled. “Alright, sleep dose going in now, okay?”

Harry gave the faintest sigh of surrender and nodded.

Louis pushed the sedative through and watched as those sharp green eyes finally fluttered shut. The room went quiet, calmer than it had been since Harry arrived.

He scribbled a note to himself on Harry’s chart and thought, Liam owes me the biggest bloody lunch of my life.

_____________

As Harry slept peacefully, Louis slipped out of the room, having finished rebandaging the worst of his injuries. His hands still ached from the careful work, but his brain craved one thing: gossip. Preferably from his favorite patient—the one person guaranteed to drag him out of his bad mood.

He wheeled a chair into Larissa’s room, plastering on his brightest grin. “Hello, trouble!”

On the bed, Larissa sat with her prosthetic arms already clipped in place, looking bored out of her mind. The second she spotted him, her eyes lit up.

“Thank God you’re here! I was just about to launch myself out the window for a little drama.”

Louis snorted. “Such a drama queen.”

Her gaze dropped to the wheelchair. “What’s that supposed to be? You know I can walk, right?”

“Yes,” Louis said, smirking as he parked it beside her bed. “But the night nurse wrote you had a new sleep med, and the side effects include dizziness. And correct me if I’m wrong, but these—” he tapped lightly at the sleek metal of her prosthetic—“aren’t exactly at the ‘break your fall’ stage yet.”

Larissa gave a theatrical sigh before plopping into the chair. “Fine. You win, Florence Nightingale.”

“Always do,” Louis replied, steering her toward the door. “Now, brighten my morning. Got any gossip?”

Her face split into a grin. “Do I ever.”

As Louis wheeled her down the hall, she launched into a dramatic retelling of her night: the nurse who confused her meds, the couple in the next room arguing about whether chocolate pudding counted as soup, and the tragic downfall of the breakfast jelly (again). Louis found himself laughing so hard his cheeks hurt.

Larissa had a knack for that—turning even misery into a comedy set. Which was part of why she was one of his favorites. Her case had been brutal: a car crash with a drunk driver, hours trapped in the wreck before rescue, both arms lost and pain that sometimes ate her alive. But through it all, she met every setback with that same sharp humor, that stubborn grit.

Of course, not every day was easy. He’d seen her at her lowest—sobbing in therapy, raging at her own body—but Louis had made it his mission to remind her there was more to life than pain. On her worst days, he’d sneak her out for fresh air, maybe a bite to eat, and they’d laugh until her spirits lifted. She’d become family to him in a way patients weren’t supposed to.

“So,” Larissa said suddenly, tilting her head back to glance at him. “What’s with the new guy?”

Louis blinked. “Which new guy?”

“The one screaming bloody murder all night,” she said, eyebrows raised. “He kept half the wing awake. Messed with my beauty sleep. What’s his deal?”

Louis’s smile faltered, just for a second. He knew exactly who she meant. He shrugged lightly. “Tough injury. Still in the anger-and-refusing-treatment stage.”

“Oh, my favorite stage,” Larissa said, smirking. “Did he lose both arms and a couple of organs, or am I still winning?”

Louis huffed a laugh. “No, but he was a soldier. Took the worst of it, unfortunately.”

She sobered for half a heartbeat before quirking a brow. “Fine. He can be King of Misery, then. Which means…” Her grin sharpened. “Dr. Pain stuck him on your schedule, didn’t he?”

Louis laughed, the sound bouncing down the hallway. Larissa was the only person alive who could call Liam Dr. Pain to his face and live to tell about it. “Yup. Apparently my ‘cheery self’ is the cure for everything.”

“Please. More like you insult people so much they get better just to escape you.”

Louis gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, Iron Man. Have I ever insulted you?”

“No,” she said sweetly, then grinned wickedly. “But only because I beat you to it, Devil in Disguise.”

Louis narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Careful. That’s how patients end up with extra laps around the physio ward.”

“Ha. Empty threats,” she shot back. Then her eyes glimmered with mischief. “Anyway, maybe me and your new soldier friend will become allies. Conspire against you.”

Louis wheeled her into the therapy room, shaking his head with a grin. “Bring it on.”

______________

The rest of the day passed in a strange hush, almost too quiet. For someone terrified of sleep, Harry seemed to manage it fine—slipping in and out, his vitals steady under Louis’s watchful eye. He even looked peaceful at times, almost boyish, like a child who’d run himself ragged on a playground and finally collapsed.

Louis found himself checking more than he needed to, lingering at the bedside with a kind of reluctant protectiveness. The alpha was a storm bottled up in scarred skin, yet here he was—silent, harmless, human.

So it was a surprise, really, that the quiet shattered the moment Louis clocked out. He’d barely made it two steps into wondering if he had the energy for grocery shopping when a roar split the corridor.

He froze. Half a heartbeat was all it took to recognize that voice.

Then he was running, trainers slapping linoleum, adrenaline lighting his veins. When he burst into Harry’s room, the sight nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Harry was a storm on the bed—thrashing, drenched in sweat, face contorted in anguish. His cries, low and guttural, shook the air. The nurses in the doorway hovered uselessly, staring like they’d stumbled across a wild animal tearing itself apart.

“No, no, NO!” Harry bellowed, grappling with some invisible enemy. The bedframe groaned under his weight.

“Brilliant,” Louis muttered, elbowing past the gawkers. One poor nurse made the mistake of grabbing Harry’s arm; the next second, she stumbled back clutching a bloody nose.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Louis didn’t hesitate. He clambered onto the bed like a cowboy mounting a bull, pressing his full weight across Harry’s chest and shoulder. Every muscle in Harry’s body bucked and fought, raw strength fueled by terror.

“Harry—stop! You’re safe!” Louis’s voice cracked, but Harry wasn’t there. His eyes were open, but vacant, glassy, locked in some battlefield nightmare.

The monitor beeped frantically, a perfect horror soundtrack.

“Fantastic,” Louis gritted out, wrestling one of Harry’s arms down while fumbling for the emergency kit with the other. “Try not to kill me while I save your stubborn arse, yeah?”

From the doorway, Liam called, “Louis, be careful!”

“Yeah, thanks for the tip, Liam,” Louis snapped, jamming the sedative into the IV.

Harry kept thrashing for a few brutal seconds, strong as ever, and Louis clung on, heart hammering. Then, at last, the fight drained out of him. His cries ebbed, his body slackened.

His gaze flicked to Louis—wild, desperate, and fleeting. And then, like a candle snuffed, he was gone, collapsing back into deep sleep.

Louis sat back, chest heaving, hair sticking every which way, shirt plastered to his skin. He glanced around at the frozen staff. “What?” he snapped. “Never seen a nightmare before?”

That broke the spell. People shuffled into motion. Louis crouched beside Sandy, the nurse with the bloody nose. “You okay, love?”

She sniffled a laugh through her tissues. “Guess I’ll live.”

“Good. Let’s get you patched up.” He jerked his chin toward another nurse. “Bren—treatment room. And the rest of you—unless you’re planning to sing him lullabies, clear out.”

Only Liam stayed behind. Together they fastened soft restraints around Harry’s wrists, enough to keep him safe if another storm hit. Louis hated restraining anyone, but tonight it wasn’t a choice—it was survival.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “I’ll tell the nurses to do thirty-minute checks. I’m off the clock, and I intend to drown myself in tea.”

Liam gave him a long look. “You alright?”

“I’ll live,” Louis echoed with a tired smirk. But when he stepped out into the hall, the weight in his chest didn’t ease.

Not fear, exactly—just the image of a too-strong alpha unraveling in his sleep, and the stubborn ache of having caught him right before he broke.

______________

Louis dreaded coming in the next morning. Facing Harry was at the very bottom of his to-do list, somewhere after “alphabetize the supply closet” and “stab self with a blunt pen.”

He stalled. Read the night reports twice. Making sure Marta send in a an actual repairman for his water heater. Chatted with Natalie about the patient in room six who swore the food was trying to poison him (“Honestly, if the mash doesn’t kill you, nothing will”). Relief flickered when he saw Harry hadn’t had another episode. Small mercies.

Eventually, though, he had to face it. The alpha. The nightmare machine. The man who’d probably already heard he’d decked poor Sandy.

Harry was wide awake when Louis walked in, the room still dark and sulky.

“Good morning,” Louis chirped, yanking the curtains open. January light was pathetic, but better than brooding in a cave.

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

Louis arched a brow. “It’s polite to say good morning back, you know. Just two little words. Won’t kill you.”

Silence.

“Oh, we’re doing the silent treatment? Excellent. You should know I’m a professional at talking nonsense until someone cracks. I once made a dentist laugh mid–root canal. Don’t test me.”

That earned him nothing but a throat-rasped, “Why am I in handcuffs?”

Louis waved it off, undoing the restraints. “You were a bit wild last night. No biggie.”

Harry’s eyebrow shot up. “No biggie? The nurses won’t look me in the eye.”

God help me.

“You just had a nightmare,” Louis said breezily. “Spooked the soft-hearted, that’s all.” He handed Harry some water, which the alpha took while glaring over the rim like Louis had personally betrayed him.

“Who did I hurt?” Harry asked flatly.

“No one,” Louis said with a roll of his eyes. “Sandy’s nose got acquainted with your fist, but she’s fine. Tough cookie, that one.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I told you I shouldn’t be sleeping! Are you believing me now?”

Louis didn’t flinch at the yell. “What’s your plan then? Stay awake forever? Brilliant. You’ll be Freddie Kruger by Valentine’s. And darling—this isn’t Elm Street. You deserve to sleep.”

“But I’m hurting people!” Harry’s eyes burned. “What will convince you? When I stab someone because I dream they’re a terrorist?”

Louis just blinked at him for a long beat, then said sweetly, “Fine. We’ll handcuff you every night. Safety first. Very secure, very kinky. Everyone wins.”

Harry scowled. “I could break out of these.”

Louis snorted. “Oh, sit down, Hercules. You’re an alpha, not Captain bloody America. Keep puffing your chest like that and I’ll start selling tickets.”

Harry’s mouth opened, ready with some scathing comeback, but the door swung open. Liam stepped in, eyes flicking between them, the tension still sparking in the air.

“Everything okay?” Liam asked, eyebrow arched like he already knew the answer.

“Why is he in charge of me?” Harry barked, pointing at Louis. “He doesn’t take me seriously!”

Louis gasped theatrically. “Excuse me, I take you very seriously. You’re the highlight of my day. Right between my burnt toast and stubbing my toe.”

Liam fought back a smile. “Louis is excellent at his job, Harry. You should’ve seen him last night trying to sedate you—you looked like a feral walrus fighting for territory.”

Harry scowled. “Not funny.”

“Little bit funny,” Louis muttered, jotting down Harry’s vitals.

“Have you eaten?” Liam asked, steering the conversation elsewhere.

Louis answered before Harry could grumble. “Tube feed, yes. Breakfast, no. I’ll fetch him something from the cafeteria.”

Harry sat up straighter, suddenly invested. “Don’t bring jelly. I hate jelly. If you bring jelly, I’ll puke on purpose. Everywhere. Like, Exorcist levels.”

Louis arched a brow. “Noted. No jelly.”

“And don’t bring porridge either,” Harry added quickly. “Or I’ll strangle myself with the spoon.”

“Dramatic,” Louis said dryly. “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

Harry considered it, dead serious. “If you bring me an egg, it better not be runny. If the yolk jiggles, I swear—”

“—you’ll declare war?” Louis cut in.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’ll think of something worse.”

Louis flashed a blinding smile. “Got it. No jelly, no porridge, no jiggly eggs. Only meals fit for a sulky alpha prince.” He patted Liam’s shoulder on the way out. “Good luck, Payno. Try not to let him stage a hunger strike before I’m back.”

_______________

“Hi, Rambo!” Niall’s voice boomed across the cafeteria, earning chuckles from a few staff. Louis flushed instantly.

“Heard your little omega self launched onto a big bad alpha mid–nightmare and wrestled him into submission,” Niall teased, sipping his milkshake like it was gossip fuel.

Louis rolled his eyes, balancing food onto a tray. “Please. Another Tuesday at the center.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Niall sing-songed. “Rumour has it you rode him like a rodeo bull until he cried uncle.”

Louis flushed, grabbing toast for his tray. “Rumour should mind its own bloody business.”

“You alright, though?” Niall asked, tone softening just a notch.

“Fine,” Louis said curtly. “Just delivering breakfast before Liam strangles him with a clipboard.”

“Harry, yeah? That’s the alpha?” Niall leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“Mhm.” Louis grabbed an apple juice—safe with Harry’s meds—and plonked it on the tray. “Liam’s put me in charge. So now I’m his nurse-slash-waiter-slash-babysitter, while Liam tries to talk him into a treatment plan.”

“Dream job,” Niall said dryly. “Bet he tips well.”

“About as well as you do.” Louis added cutlery with a snap.

“When do I get to meet him?”

Louis shrugged. “Soon, I guess. You’re our best physio. If he agrees to treatment, it’ll be you teaching him to walk again. Six months. That’s my goal.”

“Ambitious,” Niall hummed. “Depends on setbacks.”

“I know,” Louis sighed. “But… you should see him. All teeth and growls, like he’s terrified of himself. He needs something to fight for. Walking again—that could be it. He’s a soldier. Effort’s his language.”

Niall tapped his straw thoughtfully, then smirked. “Alright. I’ll talk to Liam. See if I’m the lucky sod on the case.”

Louis picked up the tray. “Wish me luck he doesn’t strangle me.”

“With that face?” Niall grinned. “He’ll be too busy writing sonnets.”

Louis snorted, shaking his head as he left—though secretly, just a little, he hoped Niall wasn’t entirely joking.

_____________

The treatment plan at OneHeart looked simple enough on paper: four physio sessions a week, stump checks to prep for prosthetics, two psych appointments, and the rest of the time for patients to breathe—to see their families, hang around the common room, read, or just… live.

Easy. Manageable.

Unless you were Harry Styles.

He hadn’t left his bed since admission, and Louis was not about to let the man melt into the mattress like a tragic ghost.

So, the second Liam wrapped up his morning check and Harry polished off the last of his breakfast, Louis rolled a wheelchair to his bedside with a flourish.

“Alright, soldier,” Louis said brightly. “Time for a trip.”

Harry looked at him as if Louis had just announced a field trip to Mars. “What are you babbling about?”

Louis planted his hands on his hips. “This, my friend, is your grand tour of the center. That way, if I mysteriously trip, fall, and die, you’ll know where to wheel yourself. Very practical.”

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “I don’t want a tour.”

Louis tsked, shaking his head with mock tragedy. The overhead light caught on his hair as he leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Don’t be five. It’s not Disneyland—I’m not making you wave at Mickey. You sit, you look around, you pretend to be fascinated, and then you go back to sulking in peace. Easy.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the chair, then back to Louis, mistrust hardening his expression. “No. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You already look ridiculous,” Louis said sweetly. “One more trip across the center won’t kill you.”

Harry scowled, arms tightening across his chest. “My leg’s not ready.”

“Your leg’s fine. Your pride, maybe not so much,” Louis countered, tugging the blankets back with surgical precision. “Lean on me.”

Harry hesitated, jaw clenched. “I don’t need babysitting.”

Louis arched a brow. “Good thing I’m not your babysitter then. I’m your nurse. And I don’t take no for an answer.”

For a beat, Harry just glared at him, muscles taut like he might dig in and refuse outright. Then he let out a growl of frustration, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re bloody relentless.”

“Correct,” Louis said brightly. “Now move before I call Liam to come sing motivational ballads at you.”

Harry muttered something that sounded suspiciously like fuck off, but he shifted anyway, awkward and begrudging. He braced on his good leg while Louis steadied him, their progress slow, uneven, punctuated by Harry’s mutters and Louis’s smug patience.

At last, Harry dropped into the chair with a grunt, still scowling. Louis buckled him in quickly, the straps snug but not suffocating.

“See? Easy.”

“Go to hell,” Harry muttered, cheeks flushed.

Louis smiled, all teeth. “Already there. You’re my tour guide.” Then, in a voice dripping with theatrical cheer, he declared, “And now—behold! The grand parade of the corridor begins. Try to contain your excitement.”

The hallway stretched before them—bright with fluorescent light, lined with polished floors that reflected their passing. Nurses walked briskly between stations, a patient laughed somewhere down the hall, and the faint smell of disinfectant lingered beneath the stronger aroma of burnt coffee drifting from the break room.

Harry stayed quiet, jaw set, eyes darting over every detail as if cataloguing it.

Louis stopped the wheelchair dramatically in front of the nurse desk, leaning one elbow on Harry’s shoulder like they were co-conspirators.

“This is the nurse station,” he said, sweeping his hand across the cluttered surface. “It’s where miracles happen. And by miracles, I mean paperwork, coffee consumption at a dangerous level, and me. Mostly me.”

A passing nurse snorted at that, and Louis wiggled his brows. Harry, of course, did not crack a smile—but his eyes flicked to Louis’s hand still resting on his shoulder, then away.

“And here,” Louis continued, wheeling him a little farther down the corridor, “we have the patient lounge. Commonly referred to as ‘The Den of Boredom’ but occasionally upgraded to ‘The Gossip Arena’ if Larissa’s in the mood.”

Through the open double doors, the room revealed itself: mismatched armchairs circling a low table cluttered with magazines, a TV murmuring daytime talk shows, and a corner shelf full of puzzles with missing pieces. A handful of patients lounged, chatting, one or two napping in chairs next to the windows.

Louis leaned down to Harry’s ear, voice dropping as if sharing state secrets. “That’s where you’ll catch up on who’s stealing pudding cups and which nurse is secretly dating the night guard. It’s basically better than Netflix.”

Harry huffed—not quite a laugh, but not the stony silence either.

“Moving on!” Louis sang, wheeling him toward another hall. He slowed as they passed a wide set of doors with glass panels. Inside was the physio gym: bright lights, mats, parallel bars, treadmills modified for prosthetic training, and a couple of therapists coaching patients through their paces. The air buzzed with determination and occasional swearing.

“This,” Louis announced proudly, “is where the magic happens. You hate it now, but in a few months, you’ll strut out of here like a bloody superhero. Might even have a fan club.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. His eyes lingered on the bars, on a young man carefully balancing between them, sweat beading on his brow, his therapist clapping encouragement. Something unreadable flickered across Harry’s face, and Louis resisted the urge to soften his tone too soon.

Instead, he said lightly, “And don’t worry, the swearing quota is very flexible. You’ll fit right in.”

He pushed Harry onward before the silence grew heavy, turning a corner toward the cafeteria. The warm scent of frying bacon and toast drifted out, battling valiantly against the sterile air.

“And here we are: the cafeteria. Home of food so bad it could qualify as a weapon. Don’t look too excited.”

Harry’s mouth twitched—the faintest ghost of a smile—but he quickly smoothed it away.

Louis caught it anyway, smug satisfaction curling in his chest.

“Oh, was that almost a grin, soldier? Careful. If you start enjoying yourself, you’ll ruin your reputation.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, voice gruff.

“Oh, he talks! Someone get a camera, this is groundbreaking,” Louis announced as he wheeled Harry down the corridor.

Harry rolled his eyes so hard Louis was half-convinced they’d stick that way. “God, you’re annoying. If you were in my unit, I’d have kicked you out in a minute.”

Louis snorted. “Please. I wouldn’t last a day in the army. I need gallons of tea and at least eight pillows to build a proper nest. Not exactly combat-ready.”

“We wouldn’t let you in anyway,” Harry shot back, and Louis only grinned wider.

Louis pushed the chair up to a frosted-glass door with a brass plaque. “Anyway, this is the therapy room—where you meet with your assigned psychologist. They’ll politely dig through your brain, figure out why you’re so grumpy all the time, and maybe even teach you to meditate without cursing.”

Harry shot him a side look. “Sounds like torture.”

“Please, you’ve done actual torture training, haven’t you? This is just talking about your feelings while sitting on a comfy sofa. Which, by the way, is far better than your current mattress. I sat on it once.”

Harry twisted around in his chair to glare. “You what?”

Louis smirked, steering him toward the next corridor. “Relax, soldier. I didn’t nap there, just quality-checked. For research.”

Harry muttered something under his breath—Louis caught the word menace—but didn’t stop him rolling the chair along.

“Now,” Louis said, with a grand sweep of his hand as they turned a corner, “behold: the art room. Otherwise known as finger paints for adults.”

Through the glass, splashes of color covered canvases propped against easels, a patient bent over a sketchpad while another hunched, carefully gluing scraps into a collage. The smell of turpentine and chalk drifted faintly through the crack in the door.

“It’s a safe zone,” Louis explained, lowering his voice like it was sacred. “Here, you can scream into a lump of clay, or pretend you’re Picasso while drawing stick figures. No judgment.”

Harry actually snorted. “Not happening.”

Louis grinned, patting his shoulder. “We’ll see. I bet you’d make a mean macaroni necklace.”

That earned him another eye-roll, but it was slower this time, less sharp—like Harry was secretly amused despite himself.

Louis wheeled him on, the corridor spilling them into sunlight that poured through a set of glass doors. Beyond lay the courtyard: a square of green tucked into the center of the facility, with benches crouched beneath bare winter trees, flowerbeds waiting for spring, and a fountain burbling gently at the middle. Even in January, the place felt alive—bees gone for now, but the air crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth.

“And last but not least—our crowning jewel: the garden,” Louis announced with a sweep of his hand. “Fresh air, vitamin D, all the good stuff. Well…when it’s not actually winter.”

Harry blinked against the sudden brightness. There was no real sun, just a paler sky than the corridors allowed, but even that seemed to make his shoulders tense, jaw tight, as though he couldn’t decide whether to retreat back inside or lean into the light.

Louis’s voice softened without him meaning it to. His hands rested lightly on the wheelchair handles. “Not so bad, huh?”

Harry gave a small shake of his head, then surprised him by saying, almost tentative, “Can we stay here for a minute?”

“Of course.” Louis steered him over to a bench and dropped into the seat beside him, deliberately leaving the silence untouched. Let the man breathe. Let him just be.

For once, Louis shut up. He studied Harry in profile—the strong line of his jaw, the way his eyes roved the courtyard as if relearning it. Harry looked caught between awe and ache, like the air itself reminded him of something he’d lost.

“I haven’t been outside in…a long time,” Harry said at last, voice low, almost like he’d forgotten Louis was there.

“You can be,” Louis answered simply, turning toward him. “Every day, if you want to.”

Harry finally glanced at him, eyes shadowed with sorrow, but he only nodded, lips pressing together in silence.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour. No banter, no teasing—just the quiet burble of the fountain and the bite of cold air. It was enough. Louis let Harry breathe.

_____________

The next morning, Louis arrived at work lighter on his feet. For once, he wasn’t dreading Room 12—yesterday he’d managed to get Harry into the garden, and today marked the start of his official rehabilitation. First stop: physio with Niall, then on to Jeff, the therapist.

Not that Louis was thrilled about Jeff. The man was competent, sure, but about as warm as an ice bath, and Louis knew Harry won’t respond well to alphas who tried to challenge him head-on. He’d lobbied for Ed, the one therapist Harry might actually tolerate, but Ed’s schedule was swamped. So Jeff it was. Lucky them.

Louis was just reaching Harry’s door when voices stopped him cold.

“...my life is over, Mum! Can’t you see that?” Harry’s voice, raw with fury. “What future do I even have—being a cripple? Making kids scream when they see me?”

“Harry,” came a woman’s voice, soft and wet with tears. “Don’t say that. Your life isn’t over. You’re still young, you have so much ahead of you—”

“What? A future as a lone alpha?” Harry spat back. “Some crap job that’ll take pity on me, while people avoid looking at me? The scary uncle Gemma’s kids won’t want to hug?”

“Don’t talk like that.” Her hand must have tightened on his—Louis could hear the grief in it. “You’re still my beautiful boy. You’ll find your place. You’ll find a mate—”

“I don’t want one!” Harry’s voice cracked like a whip, so sharp Louis’s own chest tightened. “I don’t want someone looking at me like I’m broken. Like I’m a curse. I don’t want to mate in the dark just so they won’t be disgusted.”

Louis closed his eyes. He’d heard versions of this before—patients mourning the futures they thought they’d lost. But something in Harry’s words—so bitter, so self-condemning—hit deeper than he wanted to admit.

Drawing in a slow breath, Louis pushed the door open.

The room was brighter than usual; someone had actually drawn the curtains. Harry sat stiff-backed on the bed, eyes hard as they cut to Louis. Beside him stood a woman, her resemblance to him striking enough that Louis didn’t need the introduction.

“What do you want?!” Harry barked, still bristling.

Louis rolled his eyes, unfazed. “That again? Are we on mood swings now? Come on, we’ve got physio.” He dragged a chair closer like he owned the place.

The woman blinked at him, clearly not expecting anyone to speak to her son that way. Louis shot her a sunny smile and extended a hand. “Hi. Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s nurse—”

“More like my nightmare,” Harry muttered darkly.

“And his nightmare,” Louis agreed sweetly. That earned him the tiniest smile from her.

“Anne Styles,” she said, shaking his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Louis.”

“Don’t let him fool you, Mum,” Harry cut in, voice dripping sarcasm. “He’s a devil in disguise.”

“Mmm,” Louis hummed, unbothered. “Now then, soldier—up.”

“I’m not going,” Harry snapped.

Anne opened her mouth, but Louis cut clean across her. “Yes, you are. This pity party is officially over. Get up, or I’ll drag you there kicking and screaming.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, voice sharp with mockery. “You? Do you realise you’re small enough to be mistaken for a child?”

That hit Louis’s sore spot, heat flaring in his chest. “What I lack in height, I make up for in force. And trust me—I’ve charmed enough of the big alpha staff around here that carrying you like a swaddled baby would not be a problem.”

Harry glared. “You’re annoying.”

“Boo-hoo,” Louis said dryly. “Tell it to someone who cares. Now get up, Harry. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

It took a solid few minutes of Harry puffing and muttering before he finally leaned on Louis and let himself be lowered into the chair. Thank God—Louis had been two minutes away from dragging the whole bloody bed down to physio.

“Want to come with us, Anne?” Louis asked as he wheeled Harry toward the door, his patient sulking like a grounded teenager. “Just an intro session with Niall, the physiotherapist.”

Anne gave him a soft smile, eyes warm. “No, I should go. But—” she glanced at Harry, voice gentling, “we’ll finish our conversation later, Hazza. Be good, please.”

Harry only nodded stiffly, jaw set. Louis rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. Honestly, it felt less like escorting a grown alpha soldier and more like hauling a five-year-old off to his first day of school.

“I can hear you rolling your eyes from here,” Harry said, deadpan, after Anne slipped out.

“Yeah, well, I can’t help my body’s natural responses,” Louis shot back breezily.

Harry’s gaze flicked over him. “You can’t cover your smell either. Did you know when you’re pissed at me you reek like rotten strawberries? It’s annoying.”

Louis gasped theatrically. “Excuse me? Did you take a crash course in politeness from Jersey Shore? Talking about someone’s scent is a prick move. Also—rotten strawberries? Please. You smell like rainwater gone off in a bucket when you’re mad. Tell me again about wrong smells.”

Harry muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t an apology.

“Whatever,” Louis dismissed airily.

“Whatever,” Harry echoed, sulky as ever.

Thank God the physio room finally came into view. Louis needed a buffer before he strangled this man.

“Niall!” Louis called as they entered. The blond’s head popped up, grin spreading.

“Delivering Harry Styles to you,” Louis announced, rolling the chair forward with a flourish. “Careful though—get too close and he’ll bite.”

Niall chuckled, eyeing the two of them with interest.

Niall looked Harry up and down, lips twitching. “Well, well. So this is the infamous soldier who gave half the night staff premature grey hairs.”

Harry’s brows shot up. “You talk too much for a physiotherapist.”

Louis gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me, Captain Grumpy, Niall happens to be the best physiotherapist in this place. Show some respect. He’s got more patience than me, and that’s saying something.”

“Not really,” Niall muttered, grinning as he crouched in front of Harry’s chair. “I’ve seen Lou nearly strangle a vending machine for eating his pound coin.”

“That machine had it coming,” Louis said, unapologetic. “Anyway, Niall, meet Harry Styles—professional sulker, part-time nightmare, currently refusing to admit I’m the best nurse he’s ever had.”

“I never said—” Harry started, only for Niall to cut him off.

“And Harry, meet me. I’m the one who’ll have you sweating buckets four times a week until you’re sick of the sight of me.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Charming introduction.”

Niall shrugged. “Better get used to it. Physio isn’t exactly a spa day.” He tapped the side of the wheelchair. “But you’ll thank me in six months when you’re walking again.”

Harry let out a short, humourless laugh. “Optimistic, aren’t you?”

“Not optimism. Experience.” Niall’s grin softened into something steadier, a spark of quiet conviction. “You put in the work, I’ll put in mine. That’s how this goes.”

Louis leaned in, stage-whispering into Harry’s ear. “Translation: if you sass him like you sass me, he’ll make you do extra reps.”

“Not true,” Niall said mildly, already reaching for the file Liam had left on the counter. Then, after a beat: “Mostly not true.”

Louis smirked. “See? You’re doomed, Styles.”

Harry glared at both of them. “Great. I’m surrounded by comedians.”

“Correction,” Louis chirped, patting his shoulder. “You’re surrounded by professionals who don’t give a damn about your sulking. Welcome to rehabilitation, soldier.”

Niall chuckled as he flipped open the file. “God help us all.”

_____________

Louis ditched Harry with Niall, then shamelessly pawned off the follow-up handoff to Jeff on one of the elderly nurses. He needed a breather and about a thousand cups of tea before he committed a crime. The rest of his rounds went blessedly smooth—no tantrums, no dramatic refusals, not even a single “but I Googled it” lecture. Thank god for small mercies.

An hour later, he strolled—well, dragged his feet—toward Jeff’s office to fetch Harry, only to nearly walk straight into the alpha himself. Harry was parked outside like a sulky gargoyle, radiating fury. His fists were white-knuckled on the armrests, jaw flexing, chest rising in sharp bursts. He looked feral, like if someone so much as sneezed near him, he’d launch out of that chair and start swinging.

Louis slowed, then sighed. “What happened? Did he make you talk about your childhood failures?” he asked, brow arched.

Harry didn’t bite. Didn’t even twitch. His silence was louder than his usual grumbling, and Louis’s stomach sank. Harry always bantered back. Always.

A beat later, Harry exploded. “This is your therapist around here?! The ones who tell me ‘everyone has a trauma, just take this pill and feel better’—like some low-rent drug dealer?!”

Louis winced. Damn it, Jeff. He’d known the man wasn’t right for Harry.

“And then when I refused,” Harry barrelled on, voice carrying down the corridor, “he told me ‘we can give it to you involuntarily if we think it’s best, hold your composure.’ What the fuck, Louis?!”

Nurses slowed. Patients craned their necks. Harry’s growls ricocheted off the walls, sharp and raw. He looked ready to flip the wheelchair and start swinging.

“Alright,” Louis muttered under his breath, plastering on a bright smile. “Field trip.” He grabbed the handles of Harry’s chair and steered him firmly away, ignoring the stares. “Garden time, soldier. If you’re going to yell at me, at least do it under open sky. The acoustics are better.”

Harry’s chest heaved, his knuckles white on the armrests. “This place is a joke! I want out—right now!”

“Mm, yeah, I hear you,” Louis said breezily, pushing the chair faster before Harry could punch a wall or a nurse. “But bad news, solider: escape routes are limited. Unless you’ve got a grappling hook stuffed in your hospital gown, you’re stuck with me.”

That earned him a murderous side-eye.

Louis rolled them out into the courtyard, parking next to the same bench from yesterday. He crouched in front of Harry, voice dropping low, humor softening. “Look at me. No one—and I mean no one—is forcing pills down your throat. Not on my watch. You hear me?”

Harry’s jaw worked, fury still vibrating off him in waves. But beneath it, something cracked—something brittle and scared.

Louis sighed. “You’re not broken. You’re pissed. And you’ve got every right to be. But you’re not walking out of here until I say you’re ready. So if you’re gonna scream, scream. Just…don’t bite the messenger, yeah?”

Harry’s glare didn’t soften, but his chest eased just slightly. Enough that Louis dared to sit back on the bench beside him, tea already sounding like the only cure for the headache blooming behind his eyes.

Harry sat rigid, chest heaving, eyes darting between the fountain and the sky like he couldn’t decide which one deserved his wrath more. Louis stayed put on the bench, giving him space, resisting the urge to poke. For now.

Finally, Harry let out a guttural noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and shoved at the wheels of his chair. He pushed forward a few feet, then back again. Forward, back. Like pacing, except seated. His shoulders still tense, jaw set.

Louis watched for a minute before drawling, “Glad to see we’re branching out from sulking into interpretive dance. Very modern.”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, spinning the wheels harder, dragging himself across the courtyard in uneven bursts.

Louis leaned back, smug creeping into his smile. He let Harry go a full lap around the fountain before casually dropping, “You do realize you’ve just wheeled yourself halfway across the courtyard without me touching the chair once, right?”

Harry froze.

Louis tilted his head. “Uh-huh. Congratulations, soldier. First solo mission complete.” He even gave a little golf clap, because why not.

Harry’s scowl could have cracked glass. “That doesn’t count.”

“Oh, it absolutely counts.” Louis grinned, leaning in. “In fact, I might put a gold star next to your name. Maybe two, if you stop looking like you’re about to chew through metal.”

For a second, Harry’s glare held steady. Then—barely, barely—his lips twitched like the ghost of a smile threatened mutiny.

Louis pounced. “Oh my god, was that almost a grin? Careful, soldier. People might start thinking you have human emotions.”

“Shut. Up.” Harry grumbled again, but his voice was softer this time, almost tired.

Louis leaned back, satisfied. He’d take the tiny cracks over an explosion any day.

_____________

Later, after wrangling a reluctant promise out of Liam that Jeff would be politely shuffled off Harry’s case and Ed roped in instead, Louis grabbed his kit and headed down the hall to deal with his favorite grumpy alpha.

Harry was awake when he slipped inside, flat on his back, glaring at the ceiling like he was trying to burn a hole through it with sheer willpower.

“Very Count of Monte Cristo of you,” Louis said lightly, shutting the door behind him.

Green eyes flicked over, and there it was—Harry’s signature scoff, like Louis had shown up purely to annoy him.

“Does that mean I’m destined to come back and sabotage your nursing career?” Harry drawled.

“You can try,” Louis replied, setting the kit down with a flourish. “But don’t forget he loses in the end. Vengeance is terribly bad for the skin.”

Harry’s mouth twitched, but then he stilled when Louis reached for the bandage along his cheek. He flinched back.

 “What are you doing?”

Louis paused, brows lifting. “Hmm. Tending your burns, funnily enough. Also need to check your leg, see how it’s healing.”

Harry shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “Can someone else do it?”

That earned him a full Louis frown. “Why? Don’t you trust me? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in wound care. Absolute gold star material.”

“It’s not that…” Harry muttered, voice dipping quieter. A flush crept over his ears. “I just—it’s pretty gross, isn’t it?”

For a beat, Louis just looked at him, and then softened. “Harry,” he said gently, “nothing about you is gross. The burns didn’t touch your eyes—still green and obnoxiously pretty. Just nicked a bit of your cheek and ear. Scars, not horror.”

Harry glanced at him sharply, suspicion and something warmer warring in his gaze. Then, almost boyishly, he grinned. “You think I have beautiful eyes?”

Louis scoffed, heat crawling up his own neck. “That’s what you took from my medical diagnosis? Very alpha of you. Shallow, soldier.”

But Harry still held onto that tiny, stubborn smirk as Louis peeled back the bandages, his hands a little less steady than usual.

Louis worked in silence, hands sure and efficient. No lingering touches, no fuss—just clean, precise movements that wouldn’t make Harry feel more exposed than he already did. He swapped the old bandage for a fresh one in no time, catching the faint release of Harry’s breath, almost like relief.

Then Louis reached for the blanket covering Harry’s leg. The alpha stiffened, shoulders locking, but Louis tugged it back anyway. He didn’t give Harry a chance to spiral. Quick, clean—just like the burns.

The sight made Louis exhale softly. The cut was below the knee, which was good news when it came to prosthetics. The skin was pink and tender, but not infected. No angry swelling, no worrying heat under his gloves. He spread ointment over the healing scar with practiced gentleness, and only then let his mouth curve into a sly grin.

“Good news, soldier,” Louis announced, taping down the fresh bandage. “Your leg hasn’t run off to join the circus. Tragic, really—I hear they’re desperate for a one-legged tightrope act.”

Harry gave him a flat look, though his jaw ticked like he was smothering a smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Oh, I’m hilarious,” Louis countered, peeling off his gloves with a snap. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate quality entertainment.”

Harry huffed. “You should be banned from bedside manner.”

Louis smirked, leaning back in his chair. “And yet, here I am. The Florence Nightingale of sarcasm. Lucky you.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “More like the gremlin version. Short, loud, impossible to get rid of.”

Louis gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Gremlin? Rude. I’ll have you know I’m at least elf-coded.”

“Elf?” Harry scoffed. “You’d trip over your own ears.”

“Careful, Styles,” Louis warned with mock severity, wagging a finger at him. “Insult your nurse, and suddenly your meds taste like cough syrup for a week.”

That earned him a real laugh, low and reluctant, spilling past Harry’s defenses before he could stop it. Louis caught it, smug satisfaction spreading across his face.

“Ha! Victory,” he declared. “You laughed. That’s legally binding—you like me now.”

Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Louis sang, patting his knee lightly, “you’d miss me if I were gone.”

“Don’t count on it,” Harry sassed back. “I might throw a party.”

“In my honor? That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since you got here. I’ll add it to your chart—‘becoming nicer, requires extra care.’”

Harry chuckled low, though he tried to disguise it with a cough.

“Okay, all done,” Louis said, tugging his gloves off with a snap and flashing his own smile. “I’m officially off the clock for this task, so I’ll leave you to grumble in peace. Might I recommend Netflix? Perfect time to rot your brain with some trashy reality TV.”

He’d just turned when Harry’s voice stopped him. “Louis…”

Louis glanced back, eyebrow raised. “Mm?”

Harry shifted, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassed and stubborn. “You need to restrain me. I might… fall asleep.”

“Oh, right.” Louis stepped back over, reaching for the straps. “If you insist. Won’t be the first time an alpha’s begged me to tie him up.”

That earned another low laugh from Harry, and Louis was almost smug at how familiar the sound was becoming.

“This is so inappropriate in so many ways,” Harry muttered, but his lips curved upward anyway.

Louis shrugged, securing the strap and checking it wasn’t too tight. “You know me by now—zero brain-to-mouth filter. You get the deluxe package.”

Harry tilted his head, studying him for a beat too long. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And unforgettable,” Louis shot back, stepping away with a grin.

This time, Harry didn’t argue.

_____________

Louis barged into Liam and Zayn’s place like he owned the deed, and honestly? At this point, he might as well. He’d been best mates with Liam since uni—bonded during first-year orientation when Louis insulted the professor’s tie, and Liam nearly choked trying not to laugh. Then Zayn came along four years ago, all sharp cheekbones and sharper wit, and Louis took one look and thought, finally, another soul allergic to alpha nonsense. Instant friendship.

“Oi oi!” he yelled the moment he stepped inside, balancing a greasy pizza box in one hand and a six-pack in the other. “The prince has arrived, bearing beers and toppings no god should’ve allowed!”

Niall, who was already sprawled on the sofa like he paid rent there, popped up and grabbed the pizza. “Took you long enough. Did you flirt with the poor pizza bloke again?”

Louis kicked his shoes off in the entryway. “Listen, I’m not a millionaire, Horan. I do what I must for discounts. A wink here, a smile there—it’s called survival.”

Zayn glanced up from the couch, curled under Liam like they were rehearsing for a couple’s photoshoot. They were disgustingly adorable, the kind of in-love that made Louis want to roll his eyes hard enough to sprain something. “You got the pepperoni one for me, right?”

“Of course, you beautiful creature,” Louis crooned, striding over to plant an exaggerated kiss on Zayn’s cheek. “Anything for my sexy omega.”

“Oi, stop flirting in front of me—it’s rude,” Liam grumbled, pulling Zayn closer like Louis might actually steal him away.

Louis disappeared into the kitchen to dig out a bottle opener. “Stop being a jealous prick. You know Zayn can pick whoever he wants.”

“I put a mark on his neck!” Liam protested, though he still accepted the beer Louis handed him with a scowl.

Louis shrugged, all innocent eyes. “So? Marks can be broken.”

Zayn chuckled, which only made Liam’s face sour further.

“I could fire you for this, you know,” Liam shot back, puffing up his chest. “I’m the CEO of your workplace.”

Louis popped the cap off his own beer, rolled his eyes, and took a long, slow sip. “And what would you do with the difficult patients then? Hand them off to some poor nurse who’ll be crying on your office carpet inside five minutes?”

“Fair point, mate,” Niall chimed in, already dual-wielding two slices of pizza like it was his birthright. He nodded toward Louis with greasy solemnity. “Everyone knows no one else can wrangle those nightmares but Lucifer himself.”

Louis smirked.

“Speaking of Lucifers…” Niall said around a mouthful of cheese, grease shining on his lips, “how’s it going with Styles?”

Louis shrugged, snatching up a slice of pizza. “Fine. Still having mood swings. I caught him in the painting room the other day, going full Picasso—red and black everywhere, like a crime scene with ambition. Then two minutes later he’s shouting at the poor aide for trying to help him out of the chair. Poor lad nearly handed in his resignation right there.”

“Styles is the soldier one?” Zayn asked, brow arched. “Liam says he’s a lot of work.”

“Yeah, understatement of the century,” Louis muttered, chewing. “But we’re getting there. He’s putting the effort in—gym, physio. And I made him laugh in the cafeteria last week.” He leaned in, lowering his voice like it was classified. “Swear the whole room went silent just to eavesdrop, like it was the rarest bird sighting.”

Liam smiled at him, soft and a bit knowing. “And he’s good with Ed, yeah?”

Louis nodded, swallowing a gulp of beer. “Like butter and jam. Apparently he plays guitar, so he and Ed sit there jamming while he talks about his feelings. Sometimes it’s like therapy, sometimes it’s like a bad pub gig.”

Zayn tilted his head at him, eyes gleaming. When Louis frowned back, he smirked. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

Louis nearly choked on his drink, coughing so hard his eyes watered. “What?” His face was already burning.

Zayn turned lazily to Niall. “How hot is he?”

Niall grinned, wiping cheese from his chin with his sleeve. “Pretty hot. All brooding stares and green eyes. He’s got dimples too—I saw one when Louis made him laugh. It was almost indecent, really.” He shot Louis a wicked look. “You should see the two of them. Pure banter and sass. Reads like a hate-to-love smut scene just waiting to be written.”

Louis gaped at them, scandalized. “What are you talking about? He’s a patient. My patient. Doesn’t matter if he’s Brad bloody Pitt. My job is to make him walk again and then release him, end of story.”

“So you admit you find him steamy,” Zayn said smoothly, catching Louis’s slip.

Louis groaned, dropping his head back against the chair. “Unbelievable. Liam, control your mate. He’s clearly not getting enough.”

But Liam only gave him a strange look, somewhere between amused and concerned. “Lou… you know you can’t, right?”

Louis blinked at him, scandalized all over again. “Of course I know! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Liam shrugged lazily. “Just… making sure.”

Before Louis could fire back, Zayn leaned in with that infuriating grin. “Doesn’t mean you can’t… when he’s released, right?”

Louis stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Then Niall suddenly cackled. “So that’s why you instructed me to make him walk in six months? That your little deadline to… go for it?”

“Uhh, what?!” Louis exclaimed, flailing like a panicked cartoon. “Stop it, all of you! And you too, Liam—I see that smirk. Harry and I don’t have anything together, no sexual tension, nothing! I’m just trying to make him discharge faster. That’s it!”

The three of them exchanged sly looks, but Zayn was the one to speak. “So… when can I meet him?” he asked Liam, tilting his head. “It’s been ages since I dropped by one of my art sessions at the center.”

Liam chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek. “Whenever you want, baby. You know the patients love your art lessons.”

Louis, feeling under siege, snapped, “More than you like to knot Zayn in your office later?” His voice was rough, his irritation making him sound bitey.

Liam went red, but Zayn just grinned wider. “Don’t worry, Lou. Harry can knot you in six months… in the nurse station.”

They all erupted in laughter. Louis sat there, cheeks flaming, glaring at them like a scalded cat.

“I fucking hate you all,” he muttered, shaking his head, but there was no hiding the twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

_____________

Louis was just finishing up his patient charts when Brent came running over, eyes wide and panicked.

“What happened now?” Louis asked, already used to Brent losing it over the smallest things—like a patient threatening to file a complaint because the mashed potatoes “looked at them funny.” Patients and their drama. Really.

“I…I went to check on Styles, like you asked me to, and…he’s not in his room!”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “So? Have you looked in the toilet? The art room? The gym? The garden? Maybe under a pile of pillows?”

“Y-yes!” Brent’s voice cracked. “I looked everywhere! I swear! He…he disappeared!”

Louis gave him a flat look. “You do know he has one leg, right? He can’t just wander off like a wizard. He’s not Harry Potter, Brent.”

Brent’s lip trembled, and Louis sighed. “Fine. I’ll go look. And stop trembling, you’ll make the patient in Room 4 anxious again.”

Louis didn’t have to search far. Passing Larissa’s room, he spotted Harry in his wheelchair next to hers, leaning over her phone. Larissa was clearly mastering her new arms, and Harry looked completely at ease, two seconds from smiling.

“Here you are,” Louis declared, planting himself in the doorway. “You do know we have a code red for disappearing patients, right? I could’ve called the police.”

Harry and Larissa looked up. Harry scoffed, unbothered. “Where would I disappear to? I have one leg.”

Louis shrugged. “That’s what I said! But you almost made Brent cry.”

Larissa chuckled. “Brent’s always nearly crying, Lou.” Then she added, whispering to Harry with a wicked grin, “I once heard him pep-talk himself like he was about to resign. ‘I can do it.’ Disturbing, really.”

Louis sighed. “Yeah, well… he’ll be okay. He’s new.” Then he narrowed his eyes at them. “So, what are you watching? Please tell me it’s not that three-legged puppy video again, Larissa. You know some patients didn’t exactly find it funny last time.”

Larissa waved her hands defensively. “No! I stopped it after Jenny’s meltdown.” She leaned closer to Harry. “Apparently Jenny from Room 20 just lost her dog, Chubby, and she… didn’t find the video heartwarming. Louis had to sedate her.”

Harry chuckled, flashing that infamous dimple, and Louis felt that familiar tug in his chest. “God, people are melting like butter around here,” Harry said.

“You have no idea,” Larissa smirked. Then she glanced at Louis. “We’re watching E! News. A lot happened in the industry, and I didn’t have any in-house gossip to share with Harry, so…”

“Really?” Louis raised an eyebrow. “You’re watching E! News, soldier? How will the army see that? They’ll blame us for turning you into a total airhead.”

Harry shrugged casually. “What can a man do to find entertainment around here? Also, it’s fine—I’ve got a session with Ed in ten minutes, and I’ve already finished topics that don’t involve me jumping on a grenade.”

Louis blinked at him. That sarcastic, casual delivery… it steered something in his chest. Humor, small and steady, had become a kind of therapy for him here. That’s… progress.

“Okay, you two are trouble,” Louis said, shaking his head with a small smile. “I trust you’ll go to Ed’s therapy session without me having to drag you there, right?”

“Yes, Mother,” Harry rolled his eyes, already distracted by what Larissa was showing him next.

Louis watched them for a moment—two patients with different backstories, different injuries, but somehow here, in this center, they’d found a bond. Gossip, laughter, small comforts.

Louis leaned back and let himself smile. Maybe this job wasn’t just chaos and stress. Sometimes… it was exactly this. And for once, he felt it—the tiniest, quiet satisfaction in a long, messy day.

_____________

As the months passed, Harry was making progress, all things considered. His nightmares still came, and he still asked to be restrained every night—but he laughed more now, and Louis counted that as a win.

What Louis didn’t expect was to get caught off guard during a gym session one day. He was filling out patient charts next to Harry when the alpha suddenly went all in on the weights—like a scene straight out of Magic Mike.

“Do you think I should take pills?” Harry asked suddenly, breaking Louis from his distracted awe. Louis looked up and saw the fatigue etched on Harry’s face. He remembered the night nurse mentioning another nightmare last night.

Louis shrugged. “Ed recommended it?”

“Yeah… he said it would help with the nightmares,” Harry replied, glancing at Louis between reps. “What do you think?”

“I’ve seen a lot of patients it helps,” Louis said carefully, “but it’s not always easy getting used to them. I should warn you—it can take a few months to find the right dose and medicine.”

Harry frowned, looking genuinely concerned. “It… will change me in any way?”

Louis felt a little flip in his chest at how scared Harry sounded. He shook his head quickly. “No. Not your personality—God forbid.” He teased lightly, then grew serious. “It can change the amount of anxiety and depression you feel sometimes. It won’t make it disappear completely—no medicine can. But it flattens the raw edges, helps you cope better with situations… and the nightmares.”

Harry nodded slowly, taking a long breath. “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“You got this, soldier,” Louis said, stroking his hand for a moment over Harry’s. “Though… I’ll miss restraining you every night. That was the highlight of my shift—making an alpha weak in front of me.”

Harry rolled his eyes but chuckled. His tone betrayed his fondness. “God, you’re unbelievable.”

“I’m an angel,” Louis said lightly. “My mom would vouch for me.” He smirked. “Now come on—finish this session so you can shower. You stink.”

Harry, of course, made a dramatic show of flexing and grunting, apparently trying to smell worse. Louis groaned, hiding a laugh. “You’re impossible. You know that?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, still smirking. “But you love it.”

Louis caught that, a small smile tugging at his lips. And he did. Every ridiculous, stubborn, infuriating moment of it. Progress wasn’t just the pills, the workouts, or the nightmares—it was seeing Harry push himself, still smiling, still sarcastic, and somehow trusting him enough to let Louis be part of it. That, Louis decided, was a victory worth celebrating.

_____________

Louis was just finishing his morning rounds when raised voices spilled down the corridor. Again.

“You can’t do this! You can’t just disappear on everyone!” a woman’s voice cracked with fury. “Me and Mum have been getting calls nonstop. Nick’s been leaving messages every day—”

“Stop it!” Harry’s roar cut through hers, jagged and raw. “This is my decision!”

Louis groaned under his breath. Brilliant. Family drama before his second cup of tea. He quickened his pace, following the sound.

“Oh, so this is how it’s going to be?” the woman snapped. “Released in a few months just to rot in your room? Cry yourself sick until we’re checking daily if you’re still breathing?”

“Even if that’s what happens,” Harry bit back, “it’s still my choice!”

“I’m not going to watch you give up!” she shot back, voice breaking with equal parts anger and grief.

“Then leave, Gemma!” Harry barked, his voice ragged. “If it’s so damn hard, go! No one will care—least of all me!”

Louis didn’t hesitate. He stepped straight into the room. “Oi! Enough!”

Both siblings flinched, heads snapping toward him like they’d been caught throwing punches.

The woman—Gemma, apparently—stood near the foot of the bed, cheeks flushed, fists clenched. She spun to Louis, eyes blazing. “Who the hell are you?”

“Louis Tomlinson,” he said easily, adjusting the chart in his hands like he had all the time in the world. “Harry’s nurse. Also the poor sod blessed with front-row seats to your little shouting match.”

Gemma blinked, breath still heaving, and then—of all things—smirked. “So you’re the one Mum keeps talking about? Figures you’d be hot.”

Harry groaned. “Gemma—stop flirting with the staff.”

Louis grinned, sharp as a knife. “Don’t worry, soldier. I can handle a compliment without fainting.” His gaze flicked between them. “Now. Unless you want me to dig out the duct tape, you’ll both cut the screaming. Rehab walls are thin, and the last thing my patients need is thinking EastEnders is filming down the hall.”

Gemma’s chin jutted out. “He started it.”

Harry snapped back instantly. “I didn’t—she barged in here attacking me—”

Louis clapped once, sharp and loud. “Oi! Do I look like I care who started it? I don’t. This isn’t nursery school, and I’m not your mum.”

Gemma folded her arms, eyes sparking. “So I’m just supposed to let him talk to me like that?”

“Yes,” Louis said flatly. “Or ignore him. Or roll your eyes. Or take up kickboxing in your spare time. But screaming in my ward? Not an option.”

Her lips twitched, half in outrage, half in disbelief. Harry muttered something sullen into his chest, still glaring holes at the wall.

Louis mirrored them both deliberately, folding his arms and arching a brow. “Civilized humans or total silence. Pick one. And if I hear another round, you’re both on laundry duty. Harry, you’re on crutches, so you’ll be folding sheets with your teeth.”

For a long moment, the air in the room bristled. Then Gemma huffed, the fight leaking out of her posture even if her glare stayed sharp. Harry stayed sulky, muttering under his breath, but quieter.

Louis allowed himself a thin smile. “See? Already better.”

Harry shot him a look that should’ve cut him in half—but the edge wobbled, just enough to betray the ghost of a laugh.

_____________

Louis carefully peeled off Harry’s bandages one week later. The skin underneath had knitted closed at last, no longer raw, but the burn left its permanent mark: ridged, uneven, nicking the curve of his ear and tracing down his cheek in a jagged line. The flesh was still pink, tender to the touch, but healed enough to breathe on its own.

Harry sat stiffly in his wheelchair, arms crossed, jaw locked. He didn’t want to see his own face, and Louis could tell—it wasn’t the usual stubbornness this time. It was fear, hiding sharp and silent behind that alpha exterior.

“Stop it,” Louis said gently, leaning closer. “It’s not bad at all. If you were ugly before, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Harry let out a scoff that was half indignation, half nervous. “I was never ugly!”

Louis grinned. “I know, I can see it, soldier.” Then, with the kind of dramatic flair only he could manage, he added, “I brought a mirror. Want to see?”

Harry’s gaze dropped to the floor, lip pressed between teeth. He hesitated, then let out a long, almost exasperated sigh. “Let’s get it over with.”

Louis’s chest gave a small, guilty ping of happiness. “Here you go.” He held the mirror up to Harry, careful not to jostle the chair.

Harry studied himself in silence, gaze roaming the burn scars. His throat bobbed. “It’s… not looking so bad,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t trust the words.

“Told you,” Louis said, maybe too brightly. Then, because softness made his tongue itch, he added, “Don’t know what you looked like before, but I still would’ve flirted with you in a bar.”

Louis immediately cursed himself mentally—what had he just said? But then Harry smirked, that slow, teasing curl of his lips that made Louis’s stomach do flips.

“Will you?”

Louis flushed bright red, stammering. “Maybe.”

Harry’s laugh rang out, warm and unguarded, echoing faintly off the walls. “Louis Tomlinson! Is that your flirting? Are you flirting with me?”

“Shut up,” Louis said, snatching the mirror back. “Enough with being vain. Gym, now.”

Harry just laughed again, letting Louis wheel him to the physio room without another word, though the twinkle in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t nearly as begrudging as he claimed.

Later, when Harry met Niall for their session, Louis could sense the familiar tension under Harry’s banter. He was nervous—no surprise, after all the compliments he’d collected today—but he held it steady. Louis decided then and there: anyone who sabotaged this tiny victory would answer to him.

“Well, look at this boy,” Niall declared, perched on his desk like royalty surveying peasants. “Like a princess finally freed from her tower.”

“Still better-looking princess than you, which isn’t saying much.”,Harry fired back, quick and biting, but with an edge that was playful this time, almost teasing.

Louis settled into a chair nearby, watching them. He noticed the way Harry laughed freely, how his shoulders relaxed, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners while Niall exaggeratedly rolled his own. They were sharing stories, teasing each other, and for the first time in weeks, Louis could see Harry just being himself.

He allowed himself a small, quiet smile. This wasn’t a complete victory—not yet—but it was progress. Real progress. Harry could make it.

_____________

It was finally time for Harry to try on his temporary prosthesis. Weeks of fittings, limb shaping, and grueling physio had led to this moment, and the room was buzzing like someone had shouted “Free pizza!” instead of “Leg time!”

Louis carried the prosthesis like it was a delicate Fabergé egg. “Ready to be bionic?” he asked with a grin so ridiculous it practically demanded a laugh.

Harry snorted, shifting in his wheelchair. “Never been readier,” he muttered, though his hands twitched nervously like they were auditioning for their own Broadway show.

Louis knelt, sliding the socket onto Harry’s limb with the precision of someone defusing a bomb. Beside him, Niall hovered like a hype man who’d been told explicitly not to scream.

“Okay,” Louis muttered, tightening the last strap. “Moment of truth.”

With both of them steadying him, Harry pushed up. The first few seconds were pure chaos—knees wobbling, arms flailing, one panicked squeak that absolutely did not belong to an alpha, and a frantic, “Oh no, oh no, oh no—”

Then, miraculously, balance. Standing. Upright. Breathing. Somehow still sarcastic.

“Feels… weird,” Harry admitted, glaring down at the prosthetic like it might sprout wings and bolt. “Like I’m standing on a broomstick.”

Louis arched a brow. “Broomstick? I didn’t know you were Harry Potter now.”

“You don’t know enough about me,” Harry shot back, the corner of his mouth tugging into something that looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Might surprise you.”

Gemma’s eyebrow lifted. “Oh no, he’s flirting and standing. Alert the press.”

“If that’s his game, he’s got a long road ahead,” Niall added, grinning like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “Louis might need more than one-liners, mate. Maybe wine and dine the omega first before—”

“Niall!” Louis hissed, scandalized. Anne tried (and failed) to hide a snicker, while Liam blinked like he’d just seen a ghost do stand-up comedy.

Harry, utterly unbothered, wobbled slightly but held his ground. Still smug. Still alive. Still maddeningly charming despite the wobble. He glanced sidelong at Louis, voice low enough that only he might catch it. “Guess I’ll work on my delivery.”

“Alright, Footloose,” Niall said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “Sit before you start demanding a theme song and a marching band.”

Harry let out a breathy laugh, unsteady but confident, and Louis felt something inside him settle—a stubborn little seed of hope blooming quietly, almost defiantly, in his chest.

Even if the room looked like a sitcom set with everyone giving commentary, for the first time in weeks, Harry looked… unstoppable.

_____________

After all the recent wins with Harry, Louis knew the lows were coming. Recovery was a rollercoaster designed by someone who hated amusement parks: unexpected dips, brutal drops, and the occasional face-plant. Still, seeing Harry on the floor made Louis’s stomach lurch.

He’d been leaning against the wall with Larissa in the physio room, trading gossip about last night’s cafeteria chaos, when a thud cut through the air like a drum solo gone wrong. Louis snapped his head to the side—Harry was down. Flat on the mats. Flushed, sweaty, glaring at the floor like gravity had insulted his mum.

“Fuck!!” Harry bellowed, voice echoing.

Louis didn’t move. Yep. Dramatic alpha mode activated. Bravo.

“That’s okay, Styles. This happens,” Niall said, zen as a monk in a hurricane.

When Niall gestured for the aide to help, Harry growled low in his throat, the kind of sound that said both “I hate this leg” and “touch me and die.” Louis lifted his brows. Dramatic alpha noises, check. Next he’d probably start thumping his chest.

“Are you for real?” Niall asked, arms crossed, unimpressed. “What, you don’t want our help?”

“Fuck off,” Harry growled, glaring like Niall had just insulted his entire existence.

Louis muttered quietly under his breath to Larissa: “Yep. Definitely the time to lie down and suffer theatrically. Ten out of ten for commitment.”

“Fine, I will,” Niall replied, his voice light, dismissive, and firm. “You can try and pull yourself up on your own,” he added with a shrug, giving Harry exactly what he claimed to want—distance.

Harry attempted to rise. The prosthetic trembled, his arms shook, sweat rolled down his temples. Louis mentally narrated the scene: And here we see the alpha, attempting to defy physics. Spoiler alert: physics wins.

Each failed attempt made Harry more frustrated, each gritted jaw a tiny monument to stubbornness. Louis just leaned against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes narrowed, thinking: Well, at least he’s consistent.

Niall, of course, was the picture of calm, tablet in hand. Louis felt a flicker of admiration. Patience. Pure, infuriating patience.

Finally, Harry slumped, defeated, sprawled on the mat like a kicked-over chess piece. Louis muttered under his breath: And the floor claims another alpha.

Niall set his tablet aside. “I’ve got other patients. You done sulking, or do I call housekeeping to mop you up?”

Harry mumbled something, pride still flaring, then gave a stiff nod.

“No,” Niall said firmly. “Use your words. Growls don’t work on me.”

Another minute passed in tense silence before Harry finally spoke. “I need help getting up,” he muttered, the words barely above a growl, his eyes locked on Niall like he was fantasizing about strangling him.

Niall didn’t flinch—if he noticed the glare at all, he didn’t care. He simply gave a short nod and gestured for the aide to assist. Together, they helped Harry up and eased him back into his chair. He sat there, breathing heavily through his nose, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. He didn’t offer thanks.

“That wasn’t so hard, huh, Styles?” Niall said, slipping effortlessly back into upbeat rhythm. “Go cool off. Prosthetic practice tomorrow—same circus, new day.”

Harry didn’t respond. He just wheeled himself toward the door, his jaw locked tight, the tension still clinging to him like heat.

Louis caught Niall’s eye and gave him a grateful smile as the beta exhaled deeply and walked over.

“That was intense, mate,” Louis said, glancing at the doorway where Harry had disappeared.

Niall shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “He’s not the first frustrated human I’ve handled,” he said, then paused, a faint grimace tugging at his mouth. “But he does have a mean growl, doesn’t he?” He gave a theatrical shudder.

Larissa laughed from her mat beside Louis, not bothering to hide her amusement. “Yeah, he does. Just a mean little puppy sometimes.”

Niall turned to her with a grin. “Alphas would be dead without us,” he declared, placing a hand over his heart in mock solemnity. “Dear scoffing puppies everywhere.”

The tension broke at last, replaced by light laughter and easy chatter. Healing, Louis thought, was exactly like this: messy, stubborn, ridiculous—but somehow, with the right people, it worked.

_____________

The moment Louis stepped back into the nurse’s station, the chaos hit him: loud thuds, angry grunts, and a metallic clang that made the hallway vibrate. Harry was having a moment. A big moment.

Louis raised an eyebrow at Natalie, who sipped her lukewarm coffee like the world hadn’t just exploded two doors down.

“Been at it since he got back,” she said, voice calm as if she were commenting on the weather. “Tried to stop him earlier, nearly got launched into orbit by a chair. So… yeah. I’m alive. That’s what matters.”

Louis nodded. Points for survival.

Another sharp crack split the air from Harry’s room. Brent flinched like a gun had gone off. Louis, unfazed, sat beside Natalie and started scribbling in his charts.

“Uh… we’re… not going to do anything?” Brent asked, wide-eyed.

“Nope,” Louis said, smooth and casual. “Intervening now would be like throwing a wet towel on a volcano. Trust me. Not helpful.”

“But isn’t he… dangerous?” Brent whispered. “He sounds like he’s trying to tear the building apart!”

Louis finally looked up, deadpan. “Dangerous? Only to the furniture. And the walls. Mostly the walls.” He let his eyes drift back to the chaos. “Right now, he’s venting. Loudly. Very… theatrically. But contained. No one’s hurt yet. Except maybe his pride.”

A low, frustrated growl reverberated down the hall. Brent jumped again. Louis didn’t flinch.

“When the time is right, we step in,” he added, like he was offering sage life advice instead of survival tips for a rampaging alpha.

Brent chewed his lip. “And… how do we know when that is?”

Louis shot him a look equal parts patience and sarcasm. “You’ll know. And then you’ll help me. Think of it as… alpha disaster management 101.”

Another thump, followed by a shout that could have startled a rhino. Louis tilted his head, watching the staff continue their work like they hadn’t just been witness to the apocalypse. He made a mental note: Harry was frighteningly consistent. Very reliable.

Liam wandered past at that exact moment, one brow raised. Louis shrugged, deadpan. “I’ve got this, don’t worry.”

“Just tell me what he breaks so I can bill the family,” Liam muttered.

Louis smirked. “Already cataloged. They’re going to love it.”

And behind the door, Harry continued his one-man demolition show. In the nurse’s station, though, there was calm, sarcasm, and quiet readiness. Sometimes, Louis thought, letting someone vent was exactly what progress looked like.

_____________

It had been nearly an hour later that the crashing stopped—abruptly, like someone had hit “off” on a demolition machine. Louis paused in the doorway, ears straining for anything besides the quiet. And then came the sound: a broken, shuddering sob, sharp and hollow, cutting through the room like a glass breaking in slow motion.

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose. Yep. That’s the cue.

He clicked his fingers, drawing Brent’s attention. “It’s time,” he said quietly, but with enough authority that Brent didn’t even think of arguing. “Follow me. And try not to hyperventilate.”

Brent swallowed, nodded, and Louis led him inside.

The room was… spectacularly ruined. Chairs were tossed across the floor like they’d lost a fight with gravity, the mattress ripped halfway off the bed, foam spilling like spilled whipped cream. Flower petals—probably his mother’s gift—were bruised and scattered, and the vase lay in jagged shards, glittering in the fluorescent light. Even the curtains hadn’t survived: one dangled like a surrender flag.

And amid the chaos, there was Harry.

He lay crumpled on the floor, as though the strength that had carried him through the tantrum had finally collapsed. His wheelchair sat a few feet away, tipped over, the wheels spinning slowly, accusatory. Louis guessed Harry had yanked too hard on the curtains and lost his balance in the process.

His prosthetic stump was scraped and reddened. His hands—bloodied in places—looked raw, probably from crawling over shards of glass without concern for the cuts. Now, those same hands were curled against his face, trembling. His sobs had quieted, but they were still wrenching, raw.

When Harry finally looked up, there was no growl, no snarl, no fury—just hollow exhaustion and streaming tears.

“What?” he rasped, voice hoarse, empty. “You finally came to sedate me?”

Louis shook his head slowly. “No. I came to help you get up.”

After a pause, he added softly, “You must be tired.”

Something gave way in Harry—not violently this time, but quietly. He let out another sob, nodded slowly, and whispered, “So tired.”

Louis only nodded back, his expression steady, almost sardonic in its calm. With a small gesture, he sent Brent for another mattress. Brent moved quickly, and together they worked with practiced ease—careful not to startle, careful not to crowd—as they lifted Harry from the floor, settled him back in his chair, and eased him onto the bed.

Neither of them spoke. The silence was deliberate. Gentle. Respectful.

Harry’s sobs faded into uneven, shaky breaths. His eyes were puffy, his mouth slack with exhaustion. He wasn’t crying anymore, but he looked completely drained, like the storm had finally sucked him dry.

Louis glanced at Brent. “I’ve got this now. Let me tend to his wounds.”

Brent nodded wordlessly and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Louis moved to the small cabinet by the wall, pulled open a drawer, and gathered a clean bandage roll, antiseptic wipes, and a jar of ointment. He returned to Harry’s side, kneeling down, and began—calm, steady—cleaning away the blood, glass shards, and remnants of chaos.

This was the moment after the storm: not sedatives, not scolding—just quiet, careful care.

Harry watched him silently, his expression unreadable. A sharp hiss escaped him when the antiseptic touched a deeper cut, but he didn’t flinch away. He clenched his jaw and endured it, stubbornly quiet.

Louis worked patiently, careful not to shift the glass littering the floor. Then he gave a small, wry smile and said softly, “You know, soldier… if you were trying to redecorate the place, you’re taking ‘extreme minimalist’ a bit far.”

Harry blinked, surprised, a ghost of a tired smirk tugging at his lips.

When the last wound was cleaned and wrapped, Louis gathered the used wipes and gauze, then straightened slowly.

“I ruined the room,” Harry murmured, voice flat, almost lost in the soft hum of the IV machine. “I… I’ll clean it.”

Louis shook his head gently. “No need. The cleaning staff will handle it while you sleep. When you wake, it’ll be just like before.” He added with a small grin, “Though… maybe try curtains next time that don’t fight back.”

Harry was quiet, eyes drifting shut, then fluttering open again. “Lou,” he said, soft and low, as Louis adjusted the IV flow to deliver the pain medication. “I’m sorry.”

Louis squeezed his hand, still smiling a little. “It’s okay. It’s just a setback. You’ll keep fighting tomorrow, yeah?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to understand someone who didn’t walk away even when it would have been easy. Slowly, he nodded, exhaustion softening his features. His eyes slid closed, finally giving in to rest.

Louis stayed a little longer, watching the gentle rise and fall of Harry’s chest. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “Next time… let’s stick to pillow fights.” And quietly, he slipped out the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving the chaos behind and a fragile calm in its place.

_____________

“How did you know?” Brent asked quietly as Louis stepped out of Harry’s room, the door clicking softly shut behind him. His voice was hesitant, curious—still shaken, but less afraid now.

Louis gave a tired, wry smile, the kind that comes from carrying too much but choosing to keep going anyway. “When the fight leaves the body,” he said gently, “the mind becomes quieter. Not happy—just… quiet. Sad, yes. But more open. That’s when we step in.”

Brent nodded slowly, absorbing the words like they were a language he was only beginning to learn.

“Of course,” Louis added, voice firm but kind, “if a patient is actively endangering themselves or others, we intervene sooner. But with Harry, I waited for the silence. That silence meant he wasn’t fighting the world anymore—just himself. And that’s when we can reach them.”

Brent looked thoughtful, brows furrowed like he was trying to map it all out in his mind.

“Don’t be afraid of our patients,” Louis said, placing a hand on the younger nurse’s shoulder. “And don’t be afraid to make mistakes. I learned what I know through trial and error—through my own pateints. These patients—they’re not dangerous. They’re just hurt. That pain looks messy, loud, and sometimes terrifying, but it’s not personal. It’s never about us.”

He paused, gaze steady, then added with a soft smirk, “Also… don’t worry, the glass shards aren’t out to get you. I checked.”

Brent laughed quietly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Got it.”

“If you can remember that, Brent,” Louis continued, “you’ll grow into a damn good nurse. I promise.”

Brent nodded again, more certain this time. Louis could see the advice settling into him—not fully understood yet, but beginning to take root.

Then Louis tilted his head, a sly hint in his tone. “Now… could you call the cleaning staff and maintenance? I’d like Harry’s room restored by the time he wakes up. And maybe stock up on more curtains that don’t fight back.”

“Yes, of course!” Brent said, already turning down the hallway, a little spark of purpose in his step.

Louis watched him go, a quiet pride stirring in his chest. Then he turned and moved on, slipping back into his routine—checking vitals, changing dressings, offering soft encouragement to his other patients—because the work never paused. And somehow, that rhythm helped keep everything in balance.

Even after the storms.

_____________

“Excuse me?” 

Louis sighed, dragging his eyes up from the computer screen. Standing in the doorway was a man—a beta, judging by the lack of scent—with hair quiffed high enough to require planning permission and a smile that screamed I host brunch shows for a living.

“Do you know where I can find Harry Styles?” he asked, polite and chipper.

Louis gave him a long, squinty look. “And you are…?”

“Nick Grimshaw. His best friend,” the man declared proudly, like it was supposed to mean something.

Louis tilted his head, lips twitching. “Best friend, you say. Did Harry actually call you, or did you just show up uninvited like you’re auditioning for Baby Reindeer?”

Nick’s mouth fell open, then he laughed so loudly two nurses passing by stared. “He called me, I swear! I’m not here to sedate him and exploit him for Netflix content.”

Louis smirked, filing that under acceptable answer. Anyone who could keep up with him deserved points. He pushed back his chair, stood, and gestured grandly down the hall.

“Fine. I’ll take you. But be warned—he’s insufferable.”

Nick grinned, falling into step with him. “Please. I’ve known him since he was five. He was annoying then, so right now he’s probably three seconds away from going full Hulk.”

Louis snorted. “Good. Maybe he’ll finally break the vending machine. Been eyeing that Twix for days.”

Nick chuckled before sliding him a curious glance. “And you are…?”

“Oh—Louis Tomlinson. Harry’s nurse. Or, more accurately, the only thing standing between him and a criminal record.”

Nick stopped mid-stride, giving him an up-and-down like he was sizing up an outfit. “You’re his nurse? Well. That’s… interesting.”

Louis frowned. “Why?”

Nick’s grin turned wicked. “Because you look like his type. Honestly, if you told me you were his mate, I’d start planning the wedding playlist.”

Louis flushed scarlet but didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he shoved Harry’s door open and called, far too cheerily, “Hope you’re wearing pants, soldier! I brought you a gift.”

Harry looked up from where he was stretched out on the bed, a book in his hand. His eyes flicked from Louis to Nick, and his mouth curled into something fond.

“Oh, didn’t think you’d arrive so fast. Bit desperate, mate.”

Nick chuckled, strolling in like he owned the place. “You know me—when your best friend of twenty years finally calls after months of ghosting, I’ll show up for the apology tour. Lunch included.”

Harry laughed, dimples flashing, and Louis went still for a second, caught staring before he quickly looked away.

The two men hugged, Harry’s prosthesis leaning against the side of the bed. Louis eyed it pointedly.

“You know you’re supposed to get used to wearing that, right? Put it on before I tell Niall you’re being stubborn again.”

Harry shot him a grumpy glare. “I was reading a book. I don’t need it just for lounging.”

“Keep lounging like that,” Louis quipped, “and you’ll transform directly into a sofa.”

Nick burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you two sound like a married couple already.” Then, just to make it worse, he gave Harry a little hip thrust. “No wonder you didn’t call me—you’ve got your own live-in entertainment.”

Harry gave him a deadpan look. “If this is entertainment, I’d like to cancel my subscription.”

Louis scoffed, but Nick wheezed with laughter. “Knew it. He’s so your type.”

Harry’s head snapped around. “W-what? Shut up.”

Louis, unable to resist, tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Oh? And what exactly is Harry’s type?”

Nick grinned like a cat. “Small omega. Blue eyes. Smart mouth sharp enough to keep up with his slow drawl.”

Louis refused to blush, arching a brow instead. “So you’re telling me the way he talks so slowly I could finish a whole book in between sentences isn’t because he once jumped on a grenade?”

Nick practically folded over with laughter while Harry grumbled, “Great. Now you’re both against me.”

Louis smirked, backing toward the door. “Relax, soldier. I’ll leave you alone with your real soulmate.” He jerked his chin at Nick. “Don’t forget to spoon him gently—his quiff needs structural support.”

Nick howled, nearly doubled over, while Harry spluttered, dimples vanishing as his ears went pink.

Mic. Dropped.

_____________

Nick had been glued to Harry’s side all week—cheering him on during physio, sliding into gym sessions like he had a membership, and lingering so long the nurses were practically dragging him out by the quiff at visiting hours.

“Are you sure you didn’t quit your job?” Louis asked one evening as he came in to check Harry’s vitals. He shot Nick a side-eye. “What is it you do again?”

“I’m a journalist, Beautiful,” Nick supplied smoothly from the chair beside Harry. “Which means I can work from anywhere.”

Harry’s frown was instant. “Stop calling him beautiful. He has a name,” he muttered, voice low and grumbly.

“Why? You don’t think he’s beautiful?” Nick smirked over at Harry, whose ears went red before he could stop it. Louis, catching the shift in scent, had to bite back a laugh.

“That’s not the point!” Harry grumbled louder now, like volume could distract from his blush. “He’s a nurse. He worked his ass off to get here. You don’t just reduce an omega to looks—it’s degrading.”

Louis blinked, eyes widening for a beat. An alpha who knew omega rights and actually cared? Someone hand him a pen, he’ll sign the mating contract right here.

Nick, unfazed, just chuckled. “Relax, Captain Morality. I do appreciate his professionalism. Yesterday a patient had a full-on meltdown in the hall—exhaust type, crying, panicking, staff frozen like deer in headlights. And Louis?” He gestured grandly. “Just strolled up, talked her down in five minutes flat. It was like watching Dr. Phil in the wild.”

Louis rolled his eyes, lips twitching. “Just another day at the office.”

But when he glanced at Harry, the alpha was looking at him with something dangerously close to awe. Admiration. Like Louis had grown an extra halo and Harry wanted to reach out and touch it.

Louis’s heart stuttered against his ribs. Nope. Abort. Flee.

“Alright,” he said briskly, tucking the chart back in place. “You’re cleared to live another day. My job here is done.”

“Where are you going?” Harry asked quickly—too quickly—then froze, eyes widening as if he hadn’t meant to say it.

Louis smirked, slow and sharp, sensing the crack in Harry’s armor. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he teased, already halfway to the door.

Nick whistled low, grinning between them. “Ooooh, Styles. Someone’s got competition. Hope your prosthesis comes with running shoes.”

Harry groaned into his pillow while Louis escaped with a smug little smile.

_____________

“Are you okay, soldier?” Louis asked softly one afternoon.

They were in the garden. For once, Nick was actually at work, leaving the two of them alone. Harry didn’t need Louis sitting there—he could wheel himself anywhere without help—but Louis liked the sunshine, and maybe he liked Harry’s company too, though he’d never admit it out loud.

Their relationship kept shifting in subtle ways. Every day Louis could see Harry’s progress, and pride warmed his chest. Almost six months ago, he’d set Harry the goal of walking out of here. To Louis’s amazement, that mark was creeping closer. Just yesterday Harry had been fitted with his permanent prosthesis—a sleek, high-tech model designed for soldiers and athletes.

But today, Harry looked tired. Not just gym-tired. Hollow.

At Louis’s question, Harry turned his head, considering. Finally, he said quietly, “Had another nightmare last night. Felt too real, I guess.” He gave a half-shrug, but the weight behind it was heavy.

“What was it about?” Louis asked. He had the sudden urge to take Harry’s hand, to anchor him. He resisted—professionalism, professionalism—but the urge ached in his chest.

Harry’s face shifted, sadness pulling at his features. “The ambush,” he murmured. His eyes went distant. “I can see the road again. Miles and miles of desert. We’d been there a hundred times. Me and my team were heading back to the vehicle when suddenly… we were surrounded. Other trucks, guns, shouting. You know in war movies, when everything turns to chaos at once? That was it.” His voice dipped lower. “And then—someone threw a grenade at us. Next thing I know, I just…jumped on it.”

Louis stayed quiet, watching him with soft eyes.

“But in the nightmare…” Harry’s throat worked. “I don’t get to jump. I just freeze. Watch my team die. It’s—” he shook his head sharply, jaw tight. “It’s stupid, right? How your own brain makes the worst moment of your life somehow worse.”

Louis reached out then, letting instinct win, and wrapped his hand around Harry’s. His voice was quiet but steady. “It’s not stupid at all. I’m not a therapist, but I’ve worked with enough patients to know one thing: sometimes your mind replays a scene because it can’t process it the first time. It’s not punishment—it’s survival.”

Harry’s grip tightened faintly. His eyes, usually so sharp, looked lost. “Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped on it,” he whispered.

Louis scoffed, squeezing his hand. “And what—just let it take you all out? No, Harry. You’re here because you jumped on that grenade. Your team’s here because of you. That’s not something to regret. That’s something to understand.”

Harry’s jaw clenched, and for a second, he looked almost angry with himself. “But… I don’t know how to live like this. Without my leg. And my face—God—”

“I think you’re living just fine,” Louis cut in firmly, leaning forward. “Yesterday you got your shiny new ex–Deus Ex Machina prosthesis and already managed a first step. You’re almost six months into the hardest fight of your life, and you’re still here. That’s not the end of the world, Harry. Not when you’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

Harry looked like he was about to argue, jaw tightening, but then something shifted in his eyes. When he spoke, Louis almost didn’t recognize the tone.

“Thank you, Lou,” he said softly.

And just as Louis’s chest tightened, the familiar smirk returned to Harry’s face. “You really are like Dr. Phil, you know. Should start charging extra for therapy. I’ll even pay.”

Louis snorted. “Get in line, soldier. If I ever do that, my patients will be paying extra for the privilege of me being polite enough not to insult them.”

Harry laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, dimples deepening. Louis smiled before he could stop himself, catching the fond look in Harry’s eyes—and that was it. His heart did its now-familiar treacherous little dance.

And Louis knew. He was in trouble. Real trouble.

_____________

Louis sat with Harry in the cafeteria for lunch a few days later. Harry had just come from his session with Ed, and Louis could tell it wasn’t safe to leave him brooding. His shoulders were hunched, hands twitching faintly, that look in his eyes that said something painful had been dragged to the surface.

“Come on,” Louis said, sliding a tray onto the table. “We’re trying the new menu. You and me. Proper review, scores and everything.”

Harry groaned. “I don’t want lunch. I want peace.”

“You’ll get peace when you’re six feet under. Until then—welcome to the first ever episode of Cafeteria Catastrophes.” Louis plunked down two plates with a flourish. “I’ll be your host, Judge Tomlinson. Contestant Styles, are you ready?”

Harry gave him a flat look. “No.”

“Excellent. That’s the spirit.” Louis stabbed a forkful of mashed potatoes and held it up to the light like it was a fine wine. “First course: beige mystery fluff. Notes of cardboard, with a lingering aftertaste of sadness.”

A huff of laughter escaped Harry before he could catch it. He grabbed his fork, muttering, “You’re insane.” He took a bite anyway, chewed, then said, deadpan, “Tastes like defeat.”

Louis gasped, clutching his chest. “Oh my God, he’s good at this. Contestant Styles coming in strong with existential despair as a flavor profile!”

Harry shook his head, but his mouth was twitching at the corners. “Give me that bread roll before you run out of metaphors.”

“Ah, the classic bread roll,” Louis intoned, passing it with mock solemnity. “So often overlooked, yet capable of breaking teeth and hearts alike.”

Harry snorted into his hand. “You’re unbearable.”

“Unbearably brilliant,” Louis corrected with a grin. “Now rate it. One to ten.”

Harry bit in, chewed, then looked Louis dead in the eye. “Zero.”

Louis beamed. “Perfect. Brutal honesty. The judges will love you.”

And though Harry was still scowling, the scowl was softer now, tugged off-balance by laughter that kept threatening to break through.

Louis kept making a spectacle of himself just to coax out more of those almost-smiles, and it was working—until a loud crash came from the kitchen.

Both of them jumped. Louis’s head whipped around just in time to see the new chef, Dean, shouting at one of his cooks. Voices rose, sharp and angry, knives still on the counter between them. For a horrifying second, it looked like they might swing.

Louis was frozen, watching the chaos unfold—until the sound that pulled him back wasn’t shouting, but silence. Harry’s silence.

He turned. Harry was trembling, jaw clenched, lip caught hard between his teeth. His breathing was fast, uneven, dangerous.

Oh no, Louis thought, and before he knew it he was on his feet.

“Hey, you two!” he barked at the kitchen. “Cut it out! We’ve got patients in here, it’s not a bloody pub.”

Both men startled, shamefaced, and slunk outside.

Louis hurried back to the table. Harry’s eyes were closed, chest rising too fast. “Harry?” he asked gently, sliding into the seat beside him. “Hey. Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”

When Harry opened his eyes, they were haunted—haunted by things Louis couldn’t even imagine. Without thinking, Louis caught his hand and squeezed hard, grounding him in the now.

“Breathe with me,” Louis urged, steady and soft. “Six in… hold… eight out.” He exaggerated his own breathing, letting Harry follow the rhythm. Once. Twice. Again. The trembling slowed, fraction by fraction, though Harry’s grip on his hand stayed iron.

“That’s it,” Louis murmured. “Good. Now—find me three blue things in the room.”

Harry blinked at him, confused, breath still ragged. “What?”

“Three blue things. Name them. Trust me, soldier.”

Harry’s gaze darted, first to Louis’s face. “Your eyes,” he whispered, then around the room. “That box of wipes. And…” He scanned again, voice steadier this time. “That woman’s glasses.”

“Perfect,” Louis said, squeezing his hand again. “Now three red things.”

The exercise continued—red, then green—until Harry’s breathing evened out and the tension drained from his shoulders. Louis slid a cup of water into his hand.

“Here. Drink.”

Harry obeyed, slow but steady, and Louis didn’t let go of his hand. Not yet.

“How do you feel?”

“Better,” Harry said with a nod. Then, after a beat: “Where’d you learn that?”

Louis shrugged. “From one of my therapists. Nurse school was hell—panic attacks before every exam. He taught me the trick.”

Harry blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “You?”

“Me,” Louis said simply. “Shocking, I know. Even I wasn’t born perfect.”

That earned him the faintest twitch of Harry’s mouth. Then Harry dropped his gaze, shame creeping in. “Sorry… I ruined lunch.”

“Ruined?” Louis smirked, leaning back in his chair. “You just gave it a plot twist. War hero with a flair for drama? That’s an automatic win on any cooking show.”

Harry let out a startled laugh—loud, unguarded, alive. Louis smirked, satisfaction curling through his chest.

Harry was going to be okay.

_____________

Harry was improving by the day, and Louis—once skeptical that he’d ever make his six-month deadline—was starting to believe he might actually do it. The two of them had settled into a rhythm: daily banter, insults disguised as affection, and laughter that chipped away at Harry’s famous grump.

It was during one of Louis’s longest shifts, the kind that stretched like wet cement, that the door swung open and six soldiers stormed in, loud as a marching band. Natalie blinked at them like they’d materialized from a recruitment poster.

“Where’s Harry Styles?” barked the tallest alpha, all broad shoulders and command voice.

Louis, arms crossing, eyed them. “And you are?”

“His team,” the dark-haired alpha at the front announced, built like she could bench-press Louis and Natalie together. “We came to see him finally.”

“Is he okay?” a nervous beta blurted, wringing his hands. “He didn’t tell us where he was until yesterday—”

“Of course he’s okay,” another alpha cut in, already grinning. “The bastard jumped on a grenade. He’s probably in there making balloon animals out of the IV tubing.”

The whole group cackled.

“Tell me he hasn’t started with the knock-knock jokes yet,” one of the omegas groaned dramatically, throwing her head back. “During training he’d do it whenever we complained—said it was to test our torture tolerance. Torture! Can you believe that?”

“Oi, I nearly defected to the Navy because of those jokes,” another chimed in.

“Defected? You cried,” someone else shot back, jabbing him in the ribs.

“I did not cry—”

“Oh, you absolutely cried.”

“Shut it, you were laughing so hard you nearly pissed yourself—”

“God, you lot are loud,” Louis finally cut through, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “You’re like a big, unhealthy family, aren’t you?”

“Unhealthy?” the alpha snorted. “We’re peak fitness.”

“You ate twelve cheeseburgers in one sitting,” the omega retorted.

“Protein,” came the unapologetic reply.

Louis shook his head, smirking despite himself. “Christ. No wonder Harry’s grumpy all the time. He probably just wanted some bloody peace.”

That only made them laugh harder, half of them doubled over while the others slapped shoulders. The first alpha finally caught her breath, voice softening. “He saved our lives. So we came to finally thank him. Even if he throws a fit—he did say, ‘don’t dare to come in.’”

Louis barked a laugh. “Oh, priceless. I want to see Harry’s face when he sees all of you.” He turned on his heel. “Follow me, then.”

And they did. Six hardened soldiers trailing after him like ducklings in combat boots, tripping over each other’s banter.

Louis rapped his knuckles on Harry’s door and called out, loud enough to wake the whole ward. “Oi! Look what the cat dragged in!”

Harry looked up from his phone, and his eyes went comically wide, like he’d just seen six ghosts storm into his room. “What are you doing here?!”

“Surprise!” they chorused, half of them piling through the door at once.

“Oh, for f—” Harry threw his head back against the pillows, groaning. “I told you not to come. Don’t you people ever listen?”

“Not really,” the omega said cheerfully, plonking herself onto the visitor’s chair as if she owned it.

“You look awful,” the tall beta announced, stepping closer to squint at him.

“Cheers, mate. That’s exactly what I needed to hear,” Harry muttered.

“You still owe me twenty quid,” another piped up.

“Oh my god.” Harry dragged a hand down his face, mortified. “I jumped on a grenade and you’re still going on about twenty quid?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you cheated at cards,” came the swift retort.

“I didn’t cheat—” Harry snapped, but he was drowned out by the chorus.

“You did!”
“Blatant cheating!”
“Couldn’t lie his way out of a paper bag, that one.”

Harry groaned louder, burying his face in his hands like he might actually will himself back into unconsciousness. “I hate all of you. Get out.”

“Rude,” the alpha woman said, pretending to be scandalized. “This is how you greet your beloved family?”

Louis was leaning on the doorframe, arms folded, smirk firmly in place as he watched the chaos unfold. “Told you it’d be priceless.”

Harry peeked at him between his fingers, glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You. You did this.”

Louis grinned wider. “Oh, absolutely.”

The soldiers erupted into fresh laughter, jostling Harry with questions and stories before he could gather another complaint. For all his groaning and muttered curses, Louis caught the tiny twitch at the corner of Harry’s mouth—betrayal by fondness, even if Harry would rather bite his own tongue than admit it.

_____________

Harry’s team didn’t just visit. They moved in—or at least, that’s how it felt. Every time Louis turned a corner, they were there, sprawling across waiting room chairs, smuggling snacks, and inventing trouble.

It became a running joke: every time Louis walked in, he’d find them in the middle of some new shenanigan.

One morning they’d declared the rehab center a “secure zone,” setting up a checkpoint with clipboards and fake security questions (“State your name, rank, and favorite biscuit, sir”). Another day, he walked in to find them doing a full-blown “stealth mission,” crawling across the floor in army formation to steal extra pillows from the supply closet. And then there was the infamous canteen food fight, which still had Louis finding peas under tables a week later.

Or the way they managed to turn the entire ward into a casino one evening.

It started with one of them producing a deck of battered cards from her jacket. Within minutes, a circle had formed in the common room—soldiers and patients and staff, happily betting on whatever “prizes” they scrounged up from their rooms. A towel. A bottle of shampoo. Half a chocolate bar.

By the time Ed and Niall wandered in, the stakes were ridiculous. Someone was playing for an extra dessert cup, someone else for a pair of mismatched socks. Liam, somehow elected dealer, took the job far too seriously, flicking cards with a flourish and calling out bets like he was hosting a televised championship.

When he caught two of them trying to swap cards under the table, he stopped the game with mock severity. “Cheating will not be tolerated in my casino. Punishment is immediate.”

“What punishment?” one of the omegas asked, smirking.

Liam plucked the shampoo bottle off the “winnings” pile, cracked it open, and squirted a line across the offender’s arm before solemnly handing the card back. “Shampoo tax.”

The whole room howled with laughter. Even Harry, groaning and red-faced, couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth.

Louis leaned against the doorway, shaking his head. He should put an end to it—he really should—but watching Harry light up like that, surrounded by people who refused to let him sink into his own misery? Louis couldn’t bring himself to stop them.

Still, Louis saw the other side, too.

When Harry dragged himself into physio, sweaty and exhausted, muttering under his breath that he couldn’t do another rep, the room would go silent. His team straightened, voices sharp but steady.

“Come on, Sarge.”
“You’ve done worse hungover.”
“Up, Styles. You’ve got this.”

And Harry—grumpy, stubborn, Harry—would grit his teeth and push through, if only to shut them up. Louis saw the spark in his eyes, the edge of pride he wouldn’t admit aloud, and the way their laughter afterward carried him through the pain.

It was chaos. It was mayhem. But beneath it, Louis knew—it was also family.

_____________

And then, one day, they had to go. Another tour, another mission waiting for them somewhere far away.

Harry looked bummed, though he masked it with a crooked smile as they lined up to say their goodbyes—not just to him, but to the entire ward that had endured their chaos. There were long, bone-cracking hugs, claps on the back, promises to write.

“Stay safe, yeah?” Harry said, squeezing each of them in turn. “I don’t think your new sergeant’s gonna jump on a grenade for you.”

They chuckled, brushing him off with bravado, but one omega winked. “Even if they did, it wouldn’t be like the first time.”

That made Harry laugh—loud and real, if a little watery at the edges.

They left with grins and encouragement, calling over their shoulders: “Next time we see you, Styles, you’d better be on your feet, no excuses!”

Harry nodded, smiling until the last bootstep faded down the hall.

Later, Louis found him in the garden, parked on a bench and staring into the distance like he was auditioning for a tragic war film.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” Louis said, strolling over with a crooked grin.

Harry didn’t look at him, just muttered, “Finally. I can hear my own thoughts.”

Louis sat beside him, stretching his legs out. “Sounds dreadful. What’s it like in there—wind whistling through empty halls?”

Harry turned his head slowly, deadpan. “Very funny. My thoughts are actually brilliant. Complex.”

“Mm,” Louis hummed. “Complex like… wondering if ants salute their queen before they nick your sandwich?”

Harry snorted. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll map out their entire command structure.”

Louis grinned. “I’d pay good money to see you give a motivational speech to a line of ants.”

“Bet they’d listen better than my team,” Harry shot back.

“Oi, your team were a bloody comedy troupe,” Louis laughed. “I’ve seen quieter hen parties.”

“Yeah, and now they’ve abandoned me,” Harry sighed with mock drama.

Louis nudged his shoulder. “Don’t pout. You’ll wrinkle.”

Harry gave him a look, then smirked. “You calling me old, Lou?”

“Not old. Just… seasoned.” Louis wiggled his brows. “Like beef jerky.”

Harry barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” Louis said, leaning back with a smug smile. “But admit it—you’d be bored stiff without me.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, but the twitch of his lips said more than words.

_____________

Louis found himself thinking about Harry more and more—and not in the professional, nurse-patient sort of way he was supposed to. No, he was out here replaying Harry’s smile like it was a bloody pop song stuck in his head, admiring the quick wit, even the sheer mule-headed stubbornness that should’ve been annoying but somehow made Louis want to grin and throw something at him at the same time.

Harry was brave. Infuriatingly so. Facing every day like it was a new battlefield, hauling himself through physio even when he hit the floor hard enough to bruise. And fine—fine—he was beautiful, too. Louis had always known the man was hot (anyone with functioning eyes had), but lately it was worse. Because it wasn’t just his face or his ridiculous curls—it was the way he carried himself, the quiet kind of care he tried to disguise like it was a state secret.

Like that time with Libby. Nine years old, tiny and fierce, but struggling with her new prosthesis. Her parents had slipped out for a breath, and she’d crumpled, frustrated tears on her cheeks. Harry had crouched down beside her, speaking low and patient, like he understood. And of course he did. Within minutes, she was wobbling forward again, grinning through her tears.

Louis had stood there like an idiot, heart climbing up his throat. Because really—whoever ended up with Harry Styles? They’d basically won the bloody Powerball. A man who’d care like that, protect like that, and still have you laughing until your ribs hurt? Jackpot.

And that’s when Louis’s brain decided to betray him further, spinning daydreams about life after Harry was discharged. Would he ask Louis out? Would he want to? And Louis knew, deep in his bones, that whatever Harry asked, the answer would be yes. Without hesitation.

Which was, frankly, unacceptable. Harry was still his patient. For three more weeks, Louis had to keep his hands firmly to himself—no hand-holding, no leaning too close, no admitting he sometimes wanted to curl up in Harry’s lap like a bloody housecat. And maybe Harry didn’t even want that anyway. Maybe all of Louis’s hormones had finally scrambled his brain.

So, with the clarity of a man standing on the absolute edge of catastrophe, Louis came to one undeniable conclusion: he needed to get laid. Immediately. 

Not romance, not lingering looks, not alpha dimples that made his chest do stupid gymnastics. Just sex. Anonymous, brainless, body-to-body. A quick reboot of the system.

Hell, he was one bad night away from posting an ad online:
Wanted: distraction. Must be tall enough to block out the view of one infuriating soldier, and loud enough to drown out his laugh.

Anything—anything—to scrub Harry bloody Styles out of his head.

Because it was becoming an issue.

Zayn had finally arrived at the center to run his art class, looking polished and perfect as ever. Louis had been fine with it—until somewhere between Zayn showing Harry how to hold a brush and Harry firing off a dry little remark that made Zayn actually laugh—laugh—Louis felt something ugly coil low in his chest.

Jealousy. Pure, irrational, embarrassing jealousy.

Because apparently Harry’s sarcasm was supposed to be Louis’s exclusive privilege.

So, fine. If Harry Styles was rewiring Louis’s brain this badly, the solution was obvious: distraction.

And distraction meant Niall.

Louis shot off a quick text, and, as expected, his best mate agreed instantly. Niall was the perfect wingman—equal parts enabler and escape artist. He’d happily drift into the background while Louis pulled.

Which is how Louis found himself, a few hours later, in his go-to pulling uniform: the tightest jeans he owned, a tank top that showed off his arms, tattoos on full display, hair styled into a soft, deliberate quiff.

On the dance floor he met Dani—blond, dark-eyed, with a nice smile. So different from Harry that Louis almost cheered. He decided on the spot to let Danni take him home and fuck him into forgetting.

They kissed ten minutes later, and when Dani whispered, “Want to take this to mine?” Louis nodded so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

The alpha turned out to be… decent. A nice lay. Made Louis come, which counted. He didn’t let him knot—no need for that—but it was fine. Good, even. And, more importantly, it shut his head up about Harry for a couple of blessed hours.

Later, Louis dressed quickly, thanked Dani for the orgasm like a polite boy, and slipped out into the night, bone-tired and kind of satisfied.

He could do this.
He would do this.
He could forget about Harry.

_____________

Louis’s plan backfired. Of course it did. The universe lived to humiliate him.

The very next morning, the second Louis stepped into Harry’s room, the alpha’s nostrils flared—sharp and dramatic, like some bloodhound in a courtroom drama. His expression shifted into something between suspicion and mild disgust, like Louis had tracked in a dead rat.

Louis froze mid-step, clutching his chart. No. Absolutely not. There was no way Harry could smell—

“I didn’t know you had an alpha,” Harry said flatly, voice unreadable.

Louis nearly dropped the clipboard. “W–what? I don’t.”

Harry laced his fingers together, elbows on the armrests, posture pure interrogation-room chic. “Then why do you smell like one?”

Louis’s mouth fell open. “Because I got laid last night?” He snapped, then tried to recover with a sassy tilt of his chin. “Why is that any of your business?”

Harry scoffed, the sound annoyingly casual. “It’s not. Just… it’s polite to shower afterwards. The smell’s giving me a headache.”

Louis gasped like Harry had slapped him with a white glove. “Excuse me?! I did shower. Twice! It’s not my fault your freakishly magical nose can sniff past body wash. What do you want me to do, exfoliate with holy water?”

Harry leaned back, his signature grump is showing display again. “Might help.”

Louis glared, flustered, mortified, and also perilously close to combusting. “Whatever. I hope your new prosthesis squeaks every time you walk.”

He goes from there, annoyed.

_____________

Niall cornered Louis in the cafeteria hours later, practically blocking his tray like a furious mall cop.

“What did you do to my Harry?” he demanded.

Louis blinked. “Your Harry?” He scoffed, setting his tray down. “Didn’t know you’d put a ring on it.”

Niall groaned, dragging his hands down his face, blond spikes sticking out even worse for it. “I don’t care about your sarcastic little comments right now. What did you do to him?”

Louis frowned, stabbing at his mashed potatoes. “I did nothing! He was fine this morning. Well, fine-ish. You know, grumpy, dramatic, threatening to murder my shower gel with his supernose, the usual.” He waved his fork. “Why am I suddenly the villain?”

“Because,” Niall shot back, eyes wide with the seriousness of a man discussing national security, “when I asked him where you were—like I always do, just to watch the way his eyes sparkle—he said, and I quote, ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’”

Louis’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. “…He said that?”

“Yes!” Niall clutched his chest like he’d personally been betrayed. “Do you know how hard it is to get him to sparkle? Do you? And now he’s stomping around nearly punching his brand-new prosthesis like it owes him money!”

Louis muttered, “For fuck’s sake,” under his breath, but his cheeks were already heating. He stabbed his potatoes harder.

Niall squinted at him, leaning across the table. “So. Spill. What did you do to my Harry?”

Louis set his fork down with a clatter. “Oh, I don’t know, Niall. Maybe I murdered his ego. Or maybe he’s just a miserable sod who can’t handle that the world doesn’t revolve around him 24/7. Take your pick.”

Niall gasped. “See? That! That tone! That’s exactly why he’s sulking. You sass him like you’re married already, then act shocked when he sulks like a husband.”

Louis groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate you.”

“Listen, you.” Niall squinted at him, jabbing a finger for emphasis. “He’s got two more weeks in here before I discharge him, which means I’ll only have to see him two days a week instead of four. So you better grovel at his feet and fix this, or you’ll ruin it for me!”

Louis peeked through his fingers. “You do realize you sound like Harry’s personal cue card, right?”

“And whose fault is that?!” Niall threw his arms up, hair spikes wobbling like they were angry too. “You challenged me to get him discharged in six months! I was this close—this close—to my goal, and then you come along and tank his progress!”

Louis dropped his hands with a tired sigh. “Niall. It’s really not my fault. He smelled the alpha from last night on me, and then he just…grumbled himself into a sulk. I didn’t do anything! He’s dramatic.”

Niall’s jaw dropped. He blinked once. Twice. Then slammed both palms on the table so hard Louis’s tray jumped. “YOU WENT AND GOT SHAGGED AND DIDN’T ACCOUNT FOR HIS SUPERNOSE?!”

Half the cafeteria turned to stare. Louis hissed, “Keep your voice down, for fuck’s sake!”

“You doomed us all, Tommo. Doomed. Us. All.” Niall huffed, jabbing a finger at Louis like he’d caused the downfall of civilization.

Louis sighed. “You’re ridiculous.”

Before he could say more, a tray dropped onto the table beside them.

“Well, well, well. What’s this about doom?”

Louis didn’t even look up. “Kill me now.”

Nick slid in smoothly, grin wide and eyes gleaming. “No can do, darling. I’ve just come from sulky central—aka Harry’s room. Man’s sitting there with his arms crossed like someone stole his crayons.”

Niall perked up. “See! See? I told you he’s broken.”

Nick leaned his chin on his hand, looking Louis up and down. “And now I find out why. You went and got yourself a post-bar alpha, didn’t you?”

Louis froze mid-chew. “…How the hell do you know that?”

Nick smirked, tapping the side of his nose. “Because Styles has been brooding so hard he’s fogging up the windows. I walked in, said, ‘What’s wrong, pet?’ and he muttered something about smelling strangers. Honestly, I thought he was accusing the cleaning staff of cheating on him until now.”

Niall nearly fell off his chair laughing. “Smelling strangers! Oh, my God.”

Louis groaned, dropping his fork. “You two are insufferable.”

Nick wagged a finger at him. “No, darling. You’re insufferable. He’s sulking because of you. Which means…” He paused dramatically. “…congratulations. You reset Harry’s possessive streak. You’ve officially become Harry’s favorite soap opera.”

Niall clapped like it was opening night. Louis buried his face in his hands, praying for spontaneous combustion.

_____________

Louis tried. He swore he did. He tried to talk to Harry afterwards—because the last thing he wanted was to mess up the alpha’s healing process over something as stupid as one night stand fallout.

But Harry? Harry was insufferable.

Every time Louis opened his mouth—whether to say something encouraging, or to sass him back into the land of the living—Harry either ignored him entirely, flipping a page of his book like Louis wasn’t even there, or he’d growl low in his throat like a feral dog guarding its bone.

Louis had never known he could provoke that kind of reaction from an alpha. Omegas weren’t supposed to be the problem—at least not like this. But apparently, Louis Tomlinson’s mere existence now triggered Harry Styles into either ice-cold silence or borderline snarling.

By mid-afternoon Louis had rolled his eyes so many times it was a medical miracle they hadn’t gotten stuck skyward.

So, with a dramatic huff, he gave up. Fine. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe once Harry’s supernatural nose stopped detecting Eau de Random Alpha lingering in the air, he’d stop acting like Louis had committed treason.

For now, Louis decided, Harry could sit there in his sulky little fortress of self-pity. Louis was going to preserve his sanity—and maybe invest in stronger body wash.

_____________

The next few days weren’t better. If anything, they were worse.

Harry had apparently decided to commit fully to the role of dramatic main character in a rom-com—the kind who ignores the love interest just long enough to cause emotional devastation. Every attempt Louis made to talk, sass, or even casually poke him for a reaction was met with absolute silence or the occasional arctic glare.

And the worst part? Louis couldn’t even find excuses to corner him anymore.

Because overnight, Harry had flipped a switch. He threw himself into rehab like it was a military mission, no room for distraction, no room for Louis. When Louis arrived in the mornings, Harry wasn’t in his room waiting for vitals, oh no—he was already in the gym, or sweating through physio, or back in the gym again. The alpha looked determined to walk out of the center yesterday.

Louis watched the sudden surge of progress with his mouth half open. It wasn’t just improvement—it was miraculous. Even Niall, usually smug about every inch of progress, looked unsettled.

“Well, that’s… good,” Niall muttered one afternoon, eyes flicking toward Harry with something like suspicion. Then he added, in a tone that made Louis bristle, “Weirdly good. Almost like… you two not talking is exactly what he needed.”

Louis choked on his coffee. “Excuse me?!”

But Niall just smirked, clipboard tucked under his arm, and walked off like he hadn’t just insulted both Louis’s medical skill and his charm in one breath.

Louis sat there, seething, wondering how his life had come to this: rejected by a sulking alpha and upstaged by a treadmill.

_____________

Louis sat with his tea cooling by his elbow, scribbling notes into one of his patients’ charts. The words blurred on the page—muscle memory doing the writing while his mind wandered elsewhere.

Then he heard it.

Laughter. Not just any laughter, but that laugh—deep, full-bodied, the kind that wrapped around Louis’s chest and squeezed until his heart beat too fast, his omega keening inside at the sound.

His head snapped up before he could stop himself.

Larissa’s door was open. Inside, Harry sat with Nick and Larissa, all three of them caught up in some story. Harry was leaning back, shoulders loose, dimples out, eyes shining as he laughed. His whole face lit up, tension gone, like someone had lifted the weight of months off him.

The sight hit Louis like a punch. God. He looks happy.  Happy without him.

Was that it? Was Harry better off now that he wasn’t talking to him? Had Louis been dragging him down this whole time?

The questions tumbled, merciless:
Maybe if I’d told him sooner. Maybe if I’d explained why I couldn’t risk anything while he’s still my patient. Maybe if I’d just said it outright—that I like him, that I want him—then he wouldn’t ignore me like that. Then he wouldn’t be laughing in there like I’m a wall he’s finally escaped.

The maybes stacked higher, pressing in on him, making his chest ache. Because it wasn’t just about a patient anymore. Harry had become his routine—his mornings, his banter, his spark of joy. And now, stripped of that, Louis felt like something vital had been yanked out of his day.

He must’ve been staring too long, because a voice broke through his thoughts.

“Are you okay, Lou?”

Louis jumped, nearly spilling his tea, and turned. Gemma stood beside him, concern soft but sharp in her eyes.

He schooled his features quickly, forcing a smile. “Yeah, of course. All good.” He gestured vaguely toward her, deliberately ignoring the echo of Harry’s laugh still drifting down the hall. “What’s up?”

But Gemma didn’t buy it. She followed the line of his gaze to where Harry sat with Nick and Larissa, and something shifted in her face. “Is he still not talking to you?”

Louis shrugged, aiming for casual. “Nope.” Then, too quickly, added, “That’s okay. He’s progressing fine without me.”

“Is that what you think?” Gemma asked, one eyebrow arching.

Louis gave her a blank look, uncertain how to answer.

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “You really don’t know my brother yet. I forgot—it’s only been a few months.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” She tilted her chin toward the open door. “From here, you see Harry laughing and assume he’s fine. But me? I know him. That laugh’s too loud, too stretched. Look closer—his shoulders are tense. His eyes have shadows under them. He hasn’t been sleeping. And that smile?” She shook her head again. “Not the real one. Not the one he shares with you.”

Louis’s chest tightened. Automatically, he looked again—looked properly this time. And Gemma was right. Beneath the laughter, Harry’s posture was rigid. The circles under his eyes were darker than they should’ve been. The brightness was a little forced. Had Louis really missed all that?

Gemma touched his arm, her hand light but steady, her voice lowering into something soft and certain.

“On a more private note… he’s miserable, Lou. Stubborn as hell, so he’ll keep up this ridiculous ignoring game. But don’t think for a second it isn’t costing him.”

Louis swallowed, throat tight. “You really think so?”

Gemma’s mouth curved into a small smile, the kind only a sister could pull off. “I know so. Who do you think he unloads on when he can’t say it to your face? He’s been eating my brain out about you. I nearly hung up the phone last night—he wouldn’t stop whining.”

Louis’s gaze dropped to his tea. His voice was barely above a murmur. “I’m miserable too. I don’t even know how it happened. One minute I was just his nurse, he was just my patient… and now it feels like I’m living through a Grey’s Anatomy plotline.”

Gemma studied him for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she sighed. “That’s Harry, though. He’s always ignored his feelings. Tries to shove them down until they go away. He’s done it for years. And when he likes someone but isn’t sure they feel the same? He goes silent. It’s his defense mechanism.”

Louis let out a shaky laugh, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “Great. And here I thought ignoring me was just his new hobby.”

Gemma smiled wryly. “It’s more like… self-preservation. The more he cares, the more he hides it.”

Louis was quiet for a beat, then asked, voice low, “So how do I fix it? Because I—” he hesitated, heart hammering. “I can’t go for it. Not while he’s still my patient. I can’t risk my license.”

Gemma nodded, as if she’d expected that. “I get it. He’s off in a week, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then talk to him before he leaves. Let him know how you feel, and that he can reach out once he’s discharged. Give him something to hold onto. A bit of hope.”

Louis bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes flicking back toward the room where Harry’s laugh was echoing again. Hope. It sounded dangerous. And yet—he wanted it more than anything.

_____________

Louis didn’t have to wait long. Three days before Harry’s official discharge, it happened.

He’d just finished up with a patient and was heading toward his computer when he passed Harry’s door. A strange sound made him pause—soft at first, muffled. He froze, brow furrowing, tilting his head. Then it came again. And again.

It wasn’t strange at all. It was crying.

Louis’s heart thudded painfully. For a second he just stood there, staring at the door, debating. Maybe he should respect Harry’s privacy. Maybe Harry wanted to be left alone. But something in the raw, broken edge of those sobs shredded Louis’s resolve.

Before he could overthink it, he pushed the door open quietly and slipped inside, closing it behind him with the faintest click.

The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. Harry was curled on the bed, blanket pulled over his entire body like armor, but even beneath it Louis could see the trembling. His shoulders hitched with each breath, the sound muffled against the pillow.

Louis’s chest ached. He moved carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. “Harry?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

The trembling stilled, but no answer came. Just silence, thick and heavy.

Louis edged closer until he stood at the bedside. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder through the blanket. “Hey,” he tried again, even softer this time. “Are you okay?”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. Then a broken sound escaped him, raw and unguarded, the kind that made Louis’s throat tighten.

Louis’s hand stayed steady on his shoulder, thumb brushing gently. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

Harry peeked out from under the blanket, and the sight knocked the air from Louis’s chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, his whole face flushed from crying. The sadness in his gaze was so raw, so unguarded, Louis thought for a second he might start crying too.

“What is it, soldier? What’s got you so down?” Louis asked gently, stroking along his arm in comfort.

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flicked toward the bedside table. Louis followed it and noticed a plain cardboard box sitting there. Something in the way Harry looked at it told him everything.

Without thinking, Louis reached for it, lifted the lid, and his stomach tightened at what he found. Inside were Harry’s belongings from the army—carefully packed, returned to him like relics. Folded documents, a note, a small glass case holding a medal for courage with Harry’s name etched into it.

Louis understood instantly. Harry must have just received his final items, the official discharge paperwork, the Army’s tidy little thank you-for-your-service. Yes, he’d have a pension. Yes, there would be support. But for Harry, who had given years of his life, his body, his blood—it wasn’t money or systems. It was an ending. A brutal, final line under everything he’d been.

Louis closed the box quietly and set it back on the table. His hand moved from Harry’s shoulder up into his curls, fingers threading gently. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured. “You’ll find something else.”

Harry’s eyes filled again, spilling over, his voice breaking. “What can I find, Lou? I’m a cripple, for God’s sake. No good for the army anymore. No good for anything. I never went to uni, I never…”

His words dissolved into sobs, shoulders shaking.

Louis didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and gathered Harry into his arms, holding him close as the alpha broke against him. “Shh,” Louis whispered, one hand in his hair, the other around his back, steady as a shield. “You’re not nothing. You hear me? You’re not.”

Harry trembled, burying his face into Louis’s shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric. He cried until his chest gave out, until only the shuddering remnants of it remained, and Louis never let go. He just held on, steady, warm, anchoring him through every wave of it.

When Harry finally pulled back, it was gentle, reluctant, his eyes wet and his cheeks blotchy. “Sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “God, I’m a mess. Didn’t mean to unload it on you.”

Louis smiled, brushing a curl off Harry’s forehead without thinking. “That’s okay. I’m good at hugs and shutting up when it matters. It’s one of my many talents.”

A small, broken chuckle escaped Harry, but his gaze dropped again, sadness still etched deep. “What do I even do now, Lou?” His voice cracked, soft and aching. “I don’t know what I’m good at. It’s not like I can just find a job when I’ll still be here two times a week. And I don’t…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to just leave here and rot in bed in my new apartment. That won’t be good for me.”

Louis nodded slowly, heart tight. He understood. He really did. He thought hard for an answer, something that might help—and then it hit him so suddenly he almost facepalmed.

“Get up,” he blurted, urgency sparking in his voice. He glanced at the clock on the wall—nearly evening. If they moved now, maybe, just maybe, they’d make it before closing.

Harry blinked at him, confused. “W-what?”

“Come on, soldier,” Louis urged, practically buzzing, torn between excitement and panic. “Get up. Put on your prosthesis, grab a cane if you need to—we’re going on a trip.”

Harry’s brows shot up. “A trip? Now?”

Louis was already moving around the room, grabbing Harry’s bag like a man possessed. “Yes, now. It’s close, just a few minutes by car. But we have to leave before they close.” His grin bordered on manic, half-giddy with the idea, half-stressed about the time. “trust me, Harry” he asked.

Harry stared at him like Louis had lost his mind, but something in the omega’s wild energy maybe tugged at him, because he nodded and got up, pulling his prosthesis on and taking his cane. getting up slowly, following Louis blindly. 

_____________

Louis all but dragged Harry down the hall, muttering about time. They nearly collided with Liam on the way out, who blinked at the sight of Louis clutching Harry’s hand like a man on a mission.

“Car keys,” Louis demanded, holding out his palm.

Liam looked from him to Harry—who just shrugged helplessly—then back again. “What—where are you—”

“Gosh, Liam, just give me your keys already! I’m not leaving the country. Fucking trust me,” Louis snapped, impatient.

Liam stared, mouth opening and closing like he was about to argue. But Louis’s sheer audacity must’ve short-circuited him, because he handed over the keys without another word, still looking astonished as Louis snatched them and bolted.

“Come on, soldier,” Louis said, tugging Harry along by the hand.

The drive was short—barely ten minutes—but Louis drove like the clock was mocking him. Harry sat in the passenger seat, staring at him with that bemused expression he wore whenever Louis was being especially… Louis.

When they pulled up in front of a big brick building, lights glowing faintly in the evening, Louis exhaled in relief. Still open. Good.

Harry leaned forward, reading the sign aloud. “Ex-military Centre?” He frowned. “What is this?”

“You’ll see,” Louis said, lips twitching into a grin. He practically bounced out of the car.

Inside, the space hummed with quiet life—murmured conversations, the clatter of equipment, posters on the walls showing rehabilitation programs, classes, and job initiatives for veterans. Harry lingered near the entrance, eyes darting around, taking it in slowly, while Louis marched up to the front desk.

“Hey, is James around?” Louis asked brightly.

The receptionist—Jenny, her name tag said—looked him up and down. “And you are?”

Louis’s grin widened. “The reason he’s walking right now. I’m Louis.”

_____________

It took less than thirty seconds before James appeared, tall frame filling the hallway.

“Who let this gremlin in?” James called out, mock-serious, his grin giving him away.

Louis laughed and stepped forward, hugging him tightly like no time had passed. “The doors were wide open,” he shot back, eyes sparkling. “If you don’t want gremlins, you should post a guard out front.”

James rolled his eyes, returning the hug with a fond squeeze. “Please. You’d just charm the poor bastard into opening the door for you anyway.”

Louis smirked, “Well, you’re not wrong.”

James huffed, but there was warmth under it, the kind only old friends carried. Their easy rhythm of banter cracked through the air, familiar and unforced, like they’d been having this same argument for years.

Harry lingered a step behind, quiet, the faint crease between his brows deepening as he watched Louis slip into an easy rhythm with James—this whole other side of him that hadn’t shown itself before.

James’s smile softened. “Kathy’s been asking about you, Lou. You’ve not come for tea in ages. She says she’s got half the neighbourhood’s gossip stored up for you.”

Louis grinned, sheepish. “I know, I know. Tell her I’m sorry. Work’s been swallowing me whole lately, but I’ll come soon.”

James tipped his head, eyes twinkling. “Liam still giving you the nightmare cases? You know, the ones sobbing about their miserable lives and threatening to throw fits?”

Louis chuckled, hand over his chest in mock despair. “Unfortunately, yes. Started with you, didn’t it? And somehow Liam got it into his thick skull that I could manage everyone else’s meltdowns, too.”

James barked a laugh. “I hope he’s paying you enough.” Then, with a silky little lilt, “You know I need a head nurse here. The last one left a few months ago. I’ll pay you a fortune if you agree.”

Louis smirked, shaking his head. He knew James had the money to back up the claim, but he only shrugged. “Can’t leave Liam to fend for himself, sorry. He’ll lose his hair and his pretty mate within the month.”

James chuckled, conceding with a smile full of understanding. Then he tilted his head, curiosity flickering. “So why are you here, darling?”

Louis glanced back, catching Harry watching their exchange with an unreadable look. He gestured for him to step closer.

“James, meet Harry Styles. Ex-veteran like you,” Louis said. “He’s one of my patients—set for discharge in three days—and he’ll need some support to make sure he doesn’t just get stuck in his apartment.”

James nodded once, listening closely. Louis continued, “Harry, this is James. One of my first patients… what, five years ago?”

“Six, actually,” James corrected, lips twitching.

“God, I’m ancient,” Louis muttered, shaking his head before waving it off. “Anyway when James was discharged, he didn’t know what to do with himself either. That’s why this center exists. Programs, resources, support—the lot. It’s here to help ex-military through the next stage of life.”

Harry nodded, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, James.”

James shook it firmly, the brief silence humming with that unspoken alpha appraisal. Then James smiled, the tension breaking. “Where’d you serve?”

“Special Forces,” Harry said evenly. “You?”

“Infantry,” James replied with a small nod. “Three tours, mostly ground combat. Boots on the ground, taking hills, losing them, taking them again. You know the drill.”

Harry’s brow ticked, just slightly. “Front line, then.”

“Front, middle, back—wherever they fancied dropping us,” James said dryly. “We weren’t the glamorous ones. No night jumps or secret missions for us. Just… endless dust, mud, and bad rations.”

Harry gave a faint huff, almost a laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Special Forces had the same rations. Just fewer people to share them with.”

“Ah, yes,” James said, mock-serious. “The mysterious elite. Kicking down doors in the dark while the rest of us were busy being shot at in broad daylight.”

Louis snorted, unable to resist. “Fantastic. Now it’s turning into a pissing contest. Should I fetch a measuring tape?”

Both men glanced at him—James amused, Harry unimpressed.

James chuckled, leaning back. “Relax, Lou. It’s not a contest. Different sides of the same coin.” He turned to Harry with a knowing look. “But trust me, mate, it doesn’t matter where you served. The fall feels the same when it’s over.”

Harry’s jaw tightened at that, but after a beat he gave a slow, almost reluctant nod.

“What have you lost?” James asked, his tone gentle but direct, the kind that came from shared experience. “I can see the burn scars, but if Louis was assigned to you, then it means you’re carrying more than that.” His gaze flicked toward Harry’s cane. “Right leg, yeah?”

Harry seemed hyperaware, his shoulders stiffening. “Yeah.” His voice was quiet, clipped. Then, after a breath: “You?”

“Two,” James replied easily. He hitched up the hem of his trousers, revealing sleek prosthetics. “Top of the line, these babies.”

Something flickered in Harry’s expression—recognition, maybe even relief. He nodded once, then lifted his own trouser leg, revealing the newer prosthesis strapped neatly in place. “This one too.”

James grinned. “Good kit. You’ll get used to it.”

Louis clapped his hands together, unable to resist breaking the moment. “Brilliant. Now that we’ve officially compared limbs like it’s a show-and-tell, how about this—James, you give Harry the tour, and I’ll charm Jenny into making me tea.” His grin was smug, his tone deliberately light to cover the ache in his chest.

Harry shot Louis a look, something caught between annoyance and gratitude, but didn’t say a word.

James only chuckled, rolling his eyes at Louis like a man long used to his antics. “Sure, come on then, Harry.” He turned back to Louis, wagging a finger at him. “And you—don’t make a mess while I’m gone.”

Louis rolled his eyes dramatically. “Sure thing, daddy.”

Harry frowned at the exchange, clearly baffled, while James burst out laughing and clapped him on the back, steering him toward the corridor. “Come on, ignore him. He’s always been like this.”

Louis leaned against the reception counter as they disappeared, his grin fading into something quieter. A little pang curled in his stomach, sharp and persistent. He really hoped this would work.

Harry deserved to know he wasn’t alone. That there were people who’d been where he was, who understood. That his life wasn’t ending, it was just… shifting. With the right support, he could build something new.

Louis closed his eyes briefly, almost a prayer. Please let him give this a chance.

_____________

Twenty minutes later—two cups of tea and half a life story from Jenny about her last disastrous date (“dump him, he sounds like a douche in the making!” Louis had declared)—the door opened and Harry and James came back in.

They looked more at ease now, shoulders looser, something lighter in their expressions. Louis caught sight of the faint dimple appearing in Harry’s cheek, and the small burst of pride inside him was ridiculous. He knew this could work.

“So,” Louis said breezily, unable to help himself, “can I start planning a wedding?”

Harry flushed scarlet, while James cackled. “Not sure Kathy will approve, but he’s definitely cute.”

Louis laughed, his gaze catching on Harry’s bashful blush, and his chest gave an inconvenient squeeze.

“But yes,” James went on, his voice settling into something steady, “Harry will start coming here next week. Three times a week, right?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.” He clasped James’s hand firmly. “Thank you. You’ve built something good here.”

James chuckled, then surprised Harry with one of his trademark bear hugs—the kind Louis knew well, crushing and reassuring all at once. After a long squeeze, James pulled back and said, “That’s all thanks to the little one over there.” He nodded at Louis. “I was stuck in my pity party until he marched me into a meeting with a job counsellor. That’s where the whole idea started.”

Louis felt heat creep up his neck at the fond look James gave him. But it was Harry who spoke, his voice low, teasing. “You’re a magical creature, huh?”

Louis ducked his head, shrugging. “Told you I’m an angel.”

James chuckled, glancing between the two of them with a knowing smile. “Okay, I’ve got to run. Leo has a football game—I’m the coach, and if I’m late, he’ll murder me.” He wrapped Louis in another hug, leaning close to murmur, “Don’t let this lad go, huh? He seems infuriated with you… and not just professionally, like the rest of us.”

Louis’s cheeks warmed, but he only whispered back, “We’ll see.”

James left with a wave, and Louis cleared his throat, turning toward Harry. “Come on, soldier,” he said lightly, leading him back toward the car. His hand brushed Harry’s arm as they walked, casual but deliberate, grounding.

Inside, Louis’s stomach fluttered. For the first time in days, the ache of “maybe” didn’t feel so heavy.

_____________

Harry seemed lost in his head during the drive back to the center, staring out the window with that faraway look. For once, Louis didn’t fill the silence. He let him think, let the quiet sit between them.

When Louis parked the car and pulled at his seatbelt, Harry’s voice stopped him.

“Lou…”

Louis turned, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Mm?”

Harry’s eyes were lowered, his voice soft. “Thank you. I… it’s exactly what I needed.” He looked almost shy, like some schoolboy caught out, and Louis’s chest ached with the urge to pull him into his arms.

Louis only nodded. “It’s a start. Something to fill your days. The rest will come.”

Harry gave a small nod, then lifted his gaze. Green met blue, steady, and suddenly the car was thick with tension. Louis let the silence stretch, waiting to see if Harry would take it somewhere.

Finally, Harry inhaled deeply. “Listen… about the way I acted the last two weeks…”

Louis gave him a slow nod, encouraging him to continue.

“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” Harry said, words halting. “I was just—a jealous prick. I didn’t like smelling another alpha on you. It… triggered something in me. And I know I don’t have the right. You’re my nurse, not my mate. I was being stupid, reading too much into our interactions. Thinking there was… something there. While you were just being you—charming and caring, like you are with everyone.”

Louis’s heart thudded, hard and insistent. This is it.

“So I’m sorry, Lou.” Harry’s voice cracked a little, his eyes heavy with regret. “I’m sure this isn’t the first time a patient’s developed some kind of feeling for you—”

“Harry.” Louis’s voice cut in, firmer than he meant it to be. His hand pressed against Harry’s thigh, stopping him cold. “Stop talking.”

Harry blinked at him, startled. “Wha—”

“Just stop,” Louis repeated, softer now. He held his gaze, steady, even though his own pulse was going mad. “You think you’re the only one reading too much into this? You’re not. You think you’re the only one feeling something? You’re not.”

Harry’s mouth parted like he wanted to argue, but no words came out.

Louis’s hand stayed where it was, grounding them both. “I like you, Harry. More than I should. More than is safe, honestly. But you’re still my patient, and I can’t… I won’t risk my license by crossing that line right now.” He exhaled, long and shaky. “So don’t you sit there and tell me this was all in your head, alright? Because it wasn’t.”

For a second the only sound in the car was Harry’s sharp inhale.

“…You do?” His voice was quiet, like he didn’t dare believe it.

Louis gave a small, rueful smile. “Yeah. I do. But it has to wait. You get discharged, then you can ask me out for coffee, and we’ll see where it goes. Until then—we keep our heads on straight.”

Harry blinked at him, like the word itself was foreign. “…Coffee?”

Louis rolled his eyes, laughing a little at the awestruck alpha. “Yeah, coffee. You want me to write it down so you can read it later?” He bit his lip, teasing.

Harry chuckled, though his cheeks were still pink. “Well, you can’t be surprised I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it.”

“And why’s that?” Louis asked, grin tugging at his mouth.

Harry let out a hard breath, shoulders rising. “Because—look at you. And then look at me. I didn’t think you’d actually… want to.”

Louis’s lips twitched. “It’s just a date. Who knows, maybe I’ll figure out you’re a knothead and dump your sorry arse afterwards.”

Harry laughed, the sound low and certain. “Like you could. I’ll have you know I intend to unleash the full Styles charm. You won’t even see it coming—I’ll woo you before you know what’s happening.”

Louis quirked an eyebrow, though his chest was still pounding, betraying him. “Really confident, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded, smirk tugging at his mouth, dimples flashing. “Always.”

Louis huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but he couldn’t hide the warmth spreading through him. “God help me.”

Harry grinned wider. “Too late, baby. You’re already done for.”

_____________

After their little confession, everything felt easier.

Their rhythm was restored—banter sliding back into place, laughter in the halls, Harry showing up to every physio session without Louis having to nag (much). But there was something new now, too.

Small things.

Like Louis stopping by Harry’s room at the end of each shift to say goodnight, their hands finding each other under the blanket for just a minute. Like longer chats in the garden, stories spilling easier than before, smiles lasting a little longer.

Harry even showed him the apartment Anne and Gemma had rented for him. Just two bedrooms and a tiny garden, on the ground floor. The kitchen was bigger than Louis expected, though, and Harry’s eyes lit up as he talked about all the meals he wanted to make there. Louis couldn’t help but grin, the warmth of it curling inside his chest. It felt… comforting. Like the softest rehearsal for something more—like they were preparing for their first date without saying it out loud.

Then came Harry’s last day.

Louis was meant to check in on him early, maybe even sneak a coffee before discharge paperwork started. Instead, he found himself stuck with Mr. Benton.

Mr. Benton, a notoriously grumpy eighty-five-year-old Alpha who made it his mission to insult at least one nurse per shift. He’d once sworn on his deceased mother’s grave that he wouldn’t do physical therapy, and Louis was the only one who could handle him without a meltdown. His barking insults didn’t faze Louis much; he mostly found them funny. 

Today, after a short round of shouting, Louis had handed him a set of weights with an unimpressed look that shut him up on the spot. Mr. Benton now grunted in the background, muttering curses under his breath for good measure, but compliant nonetheless.

Harry found Louis like this; standing over Mr. Benton, who was red in the face from grumbling his way through a set of weights. Louis was watching him with cool, unimpressed eyes, the picture of patience, while Benton groaned like Louis had sentenced him to run marathons.

“Hey,” Harry said, holding up a thin folder of discharge papers and his cane. “Busy?”

Louis glanced over and smiled. “Not much. Just making sure Robert here doesn’t chuck his prosthetic arm in the bin again.”

Harry chuckled, stepping closer. “So… I’m off in a few minutes. But I realized I forgot something.”

Louis tilted his head, already guessing, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “What’s that?”

“I don’t have your number,” Harry said it simply, but his dimples were out in full force. “And sure, I could ask Niall for it, but that’d probably cost me an interrogation and a death threat.”

Louis laughed, lips parting with a reply—

Only to be cut off by Mr. Benton’s thunderous voice.

“I could’ve fallen! And the rude young one is flirting! I could die right here and he wouldn’t even notice!”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up, mouth twitching dangerously close to laughter. He looked past Louis at the old Alpha, who was still valiantly lifting his weights like they’d insulted his honor.

Louis turned around slowly, fighting his grin. “Robert,” he said sweetly, “I think I’d know if you died. It’d finally be quiet in here.”

Harry barked out a laugh, trying and failing to smother it behind his hand. Mr. Benton spluttered, muttering curses under his breath, but stubbornly kept lifting.

The old Alpha huffed, voice carrying across the room. “You say that now, but when I’m crushed beneath this ancient equipment, my ghost will haunt your pretty little face every night for the rest of your life.”

Louis laughed, warm and merciless. “Haunt away, Robert. I’ll still be the only one who knows how to bully you into your reps.”

Benton narrowed his eyes. “You won’t be laughing when I drop this dumbbell and it rolls over your foot. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”

“Probably still me,” Louis said, grinning. “And if you pull a muscle trying to kill me, I’ll count it as extra cardio.”

Mr. Benton gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “Disrespectful! In my day, nurses were polite!”

Louis didn’t miss a beat. “In your day, Robert, dinosaurs were still roaming the earth.”

That broke Harry completely—he doubled over, laughter spilling out, dimples deep and eyes shining. Louis only shrugged in his direction, grinning like this is my circus, these are my clowns.

When Harry finally caught his breath, he turned to Robert with mock solemnity. “Sorry, Robert, I’ll be out of your hair in a second.” Then he pulled out his phone and looked at Louis. “Number, please.”

Louis smiled, took the phone, and typed quickly. “There you go, soldier. Kindly note that I sleep between eleven p.m. and seven a.m., and if you ever text me before I’ve had tea, I’ll delete your number without hesitation.”

Harry chuckled, dimples flashing. “Noted.”

For a moment, they just stood there, looking at each other like complete fools, both grinning like the world had narrowed down to this exact second.

Louis broke it first, stepping forward and hugging Harry tight, breathing in the faint scent of rain clinging to him. “Good luck, Harry,” he said softly against his shoulder. “I really enjoyed being your nurse.”

Harry hugged him back, voice low but teasing. “Really? Even after I challenged you every step of the way?”

Louis chuckled as he pulled back, still smiling. “The worst patients are always the nicest to see walk out of here healed.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Louis, green eyes softer than Louis had ever seen them. There was something unspoken there, something Louis wasn’t ready to touch—not yet.

So he smiled instead, light and teasing, the way he always did. “Go on then, Styles. Don’t make me drag you out by the ear.”

Harry chuckled, dimples flashing one last time. He gathered his papers, adjusted his cane, and with a last look over his shoulder, walked out of the ward.

Louis stood there a moment longer than he should’ve, watching the broad line of Harry’s back until the doors closed behind him. His chest ached in that dangerous, traitorous way, but there was a curl of hope too.

Because this wasn’t the end. Not really.

It was only the start.

Chapter Text

First Date

Louis was nervous. Not “butterflies” nervous. More like “stomach doing backflips while his palms leaked sweat like a broken tap” nervous. His hands were clammy as he hopped onto the tube, heart pounding like a bloody marching band. Thank god he hadn’t forgotten his suppressant—without it, he’d be broadcasting “anxious omega seeks rescue” to the entire carriage.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been on dates before. God, he’d had plenty. Some had been bad, some surprisingly good, one or two had even lasted long enough for him to memorize someone’s Netflix password.

But this was Harry.

Harry, who’d trusted him with the rawest, most vulnerable parts of himself. Harry, who was infuriating and funny and made Louis’s chest ache in ways that were very inconvenient for his sanity. Harry, who was so fit that Louis swore his own body was developing a Pavlovian response—one smile from him and Louis’s hormones practically stood to attention.

So yes. Louis was nervous.
Because what if he wasn’t enough? What if Harry, after tonight, realized Louis was too sarcastic, too annoying, too… Louis?

The tube rocked beneath him, strangers staring at their phones, conversations blending with the screech of metal. No one was looking at him, but Louis still felt exposed. Like someone could just glance over and see the nerves buzzing out of his pores.

Twenty minutes later he stepped off into the warm buzz of the city. The air smelled of damp pavement, petrol fumes, and something sugary from a food cart. He tugged his jacket tighter even though he wasn’t cold, as if it could shield him from the sheer ridiculousness of his own heart.

The restaurant was only a short walk away, but every step felt like wading through treacle. His boots scuffed the pavement, each beat a drumroll in his ears.

And when he saw the place—the place Harry had chosen—he nearly laughed. Of course Harry hadn’t gone for the casual coffee Louis expected. Of course he’d insisted on “wine and dine.”

It wasn’t that the bistro wasn’t lovely—it was. Elegant, exclusive, the kind of French place where the menu didn’t bother with prices and the waiters judged your shoes. Everything gleamed softly, like it had been polished just for them.

But Louis had always been more of a “hidden gem with good chips” kind of man. Somewhere food mattered more than how straight your cutlery was. Somewhere you didn’t have to worry about whether your hair looked like you’d just run through the tube tunnels (which, in Louis’s case, it did).

He took a breath, trying not to laugh at the absurdity. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, “first date and I’m about to be the scruffiest sod in a Michelin star waiting room.”

And yet… it was Harry. And Harry wanted him here.

So Louis squared his shoulders, shoved down the nerves, and kept walking.

He rounded the corner—and stopped dead.

Harry was standing by the entrance, framed by the soft golden glow spilling out of the restaurant windows. He held a small bouquet in one hand—wildflowers, Louis realized with a sudden, stupid pang. Not roses, not lilies. Wildflowers. Thoughtful. Unpolished. A little chaotic, just like Harry himself.

His other hand was busy with his phone, thumb swiping, brows furrowed in that deep concentration that usually ended with him swearing at autocorrect.

Louis’s gaze drifted all over his form. The hat first: deep charcoal, tilted just enough to let a few unruly curls escape and brush against his cheek. Then the jeans—snug, unfairly snug, clinging to hips Louis absolutely had not thought about for days.

And then—the shirt.

It was sheer, pale fabric—cream, maybe blush in the warm streetlight—half-buttoned down to reveal long lines of muscle. His abs, defined and lean. Tattoos curling across his torso, all on brazen display like an exhibit Louis wanted to study up close. A silver chain glinted at his throat, half-tucked beneath the fabric. His cane rested lightly against his leg, more accessory than necessity tonight.

He looked… radiant. Confident and exposed all at once. Like someone who’d figured out how to wear his strength and his scars together.

Louis’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips without thinking. Christ on a bike.

You’re screwed, Tomlinson.

And then—like he could feel the weight of Louis’s stare—Harry looked up. His smile came fast, immediate and warm, but Louis could still see the nerves in it, the slight wobble at the corners. The way Harry drew in a long breath, like he was bracing himself. Like he was telling himself, You’re doing this. You’re okay.

Louis’s stomach flipped.

And then Harry’s eyes ran over him—slow, deliberate, shameless. Not subtle. Not even close. Louis could feel the heat of it, every inch catalogued, and for the first time all evening he thanked every saint in existence that he’d let Zayn choose his outfit. The fitted trousers, the cropped jacket, the button down clinging in all the right places—he’d felt a little ridiculous leaving the house, but under Harry’s gaze he felt electric.

Butterflies erupted in his stomach, his cheeks warming.

“Hi, soldier,” he said softly when he reached him, smiling up with a brightness he didn’t even bother trying to hide.

Harry pulled him into a hug without hesitation, and Louis melted into it. The scent of him—musk and rain, steady and grounding—wrapped around Louis like a weighted blanket. Strong arms, sure presence. His nerves unraveled at the edges.

This is Harry. I can do this.

“Hi, Lou,” Harry murmured into his hair, low and fond.

When they pulled apart, Harry’s grin mirrored his own—slightly shy, slightly giddy, full of warmth.

Louis tilted his head, teasing lightly, “Well, you scrub up alright.”

Harry snorted, giving him a once-over again. “Says you. I nearly tripped over my own cane looking at you.”

Louis laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t you dare—first date and you end up in ER? That’s not very romantic.”

Harry’s eyes crinkled, the nerves in his shoulders easingas he looks at Louis. “Then I guess I’ll just have to focus on not falling… and on making sure you want a second date.”

Louis chuckled, his smile bright and steady. “Good start, Styles. Don’t cock it up.” He tilted his chin toward the bouquet in Harry’s hand. “Is that for me?”

Harry nodded eagerly, curls bouncing as he thrust them forward. “It reminded me of you. A bit scruffy but full of beauty if you look close enough.”

The words landed, and his cheeks flushed deep pink. Louis’s heart felt like it might burst clean out of his chest.

“God, you’re pulling all the cheesy lines today, huh?” Louis teased, though his voice softened as he accepted the flowers. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

Harry ducked his head, bashful.

“Let’s go in, then,” Louis said, voice gentler now. “Someone promised to wine and dine me, if I recall.”

Harry chuckles, reaching for Louis’s hand and adjusting his cane in the other. Their fingers thread together naturally as they head inside.

Louis rolled his eyes, but slipped his hand into Harry’s anyway, warmth sparking under his skin.

And together, they stepped inside.

The restaurant was dimly lit, all golden shadows and flickering candles. It wasn’t noisy—just the soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of silverware. Louis breathed in the scent of wine and butter, something rich simmering in the kitchen. Cozy. Intimate. Perfect. At least they’d be able to hear each other—he’d get to soak in every low murmur of Harry’s voice, every soft inflection.

They approached the hostess stand.

“Hello,” Harry said smoothly. “Reservation under Styles.”

The hostess glanced up and Louis caught it instantly—the slight widening of her eyes, the tiny intake of breath. Her gaze snagged on the scars.

It wasn’t dramatic. No gasp, no flinch. But Louis noticed, and it made something inside him bristle like a cat arching its back. His eyebrow shot up, his spine straightening. He was two seconds away from unleashing something cutting and precise—he had the perfect Excuse me, do you see the god standing in front of you? loaded on his tongue.

But before he could fire, she seemed to catch herself. Fingers twitched against the podium, her composure sliding back into place like a mask. “Yes—yes, table for Styles. I see it right here. Please follow me.”

Harry’s hand slid into his, squeezing gently. Louis blinked, glanced up. Harry’s mouth was curved in the faintest smile—reassuring him, of all things.

Louis exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He gave Harry’s hand a squeeze back, muttering under his breath as they followed the hostess, “Suppose it’s a good thing I didn’t claw her eyes out on the first date, huh?”

Harry’s lips twitched, dimples threatening. “Good start, Baby. But maybe save the bar brawls for the second date.”

Louis snorted, but his smile was steady now. He could breathe again.

When they arrived at their table, Harry pulled out Louis’s chair like a proper gentleman.

Louis arched an eyebrow as he slid in, dramatic flair at full tilt. “Well, well, well. Someone’s been reading The Alpha Guide to Impressing an Omega.”

Harry smirked, sitting across from him and opening the menu with exaggerated calm, like he hadn’t just reenacted Pride and Prejudice. “It’s all part of the Styles Magic Experience™. Buckle up.”

The candlelight caught his face just right—soft shadows, green eyes, curls extra fluffy, and honestly illegal. Louis blinked, momentarily short-circuited, before leaning forward with a grin. “Yeah? And what exactly does this ‘experience’ entail? Should I fasten my seatbelt now or wait ‘til dessert?”

It was a dumb line. But Harry threw his head back, laughing like Louis had just reinvented comedy.

God, he was such a nerd. An adorable nerd. Louis’s grin only widened.

“You’ll see,” Harry said, still chuckling. “Stage one is wowing you with the food. Niall swore it’s so good every omega here immediately proposes to the chef.”

Louis made a show of inspecting the menu. “Bold of Niall to assume I’m that easy. Though, if garlic butter makes an appearance, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

Harry leaned in, eyes glinting. “So what you’re saying is—forget jewelry, I should’ve shown up with breadsticks.”

Louis barked out a laugh, nearly snorting. “Christ, don’t tempt me. You’d have had me at carbs.”

“Noted,” Harry said, winking over the top of the menu. “Stage two: charm your pants off.”

Louis leaned back with a smirk. “Darling, if you wanted my pants off, you just had to ask.”

Harry turned crimson, and Louis practically beamed.
Round one: Louis.

Feeling smug, he let Harry recover and glanced at the menu… only for his eyebrows to shoot straight into his hairline.

It was in French.

All of it.

Like, aggressively French. Curly letters, no pictures, just smug little accents taunting him across the page.

Louis blinked. The only French sentence he knew was from Moulin Rouge song—and most of that was Christina Aguilera yelling things he was fairly sure you couldn’t order before dessert.

He peeked up and found Harry watching him instead of reading his own menu.

“Do you… know what this says?” Louis asked, waving helplessly at the offending page.

Harry grinned and nodded. “Need help?”

And then he started reading. In perfect French. Not tourist-French. Not “took a class in year nine” French. Actual, native-sounding French. Deep voice, smooth cadence, a little Ratatouille—but make it sexy.

He pronounced something that sounded like coq au vin, and Louis nearly moaned.

It was so hot. Like Harry had just whispered baguette with his whole chest, and Louis was ready to risk it all for a loaf.

Round two: Harry.

After Harry finished casually ruining Louis’s life and smirking about it, Louis gave up. Fully surrendered. He handed the menu over like it was a resignation letter and sighed.

“You order. I can’t even pronounce half of it without summoning a demon.”

Harry’s grin widened, dimples in full force. “What, scared of a little French?”

“Scared of you showing off,” Louis shot back. “You roll an ‘r’ and I’ll combust in public.”

Harry chuckled, low and pleased, flipping open the menu again like he hadn’t just wrecked Louis’s entire evening with a single syllable.

Louis stared at him like a starstruck idiot. He barely heard a word when Harry spoke to the waiter—just a blur of silky French syllables and the vague impression of food. Thank the moon, at least the waiter stayed perfectly professional. No gawking, no double-takes. Just discreet, efficient service. Bless him.

“Do you want wine, Lou?” Harry asked, picking up the wine list with one hand while the other rested casually on the table between them.

“Sure,” Louis said, aiming for breezy and hitting more “voice cracking in puberty.” The truth? He knew exactly two things about wine: (1) sweet supermarket bottles with fun fonts slapped on the labels were always safe, and (2) it tasted better cold. That was it.

Harry, completely unbothered, ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio, smoothly adding that it would pair well with their food. Louis nodded like he understood. Honestly, Harry could’ve ordered Slurpees and called them vintage Italian granitas and Louis would’ve applauded.

When the waiter left, Louis couldn’t stop himself. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Alright, Styles. How the hell do you know French?”

Harry leaned back slightly, his smile soft, fond. “I learned it in high school. Wasn’t great at it, but then Gemma did a semester in Paris for her fashion degree. I had to brush up—couldn’t let my big sister come back more cultured than me.”

Louis grinned at the image—tiny Harry sulking while Gemma waxed poetic about croissants.

Harry chuckled, then added, “And there was David. He served with me. His wife was French, and he’d spend hours on the phone whispering to her. I got so bored of listening that I started trying to understand. Turns out passive-aggressive eavesdropping is an underrated learning technique.”

Louis barked a laugh, nearly spilling the water the waiter had just set down. “You’re telling me your secret talent is basically ‘nosy bastard’?”

Harry smirked. “Works, doesn’t it?”

Louis shook his head, grinning. “Christ. I’m going on a date with a man who can sweet-talk me in two languages. I’m doomed.”

Harry tilted his head, those green eyes twinkling again. “So…” he said, playful. “Are you impressed yet?”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

But then he grinned, tipping his head to the side flirtatiously. “You had me at bonjour, and you know it.”

Harry laughed, the rich sound making Louis feel warm all over.

Round three: draw.

The rest of the dinner flowed just like the beginning—light, warm, and threaded with laughter.

They flirted shamelessly, trading smirks over flickering candles and swapping childhood stories like secrets slipped across the table. Louis confessed to the time he’d tried to bleach his hair at fifteen and ended up dyeing his mum’s bathroom an aggressive shade of pink. Harry countered with a tale about smuggling a cat into his dorm during training—only for it to give birth the next morning. In his bed. Apparently, the sergeant had not been amused.

They played footsie under the table—Louis starting it like the menace he was, Harry pretending to be scandalised. They held hands across the linen tablecloth like total romcom saps, their fingers fitting together warm and steady.

Louis couldn’t believe he’d been so nervous earlier.

This—they—just felt right.

Harry teased his sass like he adored every spark of it. And Louis saw how Harry’s edges softened when he laughed too hard, or forgot to be self-conscious for a moment. They coaxed comfort out of each other like it was easy. Natural. Familiar.

You’re getting ahead of yourself, a small, traitorous voice whispered in the back of Louis’s mind.
It’s only the first date.

But God—what a first date.

When their plates were cleared and only glasses of wine remained—warm remnants of laughter still hanging between them—Harry stood, cane in hand.

“I’m going to the loo,” he said with a smile, and then—like some bloody prince—he took Louis’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it.

Louis nearly fainted right there at the table.

As Harry made his way toward the restrooms, Louis blinked himself back into reality and pulled out his phone. He’d barely opened his notifications when a clipped, posh voice cut through the air.

“Excuse me?”

Louis glanced up, startled. An older woman at the next table was watching him. Elegant. Sharp-boned. Botoxed within an inch of her life. She looked like she’d been carved out of old money and resentment. The kind of woman whose perfume cost more than Louis’s rent.

Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and I smell something unpleasant.

“Yes?” Louis said politely, slipping his phone into his lap.

She gave him a tight, rehearsed smile. The kind that said she practiced it in the mirror before brunch.

“I hope you don’t think me terribly forward,” she began, her voice smooth as silk over barbed wire. “But I couldn’t help noticing your… Alpha friend.”

Louis blinked slowly. “Harry?”

She tilted her head in that dismissive way only posh people and owls could manage. “Yes. The young man who just left. Such a bold choice, bringing him here. This place tends to attract a certain crowd, you know.”

Louis didn’t answer immediately, because he was still trying to figure out if she’d actually just said that out loud in 2025.

The woman leaned in slightly, all conspiratorial. “I only mean—well, it’s lovely that you’re giving someone like him a chance. As a beautiful omega yourself, I’m sure you have a lot of other options. It’s rare these days, isn’t it? People can be so shallow. But clearly, you’ve got a good heart.” She touched her chest like she was auditioning for Downton Abbey: The Botox Years. “So many would’ve been too embarrassed. The scars, the limp, the cane… It’s just refreshing to see someone look past all of that.”

Louis stared at her. One beat. Two. Then he smiled—sharp and sweet, like a knife dipped in sugar.

“Right. Well, lucky for me, I don’t pick partners based on their ability to walk in a straight line… or their ability to blink without cracking.”

Her mouth opened in a perfect little oh.

Louis leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to twist the knife. “And you’re right—Harry is rare. He’s kind, smart, gorgeous, and brave as hell. Do you know how he got those scars? By serving in the army and protecting undeserving people like you. Which, if we’re keeping score, makes him about a thousand times hotter than your surgeon.”

He raised his wine glass in a mock toast, grinning. “But hey, thanks for your concern. I’ll be sure to pass it on—right after he kisses me.”

The woman bristled, fumbling with her designer clutch like it might shield her from the roasting. “Well. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Louis replied sweetly, his fake smile blinding. He took a long sip of wine, never breaking eye contact. “Cheers, darling. Do try not to choke on your caviar.”

Just then, Harry appeared beside him, smiling, though his eyes flicked between Louis and the woman with a hint of confusion.

“All good, Lou?” he asked quietly.

Louis straightened, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “Yes, Alpha.”

Harry froze, eyes widening at the title. The tips of his ears turned pink, but he recovered fast—his lips curling into a bashful, crooked smile. He slipped his hand into Louis’s again, warm and steady, grounding him in an instant.

“Ready to go?”

Louis blinked. “Wait—no dessert?”

Harry’s dimples appeared, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Don’t worry, little omega,” he teased smoothly. “You’ll get dessert. Just not here. The Styles Experience continues somewhere else.”

Louis nearly choked on his wine, spluttering a laugh. “Christ, soldier, you sound like you’re about to sell me a bloody honeymoon package.”

Harry winked, squeezing his hand. “Good. Because you already booked it.”

The woman at the next table made a tiny noise of scandal, like a teapot boiling over, but Louis only grinned wider, standing with Harry and letting him lead the way out.

________________

They walked hand in hand into the cool night, Louis leaning in just a little, soaking up the steady presence of his alpha beside him.

“So…” Louis drawled, suspicious, “are you going to tell me where we’re headed?”

Harry grinned, eyes twinkling. “You’ll see.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “If this is a kidnapping, Styles, let me warn you—Liam’s got me on Find My Friends. He’ll come charging in like a furious dad looking for his lost toddler.”

Harry snorted. “Kidnap you? Lou, I’ve got one leg. You could jog lightly and I’d be defeated. My big master plan would end with me face-first on the pavement while you call an Uber.”

Louis gasped dramatically. “Imagine the headline: Omega survives kidnap attempt by Alpha with cane. Alpha now suing for whiplash.”

Harry’s dimples deepened as he chuckled. “Please. With these dimples, the jury would award me custody of you as emotional damages.”

Louis nearly tripped, laughing. “Oh my god, we’re on date one and you’re already talking custody. What’s next, a prenup?”

Harry shot him a sly look. “Already drafted. You get the cane in the divorce.”

Louis wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Romantic. Nothing says eternal love like inheriting your bloody mobility aid. Should I start practicing limping now?”

Harry squeezed his hand, all faux sincerity. “Don’t worry, baby. You’ll get dessert too. The cane’s just the family heirloom.”

Louis cackled so hard a passerby gave them a strange look. He grinned back shamelessly. 

________________

Apparently, Harry never intended to kidnap him.

Instead, he led Louis down a quiet side street to a tucked-away ice cream parlor Louis had never even noticed before. The pastel-painted walls and gently swinging vintage sign made it look like something straight out of a romcom. Louis was officially charmed—and also slightly suspicious.

Harry returned from the counter grinning, holding their cones: a rich chocolate mint for himself, and vanilla-and-cookies for Louis.

“Vanilla and cookies? Really, Lou? What are you—five?” Harry teased, wagging a finger like an exasperated schoolteacher.

“Shut up,” Louis shot back, smirking as he licked his cone. “At least I didn’t pick toothpaste flavor. You’re lucky I like you, or I’d report you to the dessert police.”

Harry laughed, dimples deep, clearly unbothered.

They claimed a bench outside, fairy lights strung in nearby windows casting the street in a warm, Christmas-card glow. Louis leaned into Harry’s side, their hands finding each other again as they savored their ice creams.

For a moment it was quiet—just the soft sounds of the evening and the faint crunch of waffle cones.

Then Louis ruined it, because of course he did.

“You know, if this was a test of compatibility, you already failed. I can’t spend my life with someone who orders mint chocolate chip.”

Harry looked down at him, scandalized. “Failed? Mint is a classic. It’s sophisticated.”

Louis snorted. “It’s mouthwash with ambitions.”

Harry shook his head, laughing, and bumped his shoulder gently against Louis’s. “Fine. Guess we’ll have to break up, then. Tragic—date one and it’s already over.”

Louis grinned, eyes glinting. “Don’t worry, soldier. I’ll still visit you in the care home. Bring you your mushy peas and remind you that your taste in ice cream doomed us all.”

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled, squeezing Louis’s hand tighter.

“How did you even find this place? I’ve never seen it before,” Louis asked, kitten-licking at the melting edge of his cone.

Harry’s smile softened, touched with memory. “Me and Nick used to come here after a night out. They stay open late, so it was perfect when you’re drunk and craving something sweet.” He glanced at Louis, voice gentler now. “I was living with him between deployments—when I needed to let off steam and not get stuck in Holmes Chapel. It was nice, you know? Coming back to London after months in the desert. Nick loved dragging me around, showing me everything I’d missed.”

Louis’s chest squeezed at the tenderness in his voice. He smiled, touched by the glimpse into Harry’s life. “Had a lot of fun without me, then?” he teased, eyes glinting playfully.

Harry grinned. “Had my share of fun.”

Louis laughed. “Well, my go-to after a club has always been McDonald’s, no matter what you say.”

Harry nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “I’m dating a five-year-old. Next you’ll tell me you order Happy Meals.”

Louis smirked, licking the last bit of ice cream off his cone with exaggerated flourish. “Hey, don’t knock the Happy Meal. It comes with a toy. You’ve got to appreciate the little things in life.”

Harry groaned but laughed, his fingers squeezing tighter around Louis’s. “You’re impossible.”

Louis grinned, resting his head lightly against Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah, but you like it.”

Harry bent and pressed a quick kiss to his temple, voice low but certain. “Maybe I do.”

They sat there for a while in comfortable silence, the fairy lights glowing above them, wrapping the little side street in a bubble of warmth. Just two idiots with sticky fingers, ice cream cones, and hearts already falling faster than either dared admit.

________________

After finishing their ice creams, Harry drove Louis home. The night had grown late, and Louis knew he had work the next day, but neither of them wanted the evening to end.

Harry grunted softly as he settled into the driver’s seat, his hand instinctively massaging his damaged leg.

“You okay?” Louis asked, concern threading through his voice.

Harry nodded. “Just walked a lot today. I’ll need to put some ointment on when I get home.”

Louis reached over, threading their fingers together, keeping Harry’s hand in his for the rest of the ride. He didn’t want to let go—not yet.

The car pulled up outside Louis’s apartment far too quickly. Louis unfastened his seatbelt, and for a moment, they just sat there, staring at each other in the hush of the city.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Harry. Really. I loved it,” Louis said softly.

Harry’s smile warmed, tender and a little bashful. “Me too.” Then, with a teasing glint, he added, “So—the Styles Experience worked?”

Louis chuckled quietly. “You have no idea.”

They stayed like that, caught in each other’s gaze, the air thick with unspoken things. Harry’s hand lifted, brushing Louis’s cheek with careful fingers as he leaned closer.

Louis’s breath caught.

“Can I kiss you, Lou?” Harry asked, voice low, almost shy.

Louis nodded, words forgotten, letting the moment answer for him.

Harry’s fingers slid gently behind his neck, pulling him in. Their breaths mingled, warm and shallow, the space between them shrinking until it was gone.

Their lips met softly at first—tentative, testing. Then Harry parted his lips with slow intent, his tongue brushing Louis’s bottom lip. Louis gasped lightly, opening for him, their kiss deepening into something tender, searching, intimate.

The heat flared, unhurried but certain, every brush and slide a promise. Harry’s hand tightened at Louis’s nape, grounding him, while Louis tangled his fingers in Harry’s curls, pulling him closer still.

When they finally broke apart, Louis’s cheeks were flushed, lips tingling. He let out a breathless laugh. “I’ve been waiting for that.”

Harry’s dimples flashed. “Me too, Lou.”

Louis leaned back in his seat, still dazed. “Well. Hate to break it to you, soldier, but I’m not kissing you again until you admit mint chocolate chip is toothpaste with delusions of grandeur.”

Harry groaned, laughing, and stole another quick kiss anyway.

Louis went to bed that night grinning like an idiot, still tasting mint.

________________

First sex

Louis liked dating Harry. Liked might’ve been an understatement, because being with him wasn’t just fun—it was butterflies every time he saw him. That giddy, fizzy feeling when they kissed. The warmth that stuck around after when they curled up on the couch together, Louis’s head on Harry’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and thinking: yeah, this feels good.

Their dates had the same kind of easy magic. Afternoons in the park, picnic blanket out, Harry pulling bread and pastries from the basket with dramatic flair, insisting Louis “judge” them like it was Bake Off. Louis pretended to be serious, then lit up with delight, and Harry’s grin could’ve powered the whole park.

Or evenings at the center—Louis running on fumes, and Harry showing up with takeaway and a smile like it was no big deal.

Louis knew he was falling. Hard. He couldn’t stop it. Not when Harry was just… Harry. Caring, open, funny. Not when their ridiculous banter always ended with them grinning at each other like idiots.

One weekend night they were on Harry’s couch, full from dinner and dessert, glasses of wine making everything feel softer. The quiet stretched comfortable and charged all at once.

Louis wasn’t sure who leaned in first, but then they were kissing, slow and deep, until Harry tugged him onto his lap and kissed him like a man making up for lost time.

They’d taken their time up to now. Neither of them in a rush. But tonight Louis felt bold—restless with want. He wanted Harry. All of him.

His fingers slid beneath the hem of Harry’s shirt, smoothing over the heat of his chest through the thin cotton, tracing the rise and fall of each breath. Harry’s mouth was on his throat, kissing, nipping, then soothing the sting with soft licks. Louis gasped, the sound spilling out before he could stop it, his body arching closer as desire coiled low and sharp.

He could feel Harry—hard and unyielding against him, the press of it making Louis whine softly in need. His hand drifted higher, sliding under Harry’s shirt, brushing over a peaked nipple, dragging a guttural sound from Harry that shot straight through him. Louis grinned wickedly at the reaction and tugged at the hem of Harry’s shirt.

“What are you doing, baby?” Harry murmured, voice rough, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. His gaze was near-black with lust, heavy and burning.

Louis swallowed, cheeks flaming—but his smirk didn’t falter. “What do you think?” he breathed, teasing. “Trying to get you naked.”

Harry chuckled, low and strained, as though fighting for control. Louis ignored it, tugging the shirt over his head and tossing it aside, his gaze drinking Harry in like he’d never seen him before.

He had seen Harry shirtless before, but not like this—not in the thick haze of want, not with his own hands still buzzing from pulling the fabric away. Harry’s body was inked and pale, skin and tattoos contrasting like art come alive. Louis felt his throat go dry at the sight.

He leaned in, kissing his way down Harry’s chest in small, playful licks, savoring the sound of Harry’s growls, the way his fingers tightened desperately on Louis’s hips. Louis teased his nipples, kissing, biting lightly, until Harry’s breath hitched and his grip turned almost bruising.

Rolling his hips against Harry’s, Louis ground down in slow, deliberate circles, their bodies aligning, sparks of heat sparking through him. He kissed a path upward, trailing from chest to throat, until he reached Harry’s scent glands. The perfume of desire, rich and dizzying, wrapped around him, and Louis lingered there, breathing him in like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck, baby,” Harry groaned, his hands sliding from Louis’s hips to grip his ass, trying to still the torturous grind of Louis above him. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“That’s the plan,” Louis winked, shifting lower, fingers brushing at Harry’s waistband.

But a firm hand caught his wrist. Louis froze, gaze snapping up—and what he saw wasn’t lust but hesitation, pain flickering across Harry’s face.

Harry kissed him instead, urgent, almost desperate, and Louis let him—for a moment. But when Harry’s grip softened in distraction, Louis made another move to tug his trousers down.

The kiss broke. “Don’t.” Harry’s voice was low, strained. Vulnerable in a way Louis hadn’t heard before.

Confusion furrowed Louis’s brow. “What is it, H?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed deep pink. He glanced down, faltering. “I’m just… I…” His words tangled.

Louis waited, quiet, giving him space.

Finally, Harry lifted his eyes, raw and pained. “The scars. They’re not… they’re not very pretty.”

Louis tilted his head, voice soft but certain. “You’re always beautiful. You know I’ve seen you, right? Not everything, no—but your hip, your leg…”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, “but not like this. Not this close. It might—” he swallowed, jaw tight—“it might put you off. Maybe we should go to the bedroom, yeah? Dark’s better.”

Louis’s chest ached. Brave, larger-than-life Harry Styles—shy and uncertain here, afraid to be seen. He reached up, brushing his thumb over Harry’s cheek. “If you’d feel safer in the bedroom, we can. But, H…” Louis’s eyes softened with conviction. “Nothing about you could ever disgust me. You’re the most breathtaking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Color burned across Harry’s cheeks. He gave a shaky laugh, though tension still lingered in his shoulders.

So Louis did something reckless. He took Harry’s hand, guiding it down, slipping it beneath his own waistband until Harry’s fingers pressed against his hole. Louis gasped, his body trembling at the touch.

“Feel that?” he whispered against Harry’s lips, teasing but raw. “Feel how wet I am for you? How much I want you to fill me?”

Harry growled low in his chest, cock twitching beneath Louis as his fingers slid over slick heat. His breath hitched. “Bloody hell,” he rasped, pressing harder.

Louis moaned, giving himself over to the sensation as Harry’s fingers teased his rim, circling, stroking. Then—slowly, carefully—one slipped inside. Louis’s breath broke into a high, needy whine, his hands clutching at Harry’s shoulders as their mouths met again in a dizzy kiss.

He moved against Harry’s hand, rocking into the rhythm, chasing it shamelessly. Harry added a second finger, stretching him, then a third, scissoring until he brushed that spot inside that made Louis cry out. Pleasure shuddered through him, sharp and consuming, pulling him to the edge.

But just before it tipped, Louis caught Harry’s wrist, panting. “Stop—stop, not yet.”

Harry blinked, dazed, and Louis slowly pulled his fingers free, skin still slick with need.

Rising from Harry’s lap, Louis stood before him, tugging his clothes away piece by piece until there was nothing left between him and Harry’s gaze.

Harry gave a choked groan, eyes raking down Louis’s body like a starving man—his chest, the soft swell of his belly, the curve of his hips, the small cock flushed and aching with want.

“So pretty, baby,” Harry rasped, voice low with hunger.

Louis’s lips curved, heat curling in his belly. He dropped to his knees before Harry, peeking up through his lashes. “Can I?” he asked softly, fingers already teasing at Harry’s waistband.

Harry hesitated for only a moment before nodding. That was all the permission Louis needed. He pulled pants and boxers down in one eager motion, Harry lifting his hips to help.

And then Louis saw him—fully saw him—and gasped. Harry’s cock stood proud and thick, tip glistening with pre-come.

“So big,” Louis whispered, hand wrapping around him. His fingers couldn’t even cover him fully. The size difference made his own cock twitch.

Harry’s breath stuttered as Louis bent forward, lips parting to take him in. He moaned around the stretch of it, saliva slicking his mouth and chin as he worked Harry deeper. Louis loved this—loved making an alpha lose control because of him. He bobbed his head eagerly, sucking, licking, stroking, until Harry was nothing but groans and sharp breaths above him.

When Louis dared a glance up, Harry’s head had tipped back against the sofa, lips parted, face undone with pleasure. A rush of pride filled Louis, and he pressed on harder, taking more of him, sucking like he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck—baby, fuck,” Harry groaned, hand suddenly pressing against Louis’s head to stop him.

Louis pulled off with a wet gasp, confused, pupils blown wide.

Harry looked down at him, wrecked and trembling. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

The whine slipped from Louis before he could stop it, nodding eagerly.

Harry gave a breathless laugh and tugged Louis up, kissing him deep, filthy with the taste of himself. Louis scrambled to straddle his lap, but Harry stilled him with a firm shake of his head.

“Not here,” he murmured, voice rough but sure. “I’m not fucking you on a sofa for the first time. You’re not a cheap one night stand.”

Heat flamed across Louis’s cheeks, his head buzzing with want. Harry rose, guiding him gently by the hand into the bedroom.

Louis barely registered the room itself—just the way Harry laid him down on the bed, slow and reverent, sheets rich with Harry’s scent. His thighs parted instinctively, offering himself up, never breaking Harry’s gaze.

Harry knelt between them, reaching for the drawer, pulling out lube and a condom. His hands shook as he tore the foil, sliding the latex on with practiced ease.

“Want to take your leg off?” Louis asked quietly, fingers brushing Harry’s trembling arm.

Harry shook his head, a small, almost shy smile curving his lips. “No, baby. Not this time.”

Louis nodded, heart swelling, and pulled him into a kiss. Harry’s fingers followed—slicking him up, teasing, pressing inside to stretch him slowly until Louis was panting. Then more lube, coating his cock, Harry moving with deliberate care.

“Ready, baby?” he whispered, voice trembling with restraint.

Louis’s hands fisted the sheets, body aching to be filled. “Please. Want you.”

Harry braced himself, body hovering above Louis’s, and pressed forward slowly, inch by inch. Louis cried out, back arching as the stretch burned, as Harry filled him so completely.

“Fuck—Louis—” Harry gasped, closing his eyes, shaking with the effort to go slow. “You’re so tight. So perfect—”

Louis cupped his jaw, forcing his green eyes open. “Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I want all of you.”

Harry’s breath broke on a moan, and then he pushed the rest of the way in, burying himself fully inside Louis. They both trembled, caught between the ache and the bliss of finally giving in.

Harry stilled, forehead pressed to Louis’s temple, but Louis shifted beneath him, desperate. “Move, Harry—please. Don’t make me beg—”

That was all it took. Harry pulled back, then slammed in again, the slide obscene and slick. Louis cried out, nails dragging down his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, hips snapping harder, his cock stretching Louis open, hitting deep. “You feel unreal—like your body was made to milk me dry.”

Louis’s back arched, a broken sob leaving his throat as Harry angled just right. His legs locked around Harry’s waist, dragging him deeper, grinding against every thrust. “Right there—fuck, Harry, harder—don’t stop—”

Harry obeyed, fucking into him rough now, bed creaking with the force. Sweat dripped from his temple onto Louis’s flushed chest. The air was thick with heat, the sharp scent of slick and sex.

Louis was gone—eyes wet, lips swollen, his cock leaking helplessly against his stomach. Every snap of Harry’s hips had him wailing, shameless, high-pitched cries bouncing off the walls.

“Look at you,” Harry panted, voice filthy with awe. “Taking me so good—stretching around me like you’re begging for my knot.”

Louis’s whole body jerked, a strangled moan tearing from him. “Fuck—yes—want it, fuck—want all of you.”

Harry’s control snapped. He pounded into him harder, faster, cock dragging Louis open, his swollen knot already catching at Louis’s rim on every thrust. Louis gasped at the burn, the pressure, eyes rolling back.

“Gonna split you on it one day,” Harry growled against his ear. “Tie you up and keep you full. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Louis sobbed, clinging tighter, voice wrecked. “Yes—fuck yes—want it—just don’t stop—”

Harry’s hand found Louis’s cock, pumping him rough and fast, squeezing the head until Louis’s thighs trembled.

“Haz—oh god, Harry—I’m gonna—”

“Come on then,” Harry snarled, biting down on his neck. “Paint your stomach for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

Louis’s body seized, orgasm tearing through him, hot and messy between them as he screamed Harry’s name. His hole clenched desperately around Harry’s cock, sucking at him like it never wanted to let go.

The tight squeeze ripped Harry apart. He shoved in deep, knot straining Louis’s rim, the pressure almost pushing past, and then he was spilling into the condom with a guttural groan. His hips stuttered as if his body was still trying to lock them together, knot swollen and throbbing against Louis’s raw rim.

Louis whimpered at the stretch, still fluttering around him, overstimulated and dripping in sweat. “Fuck—you didn’t—” his words broke into a moan, “—didn’t knot me.”

Harry kissed his temple, panting, voice gravelly. “Not this time. But you’ll take it soon. Gonna fuck you full, make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

Louis shivered at the promise, body trembling, heart pounding. He buried his face in Harry’s neck, dizzy with the ache, the filth, and the terrifying, beautiful truth of belonging.

Later, Harry cleaned Louis slowly, careful and thorough, like he was handling something precious. Louis nearly teared up at the gentleness of it, though he covered it up with a smirk.

“Feeling okay, baby?” Harry murmured, kissing his hair.

“Never better.” Louis tipped his head, grin tugging at his lips. “Although I didn’t realize you had such a dirty mouth. You’ve been hiding that filth under your grumpy image, Soldier".

Harry chuckled, low and embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry. I just… lose control around you.”

Louis pecked his lips, teasing, “Don’t apologize. I liked it. Very hot. Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

Harry’s eyes sparked, his grin returning. “Oh yeah? Then I’ll use it more often.”

Louis swatted at his chest. “Not tonight, thanks. I just got cleaned—you try making me wet again and I’ll throw you out of your own bed.”

Harry kissed him anyway, soft and smug.

When Louis broke the kiss, he murmured, “Want to take off your leg? You can’t sleep in it.”

Harry hesitated, clearly embarrassed. “Hmm—”

“Harry.” Louis gave him the unimpressed nurse look. “For the millionth time, I don’t care. What I do care about is you waking up cranky tomorrow and me missing out on breakfast. Priorities.”

Harry snorted. “So you only want me for my cooking?”

“Exactly.” Louis grinned, smug. “And maybe your cock. But mostly the pancakes.”

Harry laughed, unclipping his prosthetic. “Romance is alive and well.”

Louis tangled their legs together, brushing his thigh over Harry’s stump deliberately. “This is romance. You, me, cuddles, and pancakes in the morning. The Holy Trinity.”

Harry raised a brow. “Really know how to sweet-talk a man, don’t you?”

Louis smirked, snuggling closer. “And you still keep me around. Who’s the fool now?”

Harry chuckled, kissing him again, fond and amused. “Me. Definitely me.”

________________

First Friend's Outing

It was Niall’s birthday, and Louis was already late.

Not fashionably late, not “oh I just lost track of time” late—an hour-late, still-standing-half-naked-in-front-of-the-mirror kind of late. He’d cycled through his entire wardrobe in a frenzy: ripped jeans, rejected. A patterned shirt that made him look like he belonged in a holiday postcard, rejected. Finally, he caved and went back to his uniform—black skinnies, plain black t-shirt. Reliable. Predictable. Boring.

He groaned at his own reflection. “You look like you’re going to a funeral, not a party.” Still, his hair quiff was sharp enough to cut glass, his eyeliner smudge-free, and his Vans broken in just enough to pretend he hadn’t tried. That would have to do.

For once, he’d skipped the suppressant. His scent clung to him anyway, warm and sweet, like cinnamon on a cold night—subtle, but undeniably him. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted Harry to drown in it a little.

By the time Louis reached the club, the bass was already thudding against his ribs from outside, the queue snaking down the block. He pushed through the line with a sheepish grin, muttering “sorry, sorry, birthday emergency,” and prayed no one recognized him from last month’s drunken attempt at karaoke night.

Phone in hand, he texted Harry: I’m here. You in yet?

The reply came almost instantly.
Harry: Stuck in traffic. Be there soon x

Louis stuffed the phone back in his pocket, palms clammy. Because this wasn’t just a birthday party—it was the night. Harry’s first time meeting the whole group as his official boyfriend.

No pressure. Just the social equivalent of introducing a baby deer to a pack of wolves and hoping it didn’t end in bloodshed.

He spotted Niall and the others already crowded around a table near the dance floor, drinks in hand, laughter flying above the bass like sparks.

“Ohhh, look who finally showed up!” Niall hollered, grinning like the devil himself.

“Look at him—proper tidy, hair all quiffed up like he’s auditioning for a boyband,” Zayn smirked, one hand sprawled over Liam’s thigh.

Louis leaned in, hugging them quickly before dropping into a chair. His chest was tight, nerves chewing him alive.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he said, waving a hand. “Took forever to get ready.”

“And why’s that?” Niall asked, drawing it out, eyebrows bouncing like he was on stage.

They all knew why. Louis had doomed himself yesterday in the group chat: Harry’s coming. As my boyfriend. Officially. He might as well have mailed them a script titled Ways to Ruin My Life.

Louis squinted at them, stabbing a finger in warning. “Alright, listen up, you hyenas. I don’t care how drunk you get, or how much you think I deserve payback for roasting you lot in the past—tonight you will not make Harry uncomfortable. He needs to like you enough to keep dating me.”

He paused dramatically, then added with a solemn nod, “Because he has a five-star-rated tongue, and frankly, I’d like to keep it in my life.”

The table exploded.

Niall nearly spat his drink across the table, coughing through his laughter. “JESUS CHRIST, Louis! Nobody here wanted that image in their head!”

Zayn slid halfway out of his chair, wheezing. “Too late. It’s there. Permanently. Congratulations, I’m scarred.”

Liam, already red, groaned. “Louis, please. People can hear you.”

“It’s a nightclub, Liam,” Zayn choked out. “The people here have heard worse—they’ve done worse.”

Louis leaned back, smug as royalty. “Laugh all you want. But if any of you so much as look at him sideways, I’ll expose every one of your darkest secrets before the next beat drops.”

Then he flicked his wrist toward the table. “Now order me a drink, peasants.”

“Excuse me?” Niall gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “It’s my birthday. You order me a drink.”

“Niall, we don’t make enough money to keep you drunk all night,” Liam said dryly, earning a cackle from Zayn. “Please try to seduce a nice rich woman so the rest of us don’t go bankrupt.”

Louis opened his mouth to back Liam up, but then hands slid around his waist from behind—warm, steady, and so bloody familiar—and Harry’s scent hit him like a freight train, wrapping around him until his bones hummed with it. He didn’t need to turn; he’d know that alpha anywhere.

He turned anyway and nearly keeled over.

Because apparently Harry had translated “night out with Louis’s friends, first impressions matter” into “make Louis publicly wet.”

The bastard wore perfectly broken-in blue jeans slung low on his hips, a deep navy shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, showing off muscle and curling black ink like a fucking exhibition piece. His curls were styled up just enough to look careless, his rings caught every pulse of strobe light, and around his neck, the cross pendant and army tag gleamed like a flashing sign that said hands off, he’s mine.

He looked like sin. Like Louis’s most private daydream had rolled out of bed and walked into the club. Louis honestly thought about grabbing the table to stop himself from collapsing. 

Then Harry smiled. That dimpled, easy smile that knocked Louis square in the chest. His green eyes lit up warm, soft, intimate, like he only ever smiled like that for Louis. Cane tucked to the side—just in case, though the prosthetic carried him fine—Harry leaned down, brushing a quick kiss over Louis’s mouth, his hands still steady on Louis’s waist.

“Hi, baby,” Harry murmured, voice pitched low, private. Then he added with a wink, “You look hot.”

Louis rolled his eyes, though his cheeks flushed warm under the club’s shifting neon. “Yeah, alright, cover-shoot. Took me twenty minutes just to pick socks.”

Harry smirked, dipping his head close enough that Louis felt the brush of curls against his temple. He inhaled, eyes narrowing faintly when Louis’s scent hit, unfiltered. “No suppressant tonight?”

Louis tipped his chin, a small, smug smile playing at his mouth. “Thought I’d give you the full experience. You’re welcome.”

Harry’s gaze darkened, voice caught somewhere between a laugh and a growl—

And then Niall’s voice exploded across the table like a fire alarm.

“Hazzaaaa!” he hollered, arms thrown up, nearly baptizing the floor with his pint. Heads turned from the nearby tables; someone actually cheered like it was part of the show.

“Jesus Christ, sit down before they throw us out,” Zayn muttered, shoving Niall back into his seat with one sharp elbow. Then, with a languid glance at Harry, he smirked. “Evening, Styles. Lou’s been talking about you non-stop. Proper gushing. Like a Victorian governess waiting by the window.”

Louis snorted. “Yeah, alright, Jane Austen, pipe down.”

Harry’s grin widened as he slid an arm around Louis’s waist, dimples deepening. “So you have been gushing?”

Louis arched a brow, tone flat as a table. “Don’t flatter yourself. I said you weren’t a total nightmare. These idiots turned it into a sonnet.”

Niall and Zayn snickered, grinning like gremlins.

But before either could twist the knife further, Liam leaned in—calm as ever, but with steel under his voice. “Alright, enough. Keep winding him up, and Louis is either going to stop being our friend, or he’s going to kill you both. And then I’ll have to help him bury the bodies.”

Louis blinked, touched despite himself. God, he loved Liam. His ride-or-die in sensible shoes.

Zayn’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “You’d help him bury your own mate? That’s cold. Good to know where I rank in this relationship.”

Louis grinned, shrugging like it was obvious. “Sorry, babes. He knew me first. Bros before—”

“Shut up,” Zayn and Liam barked in unison.

Niall swung toward Harry, face deadly serious. “You won’t let Louis kill us, right? You’ll protect us?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head, considering it like it was an actual question on a test.

Louis and Liam broke first, laughter spilling out.

“Harry!” Niall yelped, clutching his chest. “I’m the reason you walk today! If it weren’t for me, you’d still be rotting in bed, counting ceiling tiles and singing sad ballads to the plaster!”

Harry’s brows shot up. Louis snorted beside him.

“I’m fairly sure Harry’s the one who got himself walking again,” Liam said, trying to stay composed but failing. “Or maybe Louis, if you want to stretch the definition of motivation.”

Louis arched a brow, smirking. “Oh, don’t look at me. I just bribed him with coffee and insults.”

Harry turned then, his gaze lingering on Louis—soft, warm, that small smile curling like it belonged to no one else.

Louis felt his stomach swoop, heat flooding under his skin. Bloody hell.

“Oh my god,” Zayn groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You two are disgusting. Someone get me a drink before I start weeping. Or vomiting. Not sure which.”

“Oh right, drinks,” Louis said, tilting his head toward Harry. “I’m heading to the bar. Want something?”

“Beer’s good,” Harry replied. “Just one though—I’m driving.”

“I’ll take another beer too!” Niall shouted, already polishing off his current pint. He blew Louis a dramatic kiss. “Love you, angel!”

Louis flipped him off fondly on his way to the bar, ordering two beers and a gin and tonic for himself. While waiting, he risked a glance back at their table—just to check. Just to make sure Harry wasn’t too overwhelmed.

Harry sat there like he’d been born into their circle: leaned back casually in his chair, one arm hooked over the backrest, dimples out in full force, green eyes sparkling with laughter. And then Zayn, the human embodiment of a cat forced to live among peasants, was laughing. Full-on, head-thrown-back laughing at something Harry had just said.

Louis blinked once. Twice. No. Impossible.

This was not sustainable, his brain whispered.

Because that—that—was not the furious, sharp-edged alpha he’d met back at the Center. That wasn’t the man who’d snarled through physio and glared at anyone within a five-foot radius. This was someone else entirely—open, warm, stupidly charming.

And worse? Louis’ traitorous body was staging a coup. His heart was hammering out a lovesick ballad, while his cock was basically packing its bags, ready to sprint across the club and climb into Harry’s lap like it paid rent there.

He turned back toward the bar, trying to focus, but his brain betrayed him in full HD cinema mode.

Harry’s hands on him like worship. His mouth, hot and slow. That look right before he kissed Louis deep enough to erase his name. His tongue, filthy and relentless, licking into him like it was air. The stretch. The sharp, hungry snap of hips. That humiliating broken sound Louis made when Harry angled just right—

Louis grabbed the bar like it was a lifeboat. He sucked in a shaky breath, muttering under it, “Hope he cleared his bloody weekend, because I’m not letting him walk out of my bed until Monday.”

The bartender slid the drinks across the counter right as Louis felt the blush blaze up his throat.

“Fun night?” the bartender asked with a knowing smirk.

Louis snorted, scooping the glasses up with trembling hands. “Mate, you’ve got no idea.”

He wove back through the crowd toward their table, mentally begging for strength—and, for the love of god, for his scent to calm the fuck down.

Oh, perfect. He was indeed wet. Brilliant. Exactly what he needed. Send help, send suppressant, send an exorcist.

He set the drinks down with a soft clink. Harry looked up instantly, smile warm, eyes crinkling with affection. “Thanks, baby.”

One of Harry’s hands slid easily to Louis’ waist as he sat beside him—casual, like muscle memory, but steady, like he had no plans of letting go. Louis, flustered and suddenly overheating, felt like he hadn’t had water in hours and promptly gulped half his gin and tonic in one go.

“Oh! Lightweight alert!” Niall crowed, pointing his glass at him. “Careful, Lou, you’ll be crying about your feelings in ten minutes.”

Louis licked his lips, set his glass down with a click, and deadpanned, “If I start crying, it’ll be about you, sunshine. Specifically your face.”

The table howled, Niall clutched his chest dramatically, and Louis bit back a grin, hiding it behind another sip.

Conversation flowed easily after that. Zayn, shockingly earnest, asked Harry about his time at the ex-military center, his usually guarded eyes actually curious. And Harry—Harry handled it like he’d always been here. Calm, thoughtful, voice low but steady, weaving stories with that quiet gravity that made people lean in without realizing.

Louis found himself watching him, helpless—cataloguing every flicker of dimples, every curl of his mouth, like a thief pocketing treasure. It was ridiculous, how easily Harry could unravel him just by existing.

About an hour later, during a lull in conversation, Niall suddenly shot up like he’d been tasered, clapping his hands with manic glee.

“Right! To the dance floor!” he declared. “I need a nice lady to prove that turning a year older has not, in fact, robbed me of my undeniable sex appeal!”

The table groaned in unison.

Louis arched a brow. “Bold of you to assume you had any to begin with.”

Niall didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he lunged across the booth, grabbed Zayn and Liam, and hauled them up with all the subtlety of a marching band.

Zayn squawked, flailing as his drink nearly went flying. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t sign up for cardio!”

Liam stumbled after them, muttering, “This is a kidnapping. I’m being kidnapped.”

Niall only grinned wider, already bulldozing toward the dance floor.

Louis leaned toward Harry, eyes mischievous. “Wanna dance?”

Harry’s smile flickered. He glanced toward the floor, then down at his cane. “I don’t think I should. Not very sexy if I trip. Or take out half the room.” He tried to play it off with a crooked grin. “You dance. I’ll watch. Like a private show.”

Louis snorted. “Yeah, because nothing screams romance like me awkwardly flailing while you sit there like my disapproving dad.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but Louis caught the edge beneath it—the little twist of insecurity he was trying to hide.

So Louis reached for his hand, voice dropping low. “Haz. We’re not auditioning for Fame. We’ll just move. Together. If you need to stop, we stop. No one cares but me—and I like you vertical, even if you stomp my toes.”

Harry blinked at him, caught between amusement and surprise.

Louis tipped his chin toward the edge of the floor. “There is a chair right there if you get tired. But you’re coming with me. Otherwise I’ll have to dance with Niall, and then we’ll both be injured.”

That earned him a real laugh, soft and reluctant, dimples flashing.

After a beat, Harry nodded.

Louis hopped to his feet, smirking as he held out his hand. “Come on, soldier. Just us.”

And Harry took it, leaving his cane behind.

Louis held onto his hand tightly, threading their fingers together like a quiet promise.

He didn’t drag them into the center of the floor—where Niall was already windmilling his arms between Zayn and Liam like a hyperactive toddler at a rave—but steered Harry toward the edge instead. Quieter. An empty chair nearby if Harry needed it. A space where they could just… be.

The bass thumped through the walls, but Louis barely noticed.

He slid his arms up around Harry’s neck, close and slow, letting Harry’s hands find their natural home at his waist. They started to sway—off-beat, careless, their own rhythm stitched between them.

Harry bit his lip, nerves flickering even beneath his steady grip. Louis leaned in and kissed him.

Soft. Sure. Like a secret meant only for the two of them.

Harry hummed against his mouth, and Louis tilted his head, lips parting, tongue teasing gently into Harry’s. His whole chest went tight at the low sound Harry gave back, that little spark that deepened the kiss without either of them rushing. Heat curled low, his body melting into Harry’s scent, his warmth, the weight of his arms keeping him steady.

They swayed, tangled up, everything else fading into static—the lights, the crowd, the music. None of it mattered.

When they finally broke apart, breathing uneven, Harry looked down at him with that raw, unguarded gaze that always made Louis’s stomach twist. Like Louis was the only thing in the room.

“Fuck, Lou,” Harry said softly, a smile tugging his lips. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Louis arched a brow, smirking. “I’m literally swaying like a nana at a wedding. If that’s deadly, you need to build up some stamina.”

Harry huffed a laugh, dimples flashing.

Louis grinned, leaning in just enough to brush his mouth over Harry’s again. “Besides,” he added, feigning innocence, “everyone knows kissing while dancing is the superior method. Otherwise it’s just… exercise.”

Harry laughed against his mouth, the sound low and warm, before hauling Louis closer, hands tight on his waist. Louis gasped when he felt it—Harry’s cock, hard and insistent, pressing against his stomach through denim.

“Look what you’ve done,” Harry murmured, eyes dark with heat and amusement. “Now I’ve got to figure out how to hide this from everyone else.”

Louis’s pulse kicked hard in his throat, but he managed a smirk. “Hide it? Babe, you’re six-foot-something with a face like that. Subtlety’s never been your thing.”

Harry’s answering grin was sharp, hungry.

Louis leaned up, voice dropping low. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

Then he kissed him again, hotter this time—needy, unrestrained, all tongue and teeth and want. Like they’d been held apart for years instead of minutes.

Their bodies moved in sync, hands gripping tighter, breaths catching, the world falling away. The music blurred, the lights blurred, even the crowd blurred. It was just the space between them, narrowing with every heartbeat.

Like magnets. Like instinct. Like inevitability.

Harry groaned into his mouth, and Louis let out a helpless laugh, half-dazed, half-wicked. “Christ, Soldier, if you’re this wound up from swaying in a corner, wait ‘til I get you home. You’ll knot in your pants.”

Harry growled, deep and pleased, and pulled him in even closer.

________________

But Louis—wicked, shameless Louis—didn’t give him the luxury of comfort.

He slid back into Harry’s space, pressing between his open thighs, and began to move. Freedom did dangerous things to him. No hiding, no pretending, just him and Harry in the open—and it made him reckless. His hips rolled to the lazy pulse of the music, a taunting grind against the unmistakable hardness beneath him.

Harry’s groan tore out low and rough, burning against his neck. His arms clamped tight around Louis’s waist, possessive and unyielding, hauling him close like he could weld them together. Wide palms spread across Louis’s stomach, sliding lower with intent.

Louis laughed breathlessly, head tipping back against Harry’s shoulder. “Easy, soldier. People are watching.”

Harry’s teeth grazed the shell of his ear, his voice wrecked and desperate. “Don’t care. Let them.”

Then Harry buried his nose into the crook of his neck and started scenting him openly—dragging in deep breaths, leaving his own scent behind in raw, possessive sweeps. His teeth grazed skin just under Louis’s ear, enough to make Louis jolt.

Louis shivered, a whine slipping free despite himself. And when Harry’s hand cupped him, rubbing slow circles through denim, Louis’s vision nearly went white.

They must look obscene: an omega writhing in an alpha’s lap, the alpha gripping him like he’d tear the club apart to keep him. Like he already owned him.

“Baby,” Louis panted, breathless and biting his lip hard enough to sting. His voice came rough, wrecked—but still layered with sarcasm, because he couldn’t help himself. “Unless you plan to fuck me in Niall’s birthday booth, we need to leave. Now.”

His voice was hushed but urgent, hips still rolling in a rhythm he couldn’t stop. His scent was thick and cloying, syrup-sweet, wrapping around them both like a net. If he didn’t get Harry alone soon, he was going to beg—really beg—and they both knew it.

But Harry’s hand only slowed, pressing firm between Louis’s thighs, holding him still.

“Not yet,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, hot against Louis’s ear.

Louis’s breath stuttered. “Harry—”

“Shh,” Harry soothed, thumb stroking maddening circles against the bulge in Louis’s jeans. “You’re not the only one who gets to tease.”

Louis tipped his head back against Harry’s shoulder, teeth sinking into his lip to choke back a moan. “You’re evil,” he whispered, trembling.

Harry chuckled, deep and rough. “Says the boy grinding in my lap like he’s auditioning for a strip club.”

Louis whined, shifting again, desperate for friction—but Harry only tightened his grip, locking him down.

“You keep this up,” Harry warned, voice molten at his ear, “and I’ll fuck you right here. Lap dances come with consequences, love.”

Louis let out a shaky laugh, tipping his head back against Harry’s shoulder. “Please. You’d never.” His voice was a teasing lilt, daring. “Your possessive arse can’t even handle people looking at me, let alone watching me come apart on your cock.”

Harry’s answering growl rumbled against his spine, dark and dangerous, and Louis felt it vibrate through him like a threat and a promise all at once.

He squeezed his eyes shut, body wrecked, cock aching, slick soaking through his panties. He could feel Harry’s length pressed hot and thick beneath him, could feel Harry’s scent blooming heavy over his own—territorial, consuming. He felt owned. Shaky. Barely holding on.

“Fuck—” Louis gasped. “You’re cruel.”

Harry’s teeth scraped his jaw. “And you love it.”

Louis made a broken noise that was half laugh, half plea. “I swear, Styles, if you don’t take me home soon I’ll climb you right here and get us both arrested.”

Harry groaned, his own restraint fraying, but his voice stayed velvet-dark. “You’ll have me. Every inch, all weekend. But not yet.”

Louis whimpered, sagging back into him, equal parts furious and undone. “Bastard.”

Harry only kissed his temple, smug. “Yours.”

Louis made a soft, broken sound, his hips twitching forward like they had a mind of their own. He could barely breathe, his whole body buzzing, drunk on Harry.

Then Harry’s mouth brushed his neck—soft, almost sweet—and he murmured, “For now… bring me some water.”

Louis froze. “You can’t be serious.”

But Harry grinned, all dimples and sin wrapped in fake innocence. “Deadly. I’m thirsty. And I want to watch you walk—those hips, all for me.”

Louis’s jaw dropped. Every damn time. Every time he thought he had the upper hand, Harry flipped the table with one line and left him reeling. Unfair. Criminal, actually.

Still, he nodded. Fine. Two could play this game.

He stood slowly, adjusting his jeans just enough to pull tight over his ass, and then walked. Hips swinging, back arched, every step exaggerated to the point of parody. He didn’t look back—didn’t need to. He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, hot and heavy, searing across his skin like a brand.

His panties were soaked, clinging so bad it made walking its own form of torture, but he ignored it. Barely.

At the bar, a cluster of alphas were picking up their drinks. One turned, giving Louis a look that skimmed him head to toe, shameless.

“Well, hello there, little creature—”

“Not interested,” Louis cut in, voice smooth as glass. “My alpha’s with me.”

He ordered two waters like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just verbally slapped someone back into their lane.

The alpha didn’t leave right away—at least not until his gaze flicked over Louis’s shoulder. Something like fear widened his eyes. “I… I see that,” he muttered, before practically tripping over himself to get out of the way.

Louis turned, instinct sparking up his spine.

Harry was still in his chair, but watching him. Watching like a wolf that had already bitten down, sharp green eyes glinting under the club lights. Possessive. Hungry. Like Louis was already halfway devoured.

The kind of look that made Louis forget how to breathe, forget everything except his alpha. He clutched the glasses tighter, condensation slick under his trembling fingers like it might scorch him.

He almost ran back to him. Almost gave up the whole game.

Instead, he forced himself to walk slower, steady, chest fluttering, eyes locked on Harry like gravity itself was pulling him across the room.

“Here’s your water,” Louis murmured once he reached him, setting the glass down with more care than it probably deserved.

Harry took it with a nod of thanks, then immediately tugged Louis back into his lap—like he belonged there, like there was never a world where he didn’t.

He pressed a kiss to the edge of Louis’s jaw, warm and soft and laced with danger. “Good boy.”

Louis melted inside but he managed a weak, breathless scoff: “Flattery will get you everywhere, soldier.”

But his body betrayed him completely—slumping boneless against Harry, scent sweet and heady, as if every nerve ending had just surrendered.

________________

But even Harry Styles had his limits.

Twenty minutes of torture later, Louis was flushed and wrecked, panting softly, his thighs trembling with every roll of his hips. Harry had ordered him to keep dancing, and weak, stupid for his alpha, Louis had obeyed. What started as little whines had spiraled into quiet, desperate pleas he couldn’t bite back. He was seconds away from whispering something obscene enough to get them banned from the club permanently—

“Come on,” Harry ground out, seizing Louis’s hand. His voice was low, ragged with restraint. “Before I take you apart right here.”

Louis stumbled after him, legs barely cooperating, a wicked smile ghosting his lips even as his body trembled. “Knew you wouldn’t last,” he teased, breathless. “Guess the big bad alpha can’t handle a bit of grinding in public.”

Harry shot him a look over his shoulder—dark, wild, wrecked—and Louis’s grin faltered just enough to make his pulse spike. Because if Harry had been holding back before… he wasn’t about to anymore.

The world blurred as they cut across the dance floor, Louis half stumbling to keep up, only snapping back when they reached their table—and promptly walked in on Liam and Zayn mid-something. Zayn’s mouth was on Liam’s neck, tongue and teeth working like he was trying to leave a mural.

Louis cleared his throat, loud and pointed. “Mmm.”

Liam startled, cheeks flushed, blinking dazedly. Zayn didn’t even pretend to care.

“Where’s Niall?” Louis asked flatly, scanning the room.

“Found someone,” Liam answered, voice rough around the edges. He tried to wrangle Zayn’s wandering hand out from under his shirt, but only managed to make Zayn grin against his throat.

Louis arched a brow. “Classy. Truly inspirational.”

“Are—fuck, babe—are you two heading out?” Liam asked, still a bit breathless.

Louis nodded, while Harry bent to grab his cane, jaw tight as he leaned into it more than he wanted to. Louis noticed. Always noticed.

“Bye, losers,” Louis said sweetly, tossing them a cheeky wave as Harry pulled him along.

Liam waved vaguely without looking, too busy being mauled. Zayn gave a lazy two-finger salute without lifting his head.

Outside, the cool night air hit like a blessing. Louis turned to Harry with a flushed grin, still buzzing with want. “If we don’t get home in the next ten minutes, I’m climbing into your lap in the car.”

Harry’s mouth curled into a smirk, dimples flashing as he clenched his jaw. “We’ll make it in five.”

________________

At Louis’s flat, Harry edged him for hours, dragging Louis past madness into something raw and animal. He didn’t know where Harry ended and he began anymore—just slick, sweat, and desperate trembling.

It started with Harry’s mouth, kissing down every inch of him like he was worshipping, then spreading him open with his tongue, fucking into him until Louis was sobbing, begging to come. Harry had only pulled back with a smirk, wiping his mouth across Louis’s thigh, murmuring, “Not yet, pretty thing. You don’t come ‘til I say.”

Every time Louis shook on the edge, Harry ripped it away. Fingers leaving him empty, lips sliding off his cock, voice rasping in his ear: “Good boys wait. You want my cock, you earn it.”

Now Louis was wrecked. On his knees, thighs soaked in slick, chest heaving, eyes glassy and wet as he stared up at Harry’s cock—thick, hard, glistening with pre-come. So close he could taste the salt of it in the air, smell his Alpha, and still denied.

A plug sat heavy inside him, stretching him wide, Harry’s earlier words still ringing filthy in his head: “Gonna keep you stuffed, keep you dripping, keep you open until this hole remembers who it belongs to.”

Louis whimpered, lips parting around nothing, his body begging louder than his voice. He tried to lean forward, tongue darting out—

Harry’s fist tightened in his hair, yanking him back, forcing him to look up.

“Pull down my prosthesis, baby,” Harry ordered, voice gravel and sin. “On your knees. Take it off me nice and slow, like the desperate little omega you are.”

Louis whined, thighs shaking, hands fumbling to obey. He unclipped it carefully, breath coming in ragged gasps as he laid it aside, leaving Harry sprawled before him—scarred, strong, cock heavy and flushed, resting against his stomach.

Harry smirked down at him, eyes dark with hunger. “Good boy. Now open that pretty mouth. Make me ready for you.”

Louis whimpered again, his hole clenching around the plug at the command, slick dripping down his thighs. He leaned forward obediently, lips wrapping around the tip, moaning as Harry pushed him down, choking him on cock while he held him there, hand tight in his hair.

“Yeah,” Harry groaned, watching Louis choke on him, spit smeared down his chin. “Look at you—ruined and leaking, still begging for more. So fucking pretty baby.”

He moved Louis head on his cock, in a perfect rhythm, letting Louis suck him deeply. He stops him when he started to shake, and grabbed Louis head up by the jaw, dragging him into a kiss—wet, devouring, tongue thrusting in like he wanted to own Louis’s mouth the way he owned his body.

Louis moaned into it, hips rolling shamelessly against Harry’s thigh, rutting like a bitch in heat, already crying with frustration.

“You want my cock, lovely?” Harry rasped, brushing the head against Louis’s spit-slick lips, taunting.

Louis nodded so fast it was pathetic, a whine breaking in his throat.

Harry’s grip tightened in his hair. “Words. Beg for it.”

“Please,” Louis sobbed, tears slipping down flushed cheeks, voice cracked and needy. “Please, Alpha, I need you—need your cock, your knot—fuck, please, I’ll do anything—”

“What do you need?” Harry pressed, one hand sliding down to slap his ass, hard enough to make him jolt.

“Your cock inside me,” Louis whimpered, broken. “Need it—need you to split me open, fill me up, knot me, breed me—please, Alpha, I’ll be good—”

Harry’s groan rumbled deep in his chest, pure filth and hunger. He leaned back against the headboard, cock flushed and heavy against his stomach, spreading his thighs wide. Every inch of him radiated command.

“Come here,” he ordered, voice like gravel. “Get on and fuck yourself on me”

His gaze burned into Louis, daring him. “Ride my cock. Show me how bad you need it. Make yourself come on my knot. Go on, baby—ruin yourself for me.”

Louis took a moment, steadying his breath, then climbed onto Harry’s lap with shaky legs. His thighs quivered as he lowered himself, his constant whining spilling out without control—instinctive, wrecked little sounds of need, raw and unfiltered, telling Harry just how gone he already was.

But Harry only leaned back, smirk curling on his lips, green eyes gleaming with pure filth.

“I think we forgot something,” he drawled, lazy and cruel.

Louis blinked at him, head tilting, the softest whimper breaking from his throat. He was too strung out to understand, too cock-drunk to think.

Harry chuckled darkly. “God, you’ve gone completely sex-stupid, haven’t you?” His knuckles brushed Louis’s flushed cheek, mocking and tender all at once. “My brilliant little nurse—turned into a brainless omega. Can’t think, can’t speak. Just waiting for his Alpha to stuff him full.”

The words scorched through Louis, molten heat pooling low in his belly. His walls clenched helplessly around the plug still buried deep inside him, slick gushing over his thighs. His scalp prickled, his toes curled, every nerve screaming for more.

Then Harry moved—sitting up suddenly, strong hands gripping Louis’s thighs to hold him still. One hand slid down between them, fingers wrapping around the base of the plug seated tight in Louis’s hole.

“You want it out?” Harry asked, voice deceptively soft—while his eyes burned with hunger. He twisted the plug, slow and merciless, making Louis jolt and wail. “Or do you want me to shove my cock in with it? Split that greedy little hole until you’re crying on my lap?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—just started rocking the plug in shallow thrusts, fucking Louis with it like a toy, slick squelching obscenely every time it dragged free.

Louis’s head dropped forward, broken moans spilling out, his thighs trembling violently under Harry’s grip. Every push had him clenching, dripping, his cock smearing slick mess over his stomach. He wasn’t even speaking words anymore—just raw, ruined sounds.

Harry kissed him anyway, devouring his mouth, letting Louis moan into him. Tongue against tongue, wet and filthy, Harry swallowing every helpless noise.

“Fuck, I love your mouth,” Harry groaned, grinding the plug once more before, without warning, yanking it free in one obscene slide.

Louis cried out, hole spasming wildly around nothing, slick gushing down his thighs. The emptiness felt like agony. He whimpered, desperate, biting down on Harry’s shoulder—pleading with teeth, marking him, begging without words.

Harry’s control snapped. His eyes went feral as he shoved Louis back just enough to growl, low and dangerous:

“Ride.”

Louis obeyed instantly, like instinct took the reins. His body moved before his mind caught up, sinking down fast on Harry’s cock, desperate to be filled.

The stretch was brutal—raw, burning—but perfect. His slick hole swallowed Harry’s cock in one long, wet slide until he bottomed out, knot already grinding hard at his rim. Louis’s head snapped back, a sob ripping out of him.

Harry groaned, clutching his hips so tight it bruised. “That’s it. Fuck, baby.”

Louis whined high and broken, hips already rolling, greedy and frantic. His walls clutched at Harry’s cock, slick gushing with every bounce. He was crying, babbling nonsense, nails clawing Harry’s chest.

“Alpha—Alpha, need—need your knot—please—breed me—”

Harry snarled, snapping his hips up into him, brutal and deep. “You’ll get it. You’ll get every drop I’ve got. Gonna pump you full ‘til you’re dripping, keep you plugged on my knot so it sticks. You want that? Want to be my perfect little omega?”

Louis’s sobbed moan was answer enough, his whole body jerking as he rode harder, cock untouched but dripping like a faucet, ready to explode from the stretch, the promise of being stuffed full.

Their eyes met as Louis bounced on him—Harry wrecked, head thrown back, mouth slack, brows furrowed in helpless pleasure. And Louis—God, Louis wanted to always see that face. That raw, ruined need, that surrender he could drag out of his Alpha with nothing but his body.

He whimpered brokenly, hips rolling figure-eights that made Harry’s cock throb deep inside him, before bouncing harder, brutal and messy. He fucked himself down like he was made for it—because he was. His hole was slick and swollen, sucking Harry’s cock like it had been built to take nothing else.

Harry had told him to use him. And Louis was using him—greedy, reckless, his whole body a vessel for his Alpha’s cock.

But something shifted. He wasn’t chasing just his own high anymore—he was chasing Harry’s. His Alpha’s surrender. His Alpha’s come. He wanted to milk him dry and drain every last drop.

“God,” Harry groaned, voice cracking, feral. “You’re squeezing me so good—fuck, I’m gonna lose it.”

His hands crushed bruises into Louis’s ass, guiding his frantic ride. The knot was swelling fast, stretching Louis wide, obscene and relentless—and Louis slammed down harder, desperate to lock them together, to feel it pop.

“Baby,” Harry gasped, nearly trembling apart. “I’m gonna come. Gonna knot you—fuck, do you want that? Want me to lock you up? Pump you full ‘til it leaks out of you?”

“Yes!” Louis sobbed, voice wrecked, movements frantic and sloppy. “Please, Alpha—please knot me. Fill me, breed me—need it, need you, need your come inside me.”

He rode faster, desperate and delirious, moaning like a prayer, his body nothing but a hole for Harry now—his only purpose to take, to be filled, to please.

And then Harry let go.

With a guttural groan, he yanked Louis down hard, the knot slamming home in one brutal pop, swelling thick and unforgiving, sealing them together.

Louis screamed. His untouched cock shot instantly, untouched, painting Harry’s abs and chest in hot, pulsing ropes. His whole body seized, shaking, his nails digging into Harry’s shoulders as sobs of pleasure tore out of him. He was wrecked, undone, ruined on his Alpha’s cock.

Harry growled into his ear, voice raw with pleasure. “Fuck—you’re mine, my perfect omega.”

Louis whimpered through the overstimulation, clenching around the knot that kept him plugged, every pulse of Harry’s release spilling deeper, hotter. He felt it flooding him, claiming him, breeding him, and he couldn’t stop sobbing, trembling, falling apart in his Alpha’s arms.

They stayed locked together, knotted, panting hard against each other. Louis’s body twitched with every aftershock, slick dripping down his thighs, his chest heaving.

Harry stroked a lazy hand down his spine, the other holding him tight against his cock. “That’s it,” he murmured, possessive and tender all at once. “My good boy.”

Louis let out a shaky breath and pressed his face into the curve of Harry’s neck. He felt wrung out, stretched open inside and out, but safe. Cherished. The ache between his thighs was already blooming, but it felt earned. A mark of belonging.

“I feel…” he tried, then swallowed, his voice hoarse. “I feel full.”

Harry smiled softly and kissed his temple. “You are full,” he said, teasing lightly but gently, voice softened with affection. “Took all of me so well. Let me in so deep.”

Louis flushed, but his smile was real, shy. “I bit you.”

“I liked it,” Harry replied easily. “Mark me any time, baby.”

For a while, they stayed like that. Knot still locked. Slick sticky between their skin. The only sounds were the steady, grounding rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat and the subtle noise of Harry’s fingers in his hair.

“You back with me?” Harry asked eventually, nosing at Louis’s cheek.

Louis nodded. “Yeah. Just… floaty.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got you,” Harry said, and shifted them carefully, pulling a throw from the side of the bed to drape over Louis’s back. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When the knot finally began to go down, Harry didn’t move until Louis gave a small, sleepy noise and lifted his hips on his own. Harry guided him off gently, helped him lie down on his side, then clipped his prosthesis and stood to grab a warm, damp cloth.

Louis watched through heavy lashes as Harry cleaned them both—tender, thorough, whispering little comforts as he wiped the mess between Louis’s thighs, over his stomach, between his cheeks.

“I’ll draw you a bath soon,” Harry promised, kissing his knee. “But for now, just rest.”

Louis hummed, his hand blindly seeking Harry’s.

Harry took it, kissed his knuckles, and slid back into bed beside him, wrapping an arm around Louis’s waist, skin against skin, chests pressed close.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Louis sighed, a soft, content noise. “Yours.”

First Fight

Louis should’ve picked up on it sooner.

The signs were there if he strung them together—the way Harry had shown up at the Center barely upright, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin; the restless hand that rubbed at his leg when he thought no one was looking; the night Louis had walked in on him with eyes red and raw, as though he’d been crying but would never admit it.

Louis didn’t pry. Not because he didn’t care—he cared too much—but because Harry had a way of disguising his pain with that disarming smile. Every time Louis asked, “You alright? Want to talk about it?” Harry would just nod, press a kiss to his hair, and murmur, “M’fine, love.”

But the other shoe was always going to drop.

It happened on a night that had started so quietly. They’d gone to bed early, both wrung out, Louis practically collapsing into Harry’s chest after muttering something about “wake me if the house is on fire.” Harry had kissed him slow, tired, murmured goodnight, and Louis had drifted into sleep wrapped in his arms.

It was hours later when a crash jolted Louis awake.

At first he thought it was a dream—some sound folding into the haze of sleep—but then came the hiss of pain, the muttered curse, the sharp scrape of something skidding across the floor. His stomach dropped.

He shot out of bed, pulse already racing. “Harry?” he called, padding down the hall on unsteady feet.

The sight that met him made his chest seize.

Harry was on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken glass that glittered like ice under the lamp glow. A kettle lay on its side near the counter, water pooling around it, soaking into Harry’s shirt and the rug beneath him. He must’ve tried to make himself tea and slipped in the mess.

But Louis barely registered the chaos. His focus locked on Harry—the way his hands trembled as he braced himself on the floor, the pallor of his face, the sharp twist of his prosthesis sitting wrong, straps crooked. He looked wrong. Hurt. Like he’d been pushing himself past the line for days, and now the bill had come due.

“What happened?” Louis asked, hurrying forward, voice tight with fear.

Harry’s head snapped up, eyes wild, and the growl that ripped from him stopped Louis dead.

“Don’t.”

Louis froze mid-step, blinking at him. “W-what?”

Harry bared his teeth in something too sharp to be a smile. “I can get up myself. Don’t need your help.”

The words landed like a slap. Louis’s mouth went dry, hurt flashing hot in his chest. He crossed his arms, sarcasm his armor. “God forbid you’d ever ask me for help in anything.”

Harry’s face twisted, anger sparking under the exhaustion. “For what? For you to hover over me like a child? I’m your boyfriend, Louis—not your patient. And you’re not my nurse anymore.” His voice rose on the last word, sharp and cruel, like he wanted it to sting.

It did. Louis went still, the air rushing out of him. He stared at Harry, momentarily dumbstruck, like he didn’t quite recognize the man in front of him.

“Right,” Louis said, his voice flat, brittle. “Of course. Silly me, worrying about you like someone who gives a shit.”

Harry’s nostrils flared. His jaw clenched, shoulders tight with fury. “Well, that’s me. If it’s too much pain for you, you can leave anytime.”

The words hung heavy in the room, colder than the spilled water seeping into the rug.

Louis stared at him for a long beat, his heart pounding, fury and hurt tangling until he could hardly tell them apart. Then he laughed once, sharp and humorless.

“Message received,” he muttered.

He turned on his heel, heading for the hall closet. A pillow, a blanket. He didn’t even look back.

“Lou—” Harry started, his voice already softer, regret seeping through.

“Don’t,” Louis snapped, not trusting himself to say more. His eyes burned as he ducked into the guest room, shutting the door with quiet, deliberate finality, and locked it behind himself. 

_________________

Louis didn’t sleep at all that night. He lay stiff on the guest bed, staring at the ceiling. Mad beyond reason and, worse, mad at himself—for being a fool. A fool for trusting Harry not to lash out, not to cut him open with careless words. A fool for thinking he’d be spared from the knothead routine Harry gave everyone else.

Fucking hell, he’s so tired.

He heard Harry in the kitchen at some point. The clink of glass. A muffled sob. Louis shut his eyes against it, his chest aching so bad it felt bruised. Every instinct screamed at him to go in, to wrap himself around Harry and hold him until the tremors stopped. But the sting of rejection still sat too raw, too sharp. The man he’d started to think of as his had shoved him away like an unwanted hand. Louis couldn’t swallow that down, not yet.

He knew Harry was hurting. He wasn’t blind; he’d seen the strain, the way rehab had hollowed him out. The scars went deeper than the prosthetic, and Louis had thought—stupidly—that maybe love was enough to hold the cracks together.

Maybe they’d both been fools. Maybe it was too soon after Harry’s discharge, too soon to be building something out of rubble. Harry’s body wasn’t healed, and maybe neither was his pride.

Louis curled tighter under the blanket, angry tears stinging his eyes until they slipped hot down his cheeks. He cried quietly, helpless and furious in equal measure. Furious at Harry, furious at himself, furious at a world that left them both so wrecked.

________________

Louis left Harry’s apartment at the first rays of sunshine, too wrung out to even pretend at sleep. His eyes burned, his head pounded, and his chest ached with every step, but he didn’t stop. He glanced back once—Harry was sprawled on the couch, sleeping, face drawn tight with distress—but Louis only tightened his jaw and slipped quietly out the door.

Back at his own flat, he downed three cups of tea in quick succession, each one scalding and useless. He refused to think about Harry. Refused to replay the words from last night. Refused to let himself linger on the sight of him, shaking on the floor and lashing out like Louis had been the enemy instead of the one standing at his side.

He showered quickly, dressed faster, and went to work. Thank fuck his schedule was packed—if ever there was a day to drown in charts and patients, it was this one. The moment he arrived, he put his phone on silent and shoved it into his desk drawer, determined to ignore everything that wasn’t directly in front of him.

His coworkers noticed something was wrong. Brent and Natalie exchanged wary glances when he managed to calm four hysterical patients in the span of five minutes. Louis knew what it looked like—too sharp, too fast, his voice clipped but effective. Efficient in the way people get when they’re running on fumes.

He skipped lunch, barricading himself in the office with his stack of charts. His pen flew across paper, the scratching filling the silence like static. 

Even Mr. Benton paused when Louis came to adjust his meds, giving Louis a rare, assessing look.

“You okay, boy?” Robert asked, voice gruff as always, but tinged with concern.

“Never been better,” Louis said without looking up, scribbling a prescription with a flourish.

Robert didn’t buy it. His gaze lingered, sharp as a scalpel. “If that’s your ‘better,’ I’d recommend a shrink. You look about ready to snap someone in half.”

Louis forced a smile that felt brittle even on his own face. “It is what it is,” he muttered, tucking the chart under his arm and heading out before Robert could say more.

His smile fell the second the door shut behind him.

________________

He checked his phone eventually, only because he needed Apple Pay to get through the tube barrier.

The screen lit up with a flood of missed calls—dozens of them—and six unread messages. All from Harry.

For a second, Louis considered locking the phone and shoving it straight back in his pocket. Pretend it didn’t exist. Pretend he didn’t exist. But he was too tired to keep pretending, too wrung out to resist the tiny pull of weakness. He opened them.

Harry: Baby, where are you? The room’s empty.
Harry: Lou… I’m so sorry. Can we talk?
Harry: Please Louis, I’m a wreck. Please, please let’s talk.
Harry: I called Niall, he said you’re at work. Can I come over?
Harry: Louis, I’m sorry. You were just trying to help and I hurt you. I’m sorry.
Harry: It can be our last conversation, baby. Please. Just let me apologize in person and then I’ll leave you alone.

Louis stared at the words until they blurred. His throat ached. All the tears he’d shoved down during the day pricked hot at his eyes, threatening to spill.

His omega whined low in his chest, a sound he barely kept inside. It wanted Harry—wanted the fight to vanish like smoke, wanted the alpha who called him baby and looked at him like he hung the bloody moon.

Louis swiped the tears away angrily with the heel of his hand, jaw tight. He’d spent all night and all day holding the line, and one string of texts had him unraveling.

Pathetic, he thought bitterly. Fucking pathetic.

But even as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket, his body buzzed with the need to hear Harry’s voice. To let him in. To believe him.

________________

Louis held his resolve all the way home. He ignored the buzzing in his chest, the ache of his omega pulling tight, the itch in his fingers to cave and text back. He swore he wouldn’t give in. Not yet.

And then he stepped out of the lift and froze.

Harry was there. On his doorstep. Sitting on the floor like he’d been dropped from the sky, head in his hands, shoulders slumped, his whole body heavy with defeat.

Louis stopped dead, trembling where he stood.

When Harry finally lifted his head, Louis’s chest cracked open. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed raw, and there was something fractured in them—something so lost—that Louis’s knees nearly gave out. Whatever anger he’d clung to all day slipped straight through his fingers. He couldn’t hold it. Not against this.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached out a hand, steadying Harry as he pulled him up, then folded straight into his arms, too tired to keep the distance anymore.

Harry stiffened for a single second—then crushed him close, holding on like he’d drown without him. His chest shook with ragged sobs, and Louis felt the hot spill of tears against his shoulder.

Louis broke then, too. His whole body trembling as he clung tighter, burying his face against Harry’s neck, crying as if all the fight had finally burned out of him.

“Lou, baby,” Harry gasped between sobs, his voice wrecked, “I’m so sorry. I’m a terrible man—a terrible alpha—I’m so fucking sorry.”

Louis only cried harder, arms locking like steel around him. He felt Harry scenting him, desperate, open, and he answered instinctively, his own scent blooming back, twining with Harry’s until there was no untangling them.

They stayed like that too long—clinging in the dim hallway, the smell of salt and sweat thick between them. Neighbors passed, someone cleared their throat pointedly, but Louis didn’t care. Couldn’t.

At last, Louis drew back, breath still shuddering. “Let’s go inside,” he murmured.

Harry nodded, eyes still raw but fixed on Louis like he was everything he’d ever needed.

Louis didn’t miss the twitch of pain in Harry’s step as they walked into the flat. It made his chest ache all over again.

“Is your leg bothering you?” he asked once they were settled on the couch.

Harry looked like he was about to lie—Louis knew that face by now—but then his gaze flicked to Louis and dropped. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “Hurts like shit.”

Louis nodded once, briskly. “I’ll get the ointment. Then we talk while I take a look, alright?”

“Alright,” Harry agreed easily, though he still watched Louis like he was afraid he’d be thrown out at any second.

Louis got down to business fast. He rolled up Harry’s trousers, careful and precise, and his throat tightened at the sight. The stump was swollen, skin red and irritated, the prosthesis half unclipped from the strain.

“Christ, Haz,” Louis muttered under his breath, gentling his hands as he eased the prosthesis off and set it aside. He grabbed the ointment, smoothing it over the angry skin in slow, practiced motions.

“You can’t put the prosthesis back on until tomorrow,” he said firmly. “It’s too swollen. You’ll just make it worse.”

Harry nodded, voice quiet. “Okay.”

Louis kept working, jaw tight. “And just so we’re clear—this isn’t me trying to nurse you. This is medical observation. You can call Liam if you want someone else to check.” The words came out sharper than he intended, laced with the sting still lodged in his chest.

Harry flinched, shoulders curling in. “Lou… I didn’t mean that.” His voice was rough, pleading. “I don’t really think you treat me like a patient. I was just angry, and humiliated, and too fucking prideful to accept your help.”

Louis’s hands stilled, the words hitting deep. His chest ached, but he forced his voice steady. “What’s been going on the last week or so? And don’t lie to me.”

Harry stayed silent, jaw working, and Louis kept tending to his stump in quiet, giving him the space to scrape his thoughts together.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” Harry admitted finally, voice low. “Nightmares, panic attacks—the whole ugly lot that comes with my PTSD. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d wake up sweating or crying. I tried to talk to Ed about it. He adjusted my meds, but… it takes time for them to kick in. And I thought maybe if I pushed myself hard enough, made myself bone-tired, my brain would just shut down.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Didn’t work. Just made me more exhausted. My leg swelled. Everything hurt. And I just… felt so broken. Useless.”

Louis’s throat burned, but he swallowed it down. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because that’s fucked up, Lou!” Harry burst out, panic fraying his words. “Why would you want to be with someone like that? A partner who can’t even sleep without waking up crying and—” he faltered, shame twisting his face—“and wet.”

Louis blinked. “Wet?”

Harry nodded, self-disgust plain in his eyes. “Yeah. I pissed myself once. From fear. Real sexy, right?”

Louis set the ointment aside, climbed straight into Harry’s lap, and wrapped his arms around him tight. “I’m not into golden showers,” he muttered against his neck, dry as ever, “but nothing you’ll do will make you less sexy.”

Harry let out a choked laugh, but Louis could hear the strain in it, the crack close underneath.

“Lou,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I’m still a mess. Most days I can plaster on a smile and pass for fine, but it’s never gonna be perfect. Not like you deserve. You deserve better—a better boyfriend, a better mate one day. Not a broken one.”

Louis leaned back, cupped his face firmly, voice iron-hard. “Don’t tell me what I deserve, soldier. I chose you knowing exactly what it entails. So stop tearing yourself down.” His thumb stroked Harry’s cheek, gentling his tone. “But I’ll tell you this—I don’t deserve a mate who hides things from me because he thinks he’s too damaged to talk. I deserve honesty. I deserve to know what’s happening before it blows up in our faces.”

Harry looked at him then, eyes glossy, breath uneven like he was two minutes from crying all over again.

Louis stroked his curls back, softer now. “Can you do that for me? Be honest?”

Harry nodded, voice trembling but sure. “I can. I promise.”

Louis kissed him then, hard and gentle all at once—like forgiveness and warning bundled together. A kiss that said I believe you, but don’t make me regret it.

Harry kissed back desperately, clinging like Louis might slip through his fingers if he loosened his grip for even a second. And Louis knew it would take time—time for Harry to trust he wasn’t going anywhere.

Because he couldn’t. Not really. Not physically, not emotionally. In this moment, with his broken alpha in his arms, kissing him like they’d been starving, Louis understood something with startling clarity: he was in love with Harry Styles.

In love with the imperfect alpha who held him like he was something precious. In love enough to give this another chance, to fight for them like an adult instead of running from the cracks. Because life without Harry stretched in his mind like a grey horizon—colourless, flat, stripped of the golden warmth he felt right here.

And Louis wasn’t ready to live in grey. Not when gold was right in his arms.

First confession

Louis was finally home.

The day had dragged on endlessly—half the nurses at the clinic were out with some bug, and he’d been left scrambling to cover the gaps. He’d juggled their patients, filled out half-finished charts, and done intake for two new arrivals, one of them heartbreakingly young. That one had nearly sent him to the supply closet to cry where no one could see. The train ride back had been its own special hell—packed, slow, airless—and the headache blooming behind his eyes since mid-afternoon still pulsed with every beat of his heart.

But none of it mattered now.

He was home. Finally. And all he wanted was to collapse into Harry’s arms, bury his face in his Alpha’s chest, and let the world melt away into the scent and safety of him.

They’d been half-living together for weeks now—Harry’s things scattered around his flat, Harry carrying Louis’s spare key like it had always belonged to him. They were looking at apartments, too, pretending it was practical when really they just couldn’t keep away from each other. Disgusting.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, already picturing Harry’s usual welcome: the lights low and warm, maybe a candle flickering on the counter, his earthy scent curling through the flat like a balm.

Instead, he faced silence, and Louis frowned.

Harry had texted him earlier, right after Louis had messaged about his hellish day: Home early. Come back fast so we can forget this day together.

The memory had made Louis smile, even if just for a heartbeat.

But now… nothing. No soft music from the speaker, no clatter of dishes in the kitchen, not even the faint hum of the TV filling the silence. The flat felt untouched, airless, wrong. Too quiet.

“Baby?” Louis called, tentative, slipping out of his shoes by the door. The stillness pressed in around him like fog, heavy and unnatural. “Are you home?”

“In here.” Harry’s voice drifted from the bathroom, but it didn’t sound right. It was thin, hopeless—like something frayed at the edges.

Louis’s pulse jumped. He padded down the hall, each step careful, ears straining for any clue. It wasn’t until he reached the closed bathroom door that he caught it: the faint scrape of fabric against tile, a rustle too soft to make sense of.

“Hazza?” he asked gently, knocking once. His voice cracked on the end despite his best effort. “You in there?”

“Don’t come in!” Harry’s reply came instantly, sharp and ragged, panic sparking under the words. Shame clung to it too, thick and suffocating.

Louis froze, breath caught in his throat. Every instinct screamed to break the door down, to get to him—but Harry’s fear stopped him cold.

“…Are you okay?” His voice softened instinctively, threading calm into the cracks. Then, forcing a lighter note—his defense mechanism kicking in—he added, “What, you wanking in there or something? Because I could join.”

It was meant as a joke, the kind of bite that usually got Harry rolling his eyes and smiling anyway. But this time—

Nothing. Just a dull thump, like someone shifting awkwardly on the floor.

Louis’s heart dropped. “Baby?” He knocked again, sharper this time. “What is it?”

There was a pause, but then Harry’s voice called, soaked in humiliation “I’m just… god, this is embarrassing—” 

Louis’s throat tightened. Every instinct screamed to push the door open, haul him up, and fix it, but something held him back. Instinct. Respect. Harry always needed a moment before letting anyone in. Louis had learned to wait for permission, as much as it killed him.

“Baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against the door, “whatever it is, if you need help, I’m here. You don’t have to do it alone. Can I come in?”

Silence stretched, taut as wire. Finally, Harry’s voice—small, broken:

“Come in. And don’t laugh, please. I’m wounded enough.”

Louis huffed a soft, shaky breath, the corner of his mouth twitching despite everything. “If you’re naked and crying, Haz, laughing is the least of your worries.”

Louis didn’t hesitate. He turned the knob and stepped inside.

The soft scent of lavender and vanilla wrapped around him immediately, clinging to the steam in the air. The tub was filled to the brim, water shimmering with flower petals drifting lazily across the surface—an image straight out of some wellness catalogue. Comfort. Peace. Ritual.

But Harry wasn’t in the tub.

He was on the floor beside it, slumped against the tiled wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. Still in his lounge clothes, damp at the hem. Louis’s breath snagged in his chest at the sight of the stump—red and raw, swollen and angry, bruises blooming like dark stains around the edges. The prosthetic lay a few feet away, discarded haphazardly as if it had betrayed him.

Louis’s heart clenched so hard it hurt.

“What happened here, soldier?” he asked softly, voice steady even while his insides felt like glass. He didn’t step forward yet, hovering in the doorway like moving too quickly might shatter the fragile quiet. The lavender curled warm around him, but beneath it lingered something sharper—frustration, pain, humiliation.

Harry dropped his head back against the wall, a harsh exhale tearing out of him. “Fuck.” The word came sharp, brittle.

Louis knew that tone. It wasn’t anger—it was Harry’s particular brand of self-directed venom. He only snapped like that when the world refused to bend to his plans, when his pride was hanging by a thread.

“You said you had a shitty day,” Harry muttered, voice fraying at the edges. “So I thought I’d make you a bath. Something small. Something to give you a bit of comfort when you got home. I even picked the flowers you like—the scent you always say helps your migraines.”

He let out a bitter laugh, one that broke in half before it even got going.

“But of course I had to slip like an idiot. Prosthetic bent weird and—fuck—it hurt to even try getting up. So I just sat here like this. Like a bloody disaster.”

Louis heartbeat climbed into his throat. Harry had done all this—for him—after a day Louis had spent whining about. And now Harry was the one sitting sad on the cold tile, hurting, embarrassed, still worried about Louis.

“You made me a bath?” Louis whispered, barely more than air, the words catching like he couldn’t quite believe them.

Harry looked up at him with glassy eyes, cheeks blotched and wet. He flicked his gaze toward the tub, then gave the smallest, most self-conscious shrug. “Tried to,” he said, voice thick. “Didn’t really finish the job.”

That undid him. Completely.

Louis dropped to his knees with careful grace, sliding into Harry’s lap, mindful of the leg. He wrapped himself around his Alpha like he needed to be stitched there, pressed his face into the curve of Harry’s neck—right against his scent gland—and inhaled deep, greedy lungfuls.

Rain and earth. Harry. The smell hit him so hard he choked on it, dizzy with the weight of loving someone this much.

“Idiot,” he mumbled into Harry’s skin, his voice breaking anyway. “You absolute, stupid, perfect idiot.”

And then he started to cry.

Not soft, cinematic tears. No. Big, ugly, shuddering sobs that shook through his whole body as he curled tighter into Harry’s arms, like the world had tipped off its axis and this—this Alpha—was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Lou? What is it?” Harry murmured, alarm lacing his voice. His arms wrapped instinctively around Louis, protective even now, careful but sure. He rocked him gently, kissing the crown of his head again and again. “I’m okay, you know. Just a bruised ego and a sore leg. Didn’t even fall that dramatically.”

He chuckled softly against Louis’s hair, trying to soothe.

But Louis only sobbed harder.

Because this was the man he loved. A man who would run a bath and scatter it with flowers just to ease Louis’s day. A man who sat hurt and humiliated on the bathroom floor—not because of the fall, but because he thought he’d failed Louis by not finishing the surprise.

And Louis didn’t know what he’d done to deserve him.

“You made me a bath?!” Louis burst out suddenly, messy and loud, tears and snot and all, staring into Harry’s startled green eyes.

Harry blinked, clearly unsure if this was about to end in praise or homicide. “…Mm. Yes?”

Louis let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Fucking hell, I love you, you know that?!”

Before Harry could even get a word out, Louis surged forward and kissed him—messy, urgent, desperate. He clung like he was afraid Harry might vanish if he let go, trying to pour every ounce of his gratitude and affection into the press of his mouth.

Harry pulled back slightly, breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “You love me… because I made you a bath?”

Louis blinked, then groaned loudly, throwing his head back in despair. “No, dumbass!” he barked, exasperated and fond all at once. “I don’t love you because you made me a fucking bath! I love you because you thought to make me a bath. Because after the shittiest day of my life, you still wanted to take care of me. Because you’re always putting me first—even when you’re hurting. Because you’ve got the most beautiful, stupid heart and an even stupider soul to match!”

Harry’s eyes softened, wide, lips parting—but Louis wasn’t done. Not even close.

“I love you because you’re you. My Alpha. Strong, stubborn, annoying-as-fuck Alpha who refuses to give up even when you should be flat on your arse. I love you because you asked for help even when it humiliated you, because you let me see you like this.” His voice cracked, wet and raw, but he pushed through anyway. “I fucking love you, Harry bloody Styles!”

He was shouting by the end of it, fists twisted in Harry’s shirt like he was trying to drag the words into him by force. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t romantic. It was messy and loud and exactly Louis.

Because he wasn’t built for quiet confessions in candlelight. Not when Harry was sitting there blotchy-faced and tearstained, still smelling like lavender and heartbreak, still thinking a spilled bath made him a failure. Not when Louis knew, bone-deep, that Harry was the best fucking thing to ever happen to him.

Louis surged forward and kissed him again—messy, wet, desperate, clinging like he might never get another chance. He kissed him with everything he had, every ounce of rage and relief and love he couldn’t cram into words.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breath ragged, Harry let out a shaky laugh. He brushed a thumb over Louis’s damp cheek, tender in a way that made Louis want to kick him and kiss him at the same time. “Is it a good time to tell you I also planned to make your favorite dish?”

Louis groaned, loud and theatrical, rolling his eyes even as he grabbed for him again. “You’re actually trying to kill me,” he muttered, before shoving his mouth back onto Harry’s, harder this time, already tugging at his shirt with impatient fingers.

He needed this Alpha. Now. On the bathroom floor, surrounded by flower petals like some deranged romance novel. He needed Harry beneath him, inside him, grounding him, wrecking him, making him feel safe and his. He needed to ride him until neither of them could think, until there was nothing left of this awful day but touch and heat and love.

But before Louis could strip him properly, Harry leaned up just enough to murmur next to his mouth, voice low and tender: “I love you too, Lou. Just so you know.”

And then he smiled.

Those damned dimples carved deep into his cheeks, sweet and lethal all at once, and Louis was ruined on sight. Harry looked like a bloody miracle—angelic and disheveled and impossibly sexy, his lips kiss-swollen, his eyes soft and shining with so much it nearly knocked Louis sideways.

Louis stared at him like he was looking at the answer to every stupid prayer he’d never dared to make. His throat burned. “You absolute menace,” he whispered, voice trembling with too many feelings, too much want.

They didn’t make it out of the bathroom.

Not until Louis had ridden him through every high, kissing him until their mouths ached, murmuring mine and yours like a prayer against his lips. Not until Harry held him like a treasure and touched him like a vow.

And when they finally did move, much later, after Harry’s knot went down, it was only to climb into the bath together. The water was long since lukewarm, petals wilted, but with Harry’s arms around him and their skin pressed close, it was perfect all the same.

First Jealousy

They drove to Zayn’s art exhibition together, Harry behind the wheel looking far too smug about how well he handled city traffic now. He was telling Louis about the new arrival at the center—an ex-military bloke, quiet, clearly struggling, but who’d cracked the faintest smile by the end of the afternoon. Harry spoke about him with such warmth Louis thought his chest might burst. Christ, the man beside him—who’d once been shattered himself—was now out here being a bloody lighthouse for others. Typical Harry Styles. Too much heart stuffed into one body.

By the time they parked and walked in, Louis’s fingers were already laced tight with Harry’s.

And then—well, Louis actually gasped. Couldn’t help it. The venue was stunning. Wide open hall, all soft ambient lighting that made the champagne sparkle and even the waiters look like they’d been hired straight out of Vogue. The whole thing had Zayn stamped all over it: warm, dramatic, perfectly thought-out.

“Bloody hell,” Louis muttered, eyes darting around. “Trust Malik to turn an art show into a film set.”

Waiters floated past with trays of delicate canapés and bubbling flutes. Guests murmured and laughed, champagne glasses catching the light. It was the kind of night where you half-expected a string quartet to pop out of nowhere.

And everywhere Louis looked—under spotlights, across the walls—were Zayn’s paintings. Bold, unapologetic, achingly personal. Louis’s grin spread wide. He knew exactly how hard Zayn had worked for this, how many late nights and tantrums and “it’s all shit, Lou, I’m starting over” phone calls had gone into it. Seeing it all finished, standing proud… it made Louis’s chest ache with joy for him.

Harry’s hand stayed firm in his, steady, grounding, as they moved deeper into the space. Louis glanced sideways just in time to catch the awe on his face—the way his eyes flicked wide, taking in every detail like a kid at his first fireworks show. Louis squeezed his hand, smug warmth curling low in his stomach. Yeah, that’s my Alpha looking like he’s just discovered colour for the first time.

The golden lighting caught Harry just right when he turned toward him—soft glow kissing the edges of his curls, dimples flickering, eyes gone bright. For a moment he looked like something ethereal, untouched by the shadows he used to carry.

Louis rolled his eyes at the universe for making him fall harder every bloody day. “You’re staring at the paintings, or just enjoying the lighting doing you favours?” he teased, lips twitching.

Harry ducked his head, grinning shy, and Louis thought—yeah, I’m doomed.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss over Harry’s mouth, that familiar flutter in his belly catching fire.

“Careful, baby,” Harry murmured against his lips, voice low and warm enough to melt steel. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

Louis pulled back just far enough to smirk, eyes glinting. “What if I do?”

Harry huffed a laugh, squeezing his hand. “Menace,” he muttered, but his dimples betrayed him—like Louis had already won. Which, obviously, he had.

They wove through the venue, Louis scanning the crowd until he spotted Liam and Zayn across the room. The pair stood in a tight knot with a few sharply dressed men, Zayn gesturing toward a piece on the wall with steady confidence while Liam hovered at his side, one hand wrapped around his waist. Liam’s face was all pride, soft and glowing, like he might actually start hopping in his place like a puppy if someone didn’t cut him off soon.

The painting behind them was one Louis recognized instantly—a dark canvas with bursts of color clawing through. A Zayn special. The kind he painted when he was clawing his way back to himself. Louis’s chest tugged, watching Liam look at Zayn like he’d hung the bloody stars.

He opened his mouth to point it out—only to nearly jump out of his skin when a voice boomed from behind, as subtle as fireworks at a funeral.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t the exhibition’s hottest couple.”

They turned, and there was Niall, swaggering toward them like he owned the place, a champagne flute clutched in each hand like he was dual-wielding decadence. Behind him trailed Nick, smirk firmly in place.

“You two came together?” Harry asked, giving Nick a quick hug.

Louis went straight for Niall, because if anyone was about to drop a glass, it was him. He caught his elbow before disaster struck.

“No,” Nick answered smoothly, already shaking his head. “Found this disaster at the entrance, trying to convince the security guard he is Niall Horan.”

“What?!” Louis snorted. “They didn’t believe you?”

“They misspelled my name!” Niall cried, utterly betrayed. “Niel! N-I-E-L! Who the hell is Niel? Sounds like a damp sock who plays the flute.”

Louis wheezed. “Oh my god.”

“I swear,” Niall went on, pointing dramatically toward nowhere, “I once offered Zayn a threesome, and this is the thanks I get. Liam has clearly sabotaged me.”

“Liam?!” Harry laughed. “You think Liam submitted the guest list and deliberately misspelled your name?”

“Yes! This has revenge of the spreadsheet dad written all over it,” Niall declared, eyes wild with conviction. “I had to call Zayn to come vouch for me like some tragic party crasher. People were looking at me like I was trying to sneak into the Louvre in flip-flops.”

“I stayed with him,” Nick added casually, “because a guard started whispering into his walkie-talkie, and I wasn’t entirely sure they weren’t about to sedate him.”

“Why”? Louis asked.

“Because he started yelling 'Niall! Niall! I’m Niall!' like a pigeon trapped in a glass box,” Nick said, deadpan. “I thought they were going to bring out a tranquilizer and a net.”

“Do you understand what I’ve been through today?” Niall said, spinning dramatically to Louis. “This morning, I helped a man with a busted hip walk for the first time while balancing a milk carton on his head for posture. And tonight, I’m mistaken for a public threat. What is this, Black Mirror?”

Louis had to grip Harry’s arm to stay upright from laughing, tears already welling in his eyes.

“Honestly,” Harry said, grinning like a proud Alpha whose pack had gone completely feral, “you’re lucky they didn’t just roll you out with the caterers.”

“They tried, Haz. A woman handed me a tray of salmon tartlets. I nearly accepted it out of panic.”

Niall downed the rest of one glass, then offered the other to Louis. “Here. You’ll need this. It’s either champagne or tears of embarrassment—I’ve stopped checking.”

They all broke into another fit of laughter, Harry squeezing Louis’s hand as their shoulders bumped together. Warmth pooled in Louis’s chest—his people, all a little ridiculous, all a little brilliant. And all exactly where they belonged.

______________

The rest of the night was, thankfully, less chaotic.

Aside from Niall cornering Liam near the wine table to dramatically confront him about “the betrayal at the door,” which Liam swore up and down he had absolutely nothing to do with—“Why would I sabotage you? You think I’ve got spare time to tamper with guest lists?”—the evening unfolded easily enough. In true peacemaker fashion, Liam promised to make it up to him during their next friends’ night out, which Niall insisted must involve karaoke and foot rubs. Loudly. To the horror of three passing guests.

At one point, Zayn swept over like a hurricane in a designer suit, pulling everyone into a group hug, his eyes just a little too shiny for a man still trying to act cool.

“Seven pieces sold already,” he announced, his pride barely contained.

Louis whistled low. “Look who’s the new breadwinner in the couple,” he said, winking at Liam, who flushed but didn’t deny it.

The champagne kept flowing, and so did the joy.

Harry and Louis stuck close the whole night—fingers brushing, hands laced, shoulders knocking together. They moved through the gallery like a unit, murmuring nonsense to each other about the art. Louis’s commentary was predictably unhinged, Harry’s even worse, both of them stifling laughter while strangers around them squinted Very Seriously at the canvases.

At one painting—a moody abstract of heavy black strokes curling across the canvas—Harry tilted his head, lips twitching.

“Do you think this is supposed to be Liam’s cock?” he asked, low in Louis’s ear.

Louis didn’t even blink. “No, it’s bigger.”

Harry inhaled half his champagne the wrong way.

“I—how the fuck would you know that?!” he sputtered, eyes wide, face red.

Louis bent double laughing, clutching his side. “Oh my god, your face. Relax, caveman. I’ve known Liam since uni—we used to crash in each other’s dorms. Nothing ever happened.”

Harry narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Mhm. Pretty detailed denial. Bit defensive, don’t you think?”

Louis straightened, still grinning wickedly. “What, jealous of theoretical Uni Liam with imaginary porn-star proportions?”

“I’m not jealous,” Harry grumbled, yanking Louis closer by the waist like a man staking a claim. “I just don’t like you handing out Michelin stars to dicks that aren’t mine.”

Louis barked a laugh so loud a couple nearby jumped. He leaned in, smug and merciless, his mouth brushing Harry’s ear.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he purred. “Yours already won the Lifetime Achievement Award… with a special mention in the Guinness Book of World Records for Outstanding Service.”

Harry groaned, burying his face in Louis’s neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re obsessed,” Louis shot back, positively glowing with victory.

______________

Harry had slipped off to the toilet at one point, leaving Louis momentarily adrift—alone for the first time that night, outside the little bubble they’d been floating in.

He snagged a cube of cheese from a passing waiter, savoring the sharpness on his tongue, when he heard it:

“Louis?”

Soft. Surprised. Familiar.

Louis turned with a frown and his eyes widen in surprise.

Standing a few feet away, dressed in tailored black and wearing that same crooked smile Louis hadn’t seen in years, was Darius.

The alpha hadn’t changed much—still broad-shouldered, cropped ginger hair, blue eyes that carried their permanent flicker of amusement, like the whole world was his inside joke. Darius.

The name dropped in his chest like a stone. A whole chapter of his life bound up in those two syllables.

They’d met in a bar the night before Louis’s first shift at OneHeart. What was meant to be a one-night thing turned into nearly a year of shared coffees, late-night hospital recaps, courtroom rants, and sex that—at the time—had felt like a refuge. They’d been a good fit then: two exhausted men in the early throes of their careers, clinging to laughter like it was oxygen.

Darius, junior lawyer then, had been sharp and flirtatious, always quick with a smirk that could drag a laugh out of Louis even when he was running on fumes. And the sex? Solid. Generous. A comfort, if not a fire. Nothing like what Louis had now with Harry—where one glance could turn his knees to jelly—but still, a part of him.

He’d even thought about calling Darius in moments of weakness, once. Briefly. Before he grew a brain.

But eventually the cracks showed. Darius had wanted a bond, a future, the whole fairy tale. Louis, meanwhile, was barely keeping his head above water—his schedule a wreck, his heart worse—and all the late nights and mismatched dreams finally did them in. They ended on good terms, with hugs and the classic “maybe if things were different” rubbish. And then poof. No awkward run-ins at the café, no bumping into him on the high street. Like Darius had been swallowed by the earth.

And now here he bloody was. At Zayn’s exhibition.

“Hi,” Louis squeaked, “What are you doing here?”

Darius laughed, warm and easy, like no time had passed. “God, it’s good to see you.” And then he went in for a hug.

Louis stiffened, startled, then reluctantly let himself be folded in. That scent—smoke, musk, woods—hit him like an old song he didn’t even like but still somehow knew all the words to. The body remembered, even if the heart had clocked out years ago.

They pulled back, Darius flashing that same crooked grin. “What? Not happy to see me?”

Louis snorted, rubbing the back of his neck. “’Course I am. Been years, hasn’t it?”

“Five,” Darius said with a wink. “To be exact. And how are you more beautiful than I remember?”

There it was. Classic Darius. Flirt first, breathe later. Louis felt his cheeks heat anyway—traitorous things.

“Still smooth as ever,” he muttered.

Darius chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and Louis softened despite the tension sitting sharp in his chest.

“No, seriously,” Louis pressed, “what are you doing here?”

Darius shrugged, casual as ever. “Colleague at the firm mentioned some art event everyone was buzzing about. When I heard Zayn’s name, I remembered you two were close… figured I’d check it out.”

Louis blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “The firm, huh? You still there? Did you finally make partner?”

Darius gasped in mock offense before grinning wide. “God, you never miss a detail. Yeah—I did. Two years ago.”

“That’s me.” Louis gestured at himself, deadpan. “Perceptive and nosy. Full package.”

Darius laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I always loved that about you.”

Louis’s smile flickered, a little bittersweet. It was nice, seeing him—safe, familiar. But also distant, like peering at an old version of himself through frosted glass.

“How are you, Lou?” Darius asked, voice softening, warm in a way that tugged annoyingly at Louis’s chest. “What’s new in your life?”

Louis gave him the brief rundown—hospital chaos, head nurse promotion, trauma cases, long hours, occasional satisfaction.

Darius grinned, eyes gleaming. “You’re like a porn scene waiting to happen. Hot head nurse treats wounded patient, then gets wrecked in the on-call room. I’d buy it.”

Louis barked out a laugh, smacking his arm lightly. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

Louis rolled his eyes, still chuckling, just about to steer the conversation toward Harry when he felt it.

Not heard. Not saw. Felt.

The air shifted—charged, thick with presence. A ripple under Louis’s skin, instinct flaring before his head even caught up. His Alpha.

Harry’s hand slid around his waist, fingers light but unmistakably possessive. Louis went warm all over, melting into the touch like gravity had just been reprogrammed.

“Hi, baby,” Harry said, soft and steady, a smile tugging at his mouth as his gaze landed on Darius. “Hello.”

Darius blinked, thrown for a beat as he took in Harry—the cane, the scar, the unwavering green eyes that didn’t flinch. It took him a moment to find words.

And then, with almost reverent awe, he blurted: “You’re literally living in a porn plot.”

Louis blinked.

Darius winced, scrambling. “I mean—uh—hello. I’m Darius. Louis’s ex-boyfriend from back when he was an omega twink.”

Louis choked on a laugh, bending forward a little. “Oh my god.”

Harry didn’t laugh.

If anything, Louis felt the shift ripple through him—Harry’s grip tightened at his waist, his whole posture going still. When Louis glanced up, he caught it: that unmistakable glint in Harry’s eyes. Dark. Sharp. Primal.

Oh. There he was. The green-eyed monster.

Harry said nothing—just tilted his head, polite smile still plastered on, while his aura screamed mine loud enough Louis swore half the room could probably hear it. His wolf was pacing, hackles up, ready to drag Louis out by his scent gland if it came to that.

Louis bit his lip hard to keep from cackling.

“He’s kidding,” Louis said sweetly, batting his lashes at Harry. “Hold your horses, soldier.”

Harry’s eyes flicked down to him, jaw ticking. The promise in them was clear as day: he was getting knotted tonight. Hard.

Louis swallowed, pulse spiking, every nerve already buzzing like his body was counting down the seconds. Well. There went his evening plans. Goodbye champagne, hello ruined bedsheets.

“Mmm,” Darius hummed, cutting straight through the silent, heated standoff. “So how long have you two been together?”

“We met a year ago,” Harry answered smoothly—but with the kind of pointed emphasis that sounded like a territory marker. “Been together six months. We live together.”

Louis bit his lip, nearly choking on a laugh at the sheer audacity. Might as well piss on my leg while you’re at it, Styles.

“That’s nice,” Darius said, all smiles, like he hadn’t noticed the Alpha tension thickening the air. Then his gaze flicked back to Louis, brow arched. “So… you finally ready to bond, Lou?”

Louis froze. His mouth opened—

“Hm—”

“It’s none of your business,” Harry cut in, cool and sharp. Calm on the outside, but Louis could feel the heat simmering just below his skin.

Darius lifted his hands in mock surrender, though something flickered sharp in his eyes. “Alright, alright. Just a friend asking.”

He gave them both a final glance—polished charm stripped down for just a beat—before nodding. “Louis. Good seeing you. You too, Harry.”

Louis echoed the goodbye politely. Harry didn’t speak—just gave a curt nod. And then Darius was gone.

Louis turned, eyebrow arched, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That was rude.”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, like he’d been holding his breath the whole damn time. “What? Watching my omega flirt with his ex-boyfriend?”

Louis blinked, scandalized. “I didn’t!” he shot back, quick and firm. “That’s just Darius. He’s always like that. Harmless, I swear. Like Nick.”

“Nick wasn’t your ex,” Harry muttered, fire dimming into a low, embarrassed simmer. He rubbed the back of his neck, scowling at himself. “Shit. I’m sorry. I ruined our night, didn’t I?”

Louis’s face softened instantly. “Don’t be dramatic.” He stepped in close, smirking up at him. “I actually love seeing you jealous.”

Harry blinked, caught off guard. “You do?” His voice went soft, fond—eyes gleaming as his arms slid around Louis’s waist.

“I do,” Louis whispered, brushing his lips against Harry’s, voice low and wicked. “It’s hot. You go all wolfy.”

Harry kissed him possasivly. 

Louis whimpered quietly, nodding against Harry’s mouth, hands already wandering across his chest, restless.

Harry’s lips grazed his ear, voice low and rough. “You seen enough of the art show, baby?”

Louis nodded fast, desperate. “God, yes.”

They said goodbye to their friends—hurried, half-distracted. Niall tried to corner them with some story, but Louis just waved him off mid-sentence, and Zayn only laughed knowingly from across the room.

The second they stepped outside, Harry’s hand was back on Louis’s waist, guiding him firm and sure toward the car.

The night wasn’t ruined.

It was about to get very, very interesting.

______________

“Oh my god—oh fuck—” Louis gasped, voice ragged as his body bounced in rhythm, back to Harry, every brutal snap of hips sending lightning straight through his spine.

They hadn’t even made it home.

The second the car doors slammed shut, Harry had snapped. He’d ripped Louis open with his mouth and fingers, desperate, greedy—like a man starved—and now Louis was in his lap, naked and spread, bent forward over the dashboard while Harry split him open on his cock.

Harry hadn’t even bothered to strip. Still fully dressed, shirt tugged open, trousers shoved down just enough to free his cock. Louis could feel the drag of fabric against his thighs every time Harry drove in deep, could smell leather and sweat and Harry all over him.

“Tell me, baby,” Harry growled, voice low and vicious against his ear. “Did Darius ever fuck you like this? Did he ever make you scream like this, take you raw in the front seat ‘til you can’t even think straight?”

Louis let out a broken cry, legs shaking, slick dripping down his thighs, soaking Harry’s lap. “N-No—fuck—”

Harry’s laugh was dark, curling, vibrating through Louis’s chest. “That’s right. He never had you like this. Never made you whine beautifully for it.” His teeth grazed Louis’s shoulder, sharp, punishing. “You only fall apart for me.”

Louis tried, helpless, to reach for his cock, desperate for relief—but Harry’s hand shot out, locking his wrist down hard against the console.

“No,” Harry snarled, hips slamming up so deep Louis nearly sobbed. “You don’t get to touch. You’re gonna come from my cock stuffing you full, nothing else. You hear me? Just me.”

Louis whimpered, wrecked, his hole fluttering helplessly around Harry. “Please, Alpha—fuck, please—”

Harry’s growl rumbled against his throat, his free hand spreading Louis wider, forcing him open, his cock hitting his hole so deep Louis was a mess of high-pitched cries. “Look at you,” Harry spat, filthy and proud. “So wet you’re dripping down my balls, begging for it. Say it. Say who owns this tight little hole.”

Louis choked on a sob, head tipped back against Harry’s shoulder. “You—fuck—it’s yours, Alpha—it’s all yours—”

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Harry was everywhere—inside him, around him, dragging his hips wider, claiming him inch by inch until Louis had nothing left but surrender.

Harry shifted his angle, found that spot, and slammed into it again and again, merciless.

“There?” Harry asked, low and smug. “Right there, yeah?”

Louis couldn’t answer. Just moaned his name, over and over, like a chant, a prayer, a plea.

“You wanna come, don’t you?” Harry’s voice was dark velvet now, every word wrapping tight around Louis’s throat.

Louis nodded fast, clutching at Harry’s forearm like a lifeline, his whole body strung tight.

“Then beg.” Harry’s teeth dragged across his shoulder, biting down hard enough to brand him. “Beg for your Alpha.”

Louis whimpered, ruined. “Please. P-please, Alpha… I need—”

“What do you need?” Harry pressed, his knot swelling thick and heavy, grinding at Louis’s rim with every thrust.

“Your knot,” Louis gasped, falling apart. “Need it—please—need you to fill me—”

Harry’s growl vibrated straight through his chest, primal and raw. With one brutal thrust, he shoved deep and held, his knot swelling, locking them together. Louis cried out as the stretch gave way to searing fullness, Harry flooding every inch of him, binding him, sealing him.

“Here you go, love,” Harry groaned against his ear, voice reverent and wrecked. “Good boy.”

That was it. The praise shattered him. Louis came with a desperate, broken cry, his whole body trembling as his orgasm ripped through him, clenching helplessly around Harry’s knot. Slick and spend smeared across his stomach, the car windows fogging with the heat of it, their ragged moans filling the small space.

They slumped together in the charged silence that followed, still joined, bodies humming in the haze of after.

Harry kissed the back of Louis’s neck, softer now, tenderness bleeding through the possession.

“Mine,” he whispered.

Louis only nodded, eyes fluttering shut, heart pounding out of his chest, too full—of Harry, of love—to speak.

First Voice

The ex-military center was just a few blocks downtown from the OneHeart clinic. It was a beautiful building—spacious and sunlit, with tall windows opening onto the park below.

Louis had come along for Harry’s session today, at James’s request. He’d asked Harry to speak to the veterans’ group about his recovery—something meant to give the others a bit of hope, a glimpse of life beyond service.

Harry had been dreading it for weeks. His anxiety got louder every day, chewing at him as he tried to shape his story into something “worthy.” Something that wouldn’t sound hollow. The pressure had been gnawing at him like a bad tooth.

It all came to a head one night at their flat. Harry sat hunched on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, typing and deleting the same paragraph for the tenth time. His jaw was tight, his knuckles white where they gripped the keyboard.

From across the room, Louis groaned dramatically. “If you glare at that screen any harder, it’s going to break.”

Harry looked up, startled, only to watch Louis march over, shut the laptop with a neat little click, and plonk it onto the coffee table.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, affronted.

“You’re not writing anything tonight, soldier,” Louis said, sliding warm hands over his shoulders, thumbs digging into the stubborn knots. “You’re too deep in your head—I could see it from the bloody hall.” He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s curls. “Let me take care of you for a bit, and then we’ll talk. And by ‘talk,’ I mean I’ll tell you to stop being a dramatic sod, and you’ll roll your eyes at me like usual.”

Harry hesitated. “But—”

“But nothing,” Louis cut in, voice quiet but firm, brushing his fingers down Harry’s tense arms. “Come on, Alpha. You’re wound up tighter than Niall’s jeans on laundry day. You’re going to drive yourself mental at this rate.”

He softened, lowering his voice. “And don’t think I didn’t clock the way you were rubbing your prosthesis earlier. You’re in pain, baby.”

Harry’s eyes flicked down, shame shadowing green, but he didn’t argue again.

Louis reached for his hand. “Come on, love. Bath time.”

And just like that, Harry let himself be guided—fingers curling around Louis’s without resistance, like he always did when he was too tired to keep up the strong act.

Louis had the bath ready in minutes, water steaming and laced with Harry’s favorite oils, candles flickering soft around the tub. He helped him peel out of his clothes and carefully remove the prosthesis, his touch gentle, reverent, like he was tending something sacred.

Harry stepped in slowly, Louis steadying him until the water took his weight. The Alpha exhaled, a low, shaky sound, shoulders loosening as he sank back and let the warmth hold him.

“I’ll be right back,” Louis murmured, brushing his curls once more.

Harry nodded, already drifting, sinking deeper into the quiet glow.

In the kitchen, Louis made him a mug of chamomile tea and carried it back, kneeling at the side of the bath. Harry accepted it with both hands, lifting it to his lips with a grateful hum.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmured. “I needed this.”

Louis smiled softly, brushing his fingers over Harry’s damp cheek. “You’re welcome. Now drink it before it gets cold.”

Later—after Louis had helped him out of the bath and dried him, after he’d smoothed ointment over the tender skin around the stump with practiced care—he guided Harry to lie face down on the bed. Then Louis straddled his thighs and began working his shoulders with firm, steady strokes, the kind that always made Harry melt.

They stayed like that a while, silence comfortable, broken only by Harry’s quiet sighs.

Then Louis asked, gentle but not prying, “So… where are you stuck?”

Harry groaned into the pillow. “I just… I don’t know what to say, Lou. I don’t have a perfect story—there’s no miracle ending. I still have nightmares. Loud sounds still make me flinch.” He paused, swallowing hard. “So how the hell am I supposed to stand in front of those young soldiers and tell them everything will be okay?”

Louis didn’t jump in straight away. He just pressed his thumbs deeper into the stubborn knot beneath Harry’s shoulder blade, keeping the rhythm steady. By now he knew Harry didn’t always need answers—just someone to hold the silence open long enough to spill the mess he carried around.

“It’s fucked up, what we’ve gone through,” Harry said, his voice low and uneven. “All the pain… the trauma… it’s just—hard. I see the ex-soldiers who come into the center. Some of them remind me of myself. Some have it even worse. And I can’t—” He swallowed, voice breaking. “—I can’t be some golden boy for this. I’m not.”

Louis stayed quiet, shifting closer on his knees, still working slow, grounding circles into his back.

“I joined the military because I wanted to do something good—for my country. And I don’t regret it, not really. I just… I wish things had been different. That I hadn’t lost so much. That I didn’t…” His voice cracked, words collapsing into the space between them.

Louis’s hands stilled. He leaned forward and coaxed Harry onto his back. Harry went easily, trusting, letting Louis maneuver him. Louis straddled his lap and brushed back curls damp with sweat and tears, his own chest aching at the sight.

Harry’s hands went straight to Louis’s hips, anchoring there, clinging like he always did when the ground felt unsteady.

“Harry,” Louis murmured, cupping his face, thumbs stroking beneath wet lashes, “I don’t think James asked you to stand up there and deliver some grand Disney ending.”

Harry blinked up at him, voice small. “You don’t?”

Louis shook his head, slow and certain. “No. James doesn’t want Saint Harry of Miraculous Recovery. He sees what I see. A bloody force of nature. A man who wakes up every day and decides to keep fighting—not just to survive, but to live. A man who’s lost more than anyone ever should and still somehow makes space to love. To care. To hope.”

He paused, brushing his thumbs under Harry’s eyes as they filled again.

“What James asked for isn’t some neat, polished story. It’s your truth. The raw, messy version. The one where you’re still scared, still have nightmares, still wake up pissed off at the world some mornings. The one where guilt still tries to sink its claws in.”

Louis leaned down until their foreheads touched, his voice soft but steady. “That story—the ugly, honest one—is the one they’ll believe. Because those men already know life isn’t pretty. They’re living it. What they need is to see someone like you—still in the thick of it, still hurting, still healing—but choosing, again and again, to show up. To be soft. To love. To fight. That’s the kind of hope they’ll actually trust.”

He kissed Harry’s damp cheek, lingering there. “You don’t have to be perfect, Haz. You’d only bore them to death if you tried. You just have to be real.”

Even after Louis’s advice, Harry’s anxiety didn’t vanish overnight. He let the words simmer, took a few days off from obsessing over drafts, and slowly, something shifted.

One evening, just as Louis walked through the door—still shaking the cold off his coat—Harry looked up from the kitchen table with a grin that could power the national grid.

“I finished,” he said simply, eyes shining.

Louis froze mid-step, heart skipping. “You did?”

Harry nodded, that maddeningly gorgeous smirk tugging at his mouth. “And before you ask—you’re not reading it. You’ll hear it when everyone else does.”

Louis groaned, dramatic. “You’re cruel.”

Harry only winked. “You love it.”

And now here Louis was, walking into the downtown military center with his heart thudding like a drum in his ribs. The lobby buzzed with conversation—low voices, footsteps, the clink of glasses. Anticipation hung in the air like static.

He scanned the room, and there—by the back—stood Harry. Talking with James and Niall, dimples deep, curls catching the soft light.

And Christ, he looked good.

Black slacks, tailored just right. A flowy purple chiffon shirt, unbuttoned enough to tease a strip of chest. He’d left the cane at home, curls artfully pushed over to hide his scars, though Louis thought he looked hot either way. The lighting caught on his teeth when he laughed—sharp, brilliant, devastating. He looked strong. Steady. Glowing.

Louis’s heart gave one proud, painful thump. That’s his boy.

He crossed the room, confident as anything, and Harry turned before Louis even said a word—like he could sense him, smell him. His whole face lit up, dimples deepening, and there it was: that private smile. The one no one else ever got. The one Louis would happily kill for.

“Hi, baby,” Harry murmured in that soft coo of his, tugging him in close and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

He smelled like comfort and warmth and every safe thing Louis had ever craved. Louis’s chest fluttered helplessly, and for a split second he had to bite back the very real urge to drag him out of here and straight home.

They stood there smiling at each other like idiots until—

“Do you see this?” Niall groaned theatrically from a few feet away. “Sickening. I’m gonna have to hide my next girlfriend from these two—she’ll dump me on the spot when I don’t look at her like that.”

Louis barked out a laugh—bright, unashamed, loud enough to turn a few heads. “If your relationship is that fragile, Niall, that’s not on us.”

James chimed in, smirking. “I have to side with him, though. Never seen Styles so utterly whipped. Not that I’m surprised.”

Harry arched a brow, arm tightening at Louis’s waist. “Oh yeah? You saw it coming?”

James nodded knowingly. “You should’ve seen Louis that one time I came by the center. Couldn’t shut up about you. Full report—smile, dimples, all of it.”

Louis gasped, scandalized, his cheeks flaming. “I did not! I gave you a professional update. Because I’m a professional.”

The group broke into laughter at his expense, Harry included—eyes scrunched, dimples carved deep, shoulders shaking with it.

Louis leaned in, muttering darkly, “He said you’re the one who’s whipped, soldier. Don’t look so bloody smug.”

Harry chuckled low in his throat, tilting his head to press a kiss to Louis’s hair. “Darling, I’ve been whipped for you since day one.”

Louis groaned, dragging a hand over his face. That definitely wasn’t helping his case. But Harry had been tied in knots with nerves for weeks—so he let it slide. Instead, he tipped his head up and kissed him quick, quiet, grounding.

“Ew!”  Niall gagged, turning away. “I’m finding my seat—before I throw up my dinner.”

Just then, a bright-eyed omega approached the group with a blinding smile aimed directly at Harry. Her name tag read Eve, and just beneath it, in neat lettering, Event Coordinator.

Louis didn’t think much of her at first. She looked pleasant enough, polished and eager. He returned her smile politely when she joined them.

“Harry,” she said, her voice light and breezy, almost musical. “We’re ready for you.”

Harry nodded. “Okay, thanks, Eve,” he replied casually.

She giggled—giggled—and flushed at the sound of her name on his lips. Louis blinked, his friendly expression faltering just slightly. Was she…? Did she not notice Harry was currently holding him? Literally had a hand wrapped warm around Louis’s waist?

Louis tilted his head, frowning faintly as he watched her walk away, the sway in her hips just a little too practiced for his taste.

Still, he let it go—for now. Everything else left his mind the moment Harry turned back to him, and he saw that flicker of nerves just beneath his usual swagger.

Louis cupped Harry’s cheek briefly, smiled at him with quiet warmth. “Good luck, love,” he murmured, leaning in for one more kiss.

But because he was him, and incapable of resisting a moment to tease, he leaned up a second time, this time to whisper right into Harry’s ear, breath warm and slow:

“I’m also fully ready for you… to celebrate later.”

Harry froze, his posture stiffening as his breath caught. He turned his head slightly, jaw tight, eyes darkening with a sudden edge. “It’s not very nice,” he said through clenched teeth, “to give me a boner right before I have to speak in front of thirty people.”

Louis stepped back with a devilish grin, absolutely unrepentant. “You’ll manage,” he said brightly, and then laughed—loud, free, and delighted—when Harry gave him a narrow-eyed glare full of promise.

“Good luck,” Louis called over his shoulder as he went to find his seat beside Niall.

Niall raised an eyebrow as he sat. “Why do I feel like you just committed a crime?”

“I might’ve,” Louis replied smugly, folding his arms. “But it was for morale.”

______________

Harry’s session was honest and warm, so full of quiet strength and grounded hope that Louis couldn’t, for the life of him, understand why the man had ever doubted himself.

From the moment Harry started speaking, the room bent toward him. His voice was steady, vulnerable, magnetic. He shared a few photos from his service days, weaving in funny little stories about his unit that had half the audience chuckling, even as a thread of sorrow tugged underneath every memory. When he spoke of those who didn’t make it home, he did so with reverence, each name laid down like a prayer. Like a promise.

And then came the after—the part Harry had once sworn wasn’t worth telling.

He talked about recovery. The ugly, grinding slog of it. The slow steps toward something like living again. He thanked OneHeart by name, gave credit to Niall, Liam, his family. He spoke about therapy with Ed, about the brutal honesty grief demanded, and the unglamorous, daily work of learning how to live beside it.

And then he spoke of Louis.

Louis had been doing so well—sniffling a little, blinking too much but holding it together—until Harry looked straight at him, right there in front of thirty people, and said with that warm, ridiculous smile:

“And then there’s Louis. The best recovery plan God ever blessed me with.”

Well. That was it. Done for.

Tears pricked hot and fast, and Louis could only bury his face in his hands for a second before looking back up—because if Harry was going to throw that kind of line at him in public, the least Louis could do was beam like an idiot and clap until his palms stung. Which he did.

Because there Harry stood—his scars catching the light, prosthetic steady, shoulders squared like he belonged in that room—and somehow still managed to be the brightest thing in it. Still a bloody sun.

After the speech, people raised hands. Some asked painfully personal questions, others softer things—how to find peace when the world never fully quiets. And Harry answered all of it without flinching. No pretending he had magic answers, no speeches about “moving on.” Just the truth. Raw. Human. His truth. And it was enough—it was everything.

By the time the applause rolled through the room, echoing off the high windows, Harry flushed like he always did when people clapped for him—bashful, dimples carving deep. But even then, his eyes went searching. Found Louis.

And Louis—who was clapping like a madman, grinning so wide his cheeks ached, tears drying crooked down his face, heart fit to burst—beamed back at him.

That was his Alpha. His Harry. His.

And Harry, smiling through the ovation with his eyes shining soft and proud, looked right back at him like he’d known it all along.

______________

Louis gave Harry some space after the session, knowing full well how important it was for him to speak with the people who approached—veterans, staff, even a few who looked genuinely cracked open by his story. From across the room, Louis entertained Niall’s sharp wit with a laugh and a raised brow, but his focus never really wavered. His eyes kept sliding back, tracking Harry like a compass needle. He’d learned to read him by now—the little things most would miss. The way his shoulders pulled just that bit higher, or the twitch of his hand near his thigh when he was holding something in.

Harry was doing well, of course. He always did—smiling softly, answering questions with that grounded honesty that made Louis want to shake him and kiss him at the same time. But Louis also knew how quick the wrong word, the wrong tone, could gut him. That damage was always quiet. Always tucked away. And Louis wasn’t about to let it slip past him.

And then—of course—Eve appeared.

Bright-eyed, shiny smile, clipboard queen energy. Event Coordinator and apparently self-appointed flirt. Louis spotted her cutting through the thinning crowd straight toward Harry, hips swaying with a bit too much practice.

She leaned in close, syrupy voice dripping sugar all over his alpha’s name. Her hand brushed Harry’s bicep like she was auditioning for the role of “supportive omega in a Hallmark flick.”

Louis’s jaw twitched.

Then he saw it—that flicker on Harry’s face. Subtle, but unmistakable. A tiny unease, a shift in his stance. Enough to light Louis up like a fuse.

That was all it took.

He moved, smooth as silk, calm as you please. Not a stomp, not a rush. Just a quiet glide across the room like he had all the time in the world. And then he slid into place behind Harry, arms wrapping firm and sure around his alpha’s waist, chin hooking over his shoulder like he’d been born to fit there.

The effect was instant.

Harry, whose muscles had been strung tight beneath his shirt, melted—literally melted—into Louis’s hold. His body exhaled, shoulders dropping, spine loosening. Louis felt the sigh vibrate through him, the relief like a live current under his hands.

“Hi, soldier,” Louis murmured against his ear, low and warm, pitched just loud enough for Eve to catch. “Ready to go home?”

Harry turned in his arms, eyes soft with exhaustion, forehead dropping onto Louis’s shoulder like gravity had made the choice for him. “Yes, please,” he whispered, voice small but steady. “I’m so tired.”

Louis’s lips curved into a fond, wicked smile as he stroked the nape of his Alpha’s neck. “Poor baby,” he crooned, equal parts teasing and tender, before flicking his gaze toward Eve—still standing there like she’d walked into act two of a play without a script.

“Excuse us,” Louis said sweetly, his tone sugarcoated but sharp enough underneath to cut glass. “My Alpha needs his rest. Being everyone’s hero is exhausting—and he’s got to drive us home.”

Harry huffed out a laugh, the sound low and warm against Louis’s throat, as his arm slid fully around Louis’s waist, clinging like he wasn’t letting go for anything.

Eve’s smile tightened, brittle around the edges. “Of course,” she said lightly, though the music in her voice had started to grate on Louis’s nerves. “Get some rest, Harry.”

And then—because apparently she didn’t know when to quit—her hand landed on Harry’s back.

Louis felt it instantly. The stiffening in Harry’s spine, that flicker of discomfort he never showed anyone else. Something feral lit in Louis’s chest.

He didn’t snarl. Didn’t need to. He leaned forward just enough, eyes catching hers, and let a low growl slip out—restrained, quiet, but heavy with promise. The kind of sound that warned: one more step and I bite.

Eve flinched like she’d touched a live wire. Her hand snapped back, color blooming high in her cheeks. She stammered something that might’ve been “right, then,” before disappearing into the crowd with far less sway in her hips than she’d arrived with.

Louis didn’t move until she was gone. Only then did he soften, pulling Harry closer, murmuring low against his curls, “You okay, love?”

Harry exhaled slowly, melting again into Louis’s chest, voice muffled but sure. “Now I am.”

Louis kissed his temple, lingering there, his grin smug and fond all at once. “Come on then, superstar. Let’s get you home before I have to fend off any more event coordinators.”

First Rut

Louis left work early, his entire body buzzing like it had been waiting for this day. He’d gone through his checklist twice—staff briefed, charts updated, everyone reminded not to text him unless a limb was falling off. By the time he locked his office door, his phone was already pinging with messages: good lucks, cheeky “stay hydrated” reminders, and Niall’s helpful text that just read RIP your hole xx. Louis rolled his eyes so hard he nearly gave himself a migraine.

It was official. He was on “rut break.” Five days of being knotted, claimed, fucked until he forgot how to spell his own name. His omega purred at the thought, but under the anticipation there was a curl of nerves too.

He’d been through ruts before. Friends with benefits, boyfriends, the odd mistake he swore never to repeat. Every Alpha was different. Some went soft and clingy, nuzzling into his scent until Louis felt like a human-sized teddy bear. Others went feral—biting, grinding, refusing to let his body breathe. A few had tried to push past boundaries, and Louis had learned the hard way when to walk away.

He knew how to manage ruts. That wasn’t the issue.

The issue was Harry.

The first time he’d mentioned it, Harry had gone stiff as a board, jaw tight like he was delivering bad news. “My rut’s coming up,” he’d said, voice clipped. “It’s… dangerous, Louis. You need to know that.”

Always the bloody danger.

Louis had tried to keep his expression soft, steady. He wanted to laugh it off—wanted to say Harry’s wolf would rather chew its own leg off than hurt him—but one look at the fear in Harry’s eyes stopped him cold. Because Harry wasn’t just scared of losing control. He was scared of slipping, of crashing into a flashback in the middle of it, and waking up feral with Louis in his arms.

So Louis swallowed down his certainty and told him to talk to Ed.

Ed had nodded gravely, then rattled off a list of sensible precautions to “keep everyone calm.” But even he had said he didn’t think Louis was in any danger. Not with Harry. Not with the bond forming between them.

It hadn’t soothed Harry. If anything, he’d only wound tighter.

By the third time Harry circled the same worry, Louis’s patience had snapped. “Fine,” he’d said, rolling his eyes. “Do it alone this time if you have to. But not forever. I’m not planning to spend every rut locked out of my own bedroom. Better we get through it now, before we’re fully mated. The mating bond would make it impossible to avoid.”

Harry had huffed and puffed like Louis had just asked him to juggle knives, but eventually he’d nodded. Not convinced. Just… resigned.

And now—now Louis thought of that conversation as he unlocked their door.

The smell hit him instantly, drifting thick and heavy down the hall. Garlic, onions, spice—and underneath it all, the bitter tang of something just shy of burnt. Louis closed his eyes, breathing it in.

Harry always cooked when he was nervous. Tonight the tension clung to every wall, simmering in the air like smoke.

They’d stocked up days ago—groceries, snacks, comfort items, a literal rut-survival kit—but clearly Harry had decided to take it further. From the sheer intensity of the smells alone, Louis knew he was working himself into order, finding control in chopping, stirring, seasoning.

Louis didn’t mention it when he enters their kitchen. He just leaned up for a kiss—quick, grounding, the kind that said I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.

“Hungry, baby?” Harry asked almost immediately, already reaching for a plate. His voice was casual, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

“Mmm, smells amazing, Haz,” Louis murmured as he sat down. He wasn’t just being polite; the food did smell incredible, buttery and rich. But he also knew Harry well enough to taste the nerves in the air more than the chicken.

Harry set the plate in front of him, then hovered. No plate of his own.

“You’re not eating?” Louis asked, one brow lifting.

Harry shook his head, running his fingers through his curls with a restless edge. “Can’t,” he admitted, voice tight. “I tend not to, in the hours leading up. My body just… kind of shuts down.”

Louis hummed, poking his spoon into the food, thoughtful. “Figures,” he said lightly. “My body does the same before heat. Hormones are bastards.”

Then, softer, Louis reached across the table, catching Harry’s hand and weaving their fingers together. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

“Not until late tonight,” Harry said after a pause. His gaze flicked down, restless, as his fingers tapped against Louis’s. “I prepped your kit—added a few things from the pharmacy just in case. Stocked water bottles and snacks in the bedroom. Bought more lube.”

He looked embarrassed saying it, shoulders curling in like the admission itself was shameful. His Alpha instincts were humming, Louis could feel it—Harry bracing for impact, not treating this like intimacy but like a deployment.

Louis tried for lightness, flashing him a grin. “Lube? Haven’t needed that so far.” He winked. “You know I’m slick enough for you without half the pharmacy aisle.”

But Harry didn’t smile. His jaw stayed tight, eyes steady.

“It’s just to be safe,” he said, voice quiet but unflinching. “I don’t know how rough I’ll get after hours… I’d rather drown us in lube than risk hurting you because I lost my head.”

He kept talking—where he’d stashed supplies, how many bottles of water were within reach, all the little preparations—but Louis stopped listening to the list itself. What mattered was the way Harry needed the list. Needed control. Needed a plan.

Louis squeezed his hand, leaned across the table to press a lingering kiss to his lips, letting it speak where words wouldn’t.

“Want me to run you a bath?” Louis asked gently, trying to offer some comfort, something soft.

But Harry shook his head, sharper this time. “Showered before you got here. I can’t… I can’t deal with a bath right now. Any scent that isn’t mine or yours will agitate me. It’s already close.”

Louis just nodded, easy. “Alright. Then go watch something stupid on the telly while I do the dishes. I’ll shower after, then come be your personal weighted blanket.”

But Harry’s hand tightened around his, urgent, almost pleading. “No, Lou—shower first. Please. You smell like the center—too many people, too many scents. I need you to smell like you.” His voice dropped low, rough with Alpha edge. “Can’t focus until you do.”

Louis blinked, then softened into a small smile. “Alright, bossy. Shower it is.” He kissed Harry’s knuckles as he stood. “Don’t break the dishes while I’m gone.”

Harry huffed a laugh, but his eyes stayed dark, already shadowed by the oncoming rut.

Louis showered with purpose, scrubbing his skin raw under the spray like he could strip away the whole bloody day—the sterile tang of antiseptic, the faint smell of patients and coworkers, every trace of stranger-scent his Alpha might catch. He used Harry’s shampoo, Harry’s body wash, even nicked Harry’s razor to smooth himself clean. By the time he stepped out, skin pink and sensitive, he smelled like one thing only: Harry. Belonged, branded, familiar. Exactly what his Alpha needed.

When he padded back into the living room, towel ruffling through damp hair, he found Harry on the couch. The telly was blaring some sitcom laugh track, but Harry wasn’t watching—his eyes were glassy, unfocused, jaw tight, like every muscle was coiled and waiting for a signal. Only when Louis entered did Harry look up, a small, quiet smile tugging at his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something.

Louis didn’t bother with words. He crossed the room and sank straight into Harry’s lap, curling into him with the kind of ease that said mine, always mine. His arms slid around Harry’s shoulders, cheek brushing against his curls. “Better?” he murmured, soft but certain, because he wanted Harry to say it—to ground them both in the answer.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His arms closed around Louis’s waist, firm and possessive, and he buried his face against Louis’s neck, inhaling deep, greedy breaths. His chest rose and fell in a shaky rhythm as he held him tighter, grounding himself in the scent. “Much better, baby,” he murmured, voice roughened by the weight in his throat. “Thank you. I know I get a bit… much when I’m this close.”

Louis snorted gently, pressing a kiss into Harry’s curls. “You? Much? Please. This is you calm. I’ve seen you on tequila.”

That earned him a laugh—real, warm, vibrating against his throat. Harry nuzzled deeper, scent-marking openly now, dragging his nose along Louis’s skin like he couldn’t get enough. Louis let him, even tilted his head a little to make room, a quiet hum of encouragement buzzing from his chest.

Harry’s arms cinched tighter. His teeth grazed Louis’s neck once—warning, promise, instinct all tangled into one.

And Louis shivered, because God help him, he wanted it.

Being in Harry’s arms always felt like the safest place in the world, and right now was no different. What Louis couldn’t quite wrap his head around was why Harry still looked so bloody worried—so full of fear over something that hadn’t even happened yet, something Louis wanted just as much.

After a few moments of quiet, Harry’s hand found Louis’s thigh, squeezing gently. “Did you tell Liam I’m going into rut today?”

It was the same question he’d asked a dozen times over the past week—checking, double-checking, needing reassurance. Louis never minded answering.

“I did,” Louis said, voice gentle but certain. “He knows. His phone’s on, and he’s waiting if we need him.”

Harry exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. “Good. He still has the spare key, right? If something happens, he can come in?”

Louis pulled back just enough to catch his face in one hand, thumb stroking along his jaw. Firm, grounding. “Yes, Harry. He’s got the key. But nothing’s going to happen that’ll make him use it. Listen to me—nothing is going to happen. I feel safe with you. I know it’s going to be okay. But you’ve got to believe that too. Otherwise you’ll never let yourself relax enough to actually enjoy this.”

“But—” Harry started, already fumbling for protest.

Louis cut him off, soft but steady. “Do you love me? Does your Alpha love me?”

Harry’s green eyes, shining with emotion, locked onto his. “Of course I do. More than anything.”

“Then nothing bad is going to happen,” Louis said simply, as though it were fact. “Worst case? I won’t be able to walk properly after all the knotting—but let’s be honest, that’s basically every Monday with you.”

That got it. Harry let out a laugh, low and warm, and Louis felt the tension finally beginning to ease out of him.

“You bounce back pretty fast,” Harry teased. “You walk to work every week.”

“Only because I’ve got bills to pay,” Louis shot back with a grin, leaning in to peck his lips. “Though if we’re being honest—I’m waddling most of the time. Pretty sure Natalie and Brent are placing bets about what’s wrong with me.”

Harry laughed again—lighter, freer—and Louis tucked the sound away greedily. That was his laugh. His Alpha. His boy.

The weight in his arms shifted, Harry melting against him as though surrendering had finally become possible. “Fuck, I’m tired,” he murmured, eyes heavy-lidded. “And you smell so good… it’s making my brain all floaty.”

Louis hummed, brushing his fingers through damp curls. “Then lay down properly, yeah? Nurse’s orders.”

Harry nodded, slow and pliant, and Louis slipped off his lap to give him room. He watched as Harry stretched out across the couch, long legs tangling in the blanket, head dropping back onto the cushion. Then, like a sleepy child—or more like an Alpha trying to be sly but failing—he lifted both arms, palms open, a silent come here.

Louis snorted under his breath. “Pathetic,” he teased, but he didn’t make him wait. He climbed right into the space Harry made for him, tucking himself into the heat of his chest. Harry’s arms closed around him instantly, snug and heavy, like a second skin.

As Harry’s breathing began to slow, each exhale heavier than the last, Louis pressed closer, cheek to his chest. His Alpha’s scent wrapped around him—warm, grounding, steady. Beneath it, he felt the quiet thunder of Harry’s heartbeat, and it soothed every edge in him.

Despite the hours ahead, despite the storm of rut that was coming, Louis felt nothing but peace. And under it, bubbling in his bones, the pulse of excitement—bright, electric.

Whatever came next, whatever the rut demanded, it would be theirs. Theirs to weather, theirs to revel in.

Louis closed his eyes, smiling against Harry’s chest. It’s going to be great.

______________

When Louis stirred, the flat was cloaked in stillness, silver moonlight slanting through the windows and cutting soft shadows across the living room. The TV had long since gone dark, leaving only the hum of the city outside.

But Harry’s arms—solid and heavy around him when they’d dozed off together—were gone.

Louis blinked, sat up slowly, scanning the dim room. Then he spotted him.

Harry stood by the window, hands gripping the frame tight enough his knuckles glowed pale in the moonlight. His shoulders shook, his whole body trembling with something raw, the kind of tension that vibrated through the air like static before a storm.

For a half-second Louis wondered if he’d walked into one of Harry’s nightmares. But then—

The sound. A low, guttural growl, torn straight from his chest. Unmistakable.

“Baby?” Louis said softly, voice calm but edged with knowing.

Harry didn’t answer, just growled again, raw and cracked, like he was trying to strangle it down. His knuckles were white where they clutched the frame. He looked like he was fighting the tide with bare hands.

Louis pushed off the couch, padding over barefoot. He touched Harry’s arm, sliding his hand down slow, grounding. “Oi, soldier,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, “did it start?”

Harry gave a sharp nod, curls bouncing. His voice was shredded when it came out: “I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it back.”

Louis rolled his eyes—fond, not cruel. “Who’s asking you to? Don’t be daft.” He kissed him again, warm and steady against his skin. “You’re not scaring me, Haz. Stop fighting. Let go. I’m right here.”

Harry shuddered, breath cracking out of him, still braced against the window like he could wrestle himself into submission. Always so bloody stubborn, even now.

Louis coaxed him gently, sliding a hand down his arm, guiding him to turn. And when Harry finally faced him—

Louis’s breath caught hard in his throat.

His Alpha’s eyes were wild—green swallowed dark, pupils blown wide, every inch of him trembling with need barely chained. His face was a storm: jaw locked, skin flushed and damp, curls sticking to his temples with sweat. The thin fabric of his joggers did nothing to hide the thick line of his cock, straining hard and angry against the cotton. And the scent—Christ—the scent punched Louis in the gut, rut-heavy and raw, flooding the air until slick was already sliding hot between his thighs. His body knew before his brain did.

“Bloody hell,” Louis breathed, half in awe, half aroused to madness.

But he didn’t let himself get swept. Not yet. He closed the distance, pressing a slow kiss to Harry’s mouth—soft, steady, deliberate. Not demanding. Anchoring.

“I’m right here,” Louis whispered against his lips, voice steady even while his pulse thundered. “Let go, Alpha. I’ve got you.”

And with a broken, desperate growl, Harry finally snapped.

He shoved Louis down onto the couch, mouth crashing against his in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and hunger—messy, biting, claiming. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was Alpha. Wild, frenzied, the sound of fabric tearing as Harry yanked at Louis’s clothes like they offended him. Louis arched up, helping, kicking free of pants and panties in one greedy twist of his hips.

He braced for Harry to flip him over, rut-brained instinct pressing him face-first into the cushions—but no. Somehow, impossibly, Harry still held on to a shred of control. He caged Louis on his back instead, looming above like something feral and holy, kissing him deep, tongue sliding into his mouth with a guttural groan that screamed mine.

Louis whimpered into it, slick spilling hot and wet beneath him, his body already weeping with need. He felt owned. Branded. Fucking undone.

And still—Harry didn’t slam into him. Not yet. He took his time, mouth everywhere, worship written in heat. He kissed down Louis’s throat, dragged teeth along his chest, tongued each nipple until Louis was writhing, trembling, begging. He left marks, possessive bruises, scent heavy in every bite, dotting his skin with heat and Alpha claim until Louis was half-delirious. The couch was ruined, slick soaking the cushions, but Louis couldn’t care less. Not with Harry staring at him like that.

Because when Harry finally knelt back between his legs, spreading him wide—he stopped. Just… looked.

And fuck, Louis almost blushed at it. Harry’s eyes were dark, blown, reverent and ravenous, like his human and wolf were both stunned silent. It was worship. It was hunger. It was need so sharp it looked like pain.

So Louis, because he was Louis, leaned into it. He made a bloody show of it.

He lifted his legs, hooked them over Harry’s broad shoulders, and spread himself shamelessly, slow and deliberate, presenting his slick hole without an ounce of hesitation. His thighs trembled, his body begging to be filled, but his smirk was pure tease.

“Right here,” Louis whispered, voice ragged but cocky, thick with heat. He arched his back, pushing closer, needy and unrepentant. “This is yours. I’m yours.”

Harry’s breath hitched sharp and broken, a sound ripped from his chest. He dove in, kissing, sucking, biting down on the soft inside of Louis’s thighs like he meant to brand him there, leaving dark, stinging welts that would ache when Louis walked tomorrow. His grip was brutal, fingers digging deep, forcing Louis wide open like he couldn’t bear the thought of losing a single inch of him.

Then Harry licked—slow, filthy, deliberate—over Louis’s slick hole, and the sound he made was downright obscene. A growl, hungry and desperate, rattled out of him, and Louis’s moan rose to meet it, wrecked and needy.

Harry didn’t hesitate. His mouth sealed tight, tongue driving inside with wet, relentless thrusts that had Louis arching, choking on sobs, his body clenching helplessly. He tried to rock back, chase it, but Harry slammed a heavy palm over his hip, pinning him down hard.

“No,” Harry growled, voice wrecked, deep, vibrating with rut and dominance. “You take what I give you. Nothing more.”

The command cut through Louis like lightning. His entire body stilled, trembling, breath catching. His hole fluttered around Harry’s tongue, desperate, but he stayed perfectly pliant, obedience pooling warm and dizzying in his belly. He wanted to be good. Wanted to be perfect for his Alpha.

Harry hummed, satisfied, before pulling back only to press slick-coated fingers inside. Two at once, thick and unforgiving, stretching him as his tongue lapped and fucked at the rim. The wet sounds were filthy, the room echoing with every obscene squelch and every broken moan Harry tore from him.

“God, you’re open for me already,” Harry groaned against his skin, shoving deeper. “So greedy for it, aren’t you? My perfect little omega hole.”

Louis whimpered, tears spilling hot at the corners of his eyes. No one had ever taken him like this during rut—feral and merciless, yet still worshiping him like he was sacred. It wasn’t just the stretch, the sting, the overwhelming assault of sensation. It was that Harry treated him like treasure even while wrecking him. Like he’d never let Louis go, never let him breathe without his Alpha’s claim inside him.

When Harry found his prostate and pressed against it with ruthless precision, Louis screamed, high and broken, the sound ripped out of him. His hips jerked wildly, body fighting to thrust back, to take more, as Harry shoved deeper—three fingers, then four—stretching him so wide Louis swore he could feel his rim straining to stay intact. Harry’s tongue kept lapping, messy and obscene, sucking greedily at the slick dripping out of him, slurping it down like it was ambrosia.

It was too much.

Louis shattered with a cry, his hole spasming around Harry’s fingers as hot release spilled across his own stomach. His body curled in on itself, helpless, while Harry kept him spread and trembling, milking every drop out of him.

“Good omega,” Harry growled, pulling his fingers from Louis’s fluttering hole with a wet, sucking noise. His voice was reverent and ruined all at once, thick with lust. “Best fucking omega in the world. Look at you—coming all over yourself just from my fingers. Giving your Alpha everything.”

Louis sobbed at the praise, his cock twitching back to life, dripping slick precome even through the haze of his orgasm. He needed more. Needed to be stuffed, split open, filled until he couldn’t think.

Harry bent down, licking the mess from Louis’s stomach, groaning low at the taste of salt and slick, nosing down to lap at the base of his cock just to hear Louis gasp. Then he rose, looming over him, folding Louis’s legs back over his shoulders. His cock rubbed hot and heavy against Louis’s stretched hole as he lined himself up, the tip already slicked with precome.

He caught Louis’s gaze, pupils blown black, canines glinting as they descended. His voice was soft, but ragged with hunger.

“Ready to be ruined, sweetheart?”

Louis nodded frantically, breath hitching—only to choke out a scream as a hot gush of slick spilled from him, coating Harry’s cock just as the Alpha drove in with one brutal, claiming thrust. The stretch was savage, unstoppable. Harry bottomed out in one go, seated to the hilt inside him, and Louis shook apart under the weight of it.

The burn was blinding, his rim stretched wide around the thick length, pain and euphoria tangled so tight they were indistinguishable. Harry was everywhere, inside him, pressing against places that made Louis see stars. His walls fluttered helplessly around the intrusion, trying to cling, to hold, to keep him.

A wrecked, high moan ripped out of Louis, his nails clawing red tracks down Harry’s arms as his body shuddered under the sheer force of being filled. His Alpha’s cock bulged hard and obscene inside him, his belly straining where Harry pressed down, showing him just how deep he was.

Harry groaned rough against his skin, sinking sharp teeth into the slope of Louis’s shoulder hard enough to bruise, hard enough to claim. Louis cried out, the sting sinking straight into his core, another mark of ownership etched into his body.

“Shhh, I know, baby,” Harry panted into his skin, words hot and damp against the bite. “Too much—but I have to. I need to knot you. Need to breed you.”

And then he moved—no warning, no mercy. His hips snapped forward in brutal, rut-drunk thrusts that made the couch rock violently beneath them, every stroke punching the air out of Louis’s lungs. The wet, obscene slap of skin and slick filled the room, loud as thunder.

Louis opened his eyes, and what looked back at him wasn’t Harry—it was his wolf. His Alpha, wild and feral, lost to instinct. Pupils blown wide and black, only a thin, glowing ring of green left, canines bared sharp under the low light. He looked at Louis like prey and salvation all at once.

The wolf snarled, pressing a broad hand to Louis’s lower belly, right where the shape of his cock bulged beneath the skin. His voice was guttural, awe and hunger wrapped in one.

“Here. You feel me, omega? So tiny—so fucking tight. Look at you taking it.”

He pounded into him, relentless, rut driving every thrust until Louis couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—only feel. His body gave in, clenching down around Harry’s cock, milking it, and before he even realized it, his vision went white. He came untouched, slick release spilling hot between them.

Harry growled low, guttural, as Louis spasmed tight around him. His words came broken, desperate, spilling into Louis’s ear between ragged thrusts:

“Mine. Gonna fill you. Knot you so deep you’ll never forget. Gonna give you pups, omega. Gonna breed you full.”

Bliss-drunk, fucked open, desperate, Louis nodded frantically, sobbing his consent. “Yours—always—please, knot me, Alpha, breed me, want it—want your pups.”

That was the end of Harry’s restraint. His thrusts grew erratic, frenzied, rut fully in control now. His mouth claimed every inch of Louis’s skin—biting, sucking, bruising his throat, shoulders, collarbones—leaving no part of him unmarked.

With a feral roar, his knot swelled thick, catching at Louis’s rim, forcing its way inside with a brutal, final thrust. The stretch was unbearable, delicious, locking them tight together, sealing Louis around him. The thick swell pressed right against his swollen prostate, and Louis shattered again.

He screamed Harry’s name, his body clenching desperately around the knot as hot release poured out of him, streaking their stomachs, his thighs shaking violently with the force of his orgasm. And through it all, he felt it—Harry’s cock throbbing thick and deep, the knot swelling tighter, locking him down as wave after wave of molten heat flooded into him, filling him so full it was obscene. He could feel it spilling past the knot, thick and wet, leaking out only to be shoved back in with every pulse. Claimed from the inside out.

Harry crushed him close, still rutting in tiny, desperate thrusts even while tied, trying to force himself deeper, groaning low as he pumped him full. His growl rattled through Louis’s bones, an unshakable declaration of ownership that had Louis’s body trembling all over again, overstimulated and clenching around the knot as if it would never let go.

They collapsed together, mouths pressed close, panting into each other, sweat slick between their chests. Louis’s body twitched and shuddered with aftershocks, nerves frayed and buzzing, but Harry rolled them in one smooth motion, careful not to tug at the knot. He settled Louis against his chest—small, pliant, utterly claimed.

Louis blinked up at him through the haze, taking in his Alpha’s face. Harry’s eyes were still wolf-black, glowing faint green at the edges, his canines sharp and bared. He hadn’t come back to himself yet, lost in instinct and bond, drunk on rut and possession.

So Louis did what only he could—he steadied him.

His fingers stroked tenderly along Harry’s jaw, brushing damp curls from his forehead, trailing down to cup his cheek. He kissed him slow, sweet, grounding. Harry growled low, a pleased, dangerous sound, shivering under the gentle touch.

Louis leaned down, dragging his tongue over the curve of Harry’s throat, a claiming gesture in return. Harry purred, the sound rumbling from his chest, vibrating against Louis’s lips. Louis pressed more wet, open-mouthed kisses over his Alpha’s throat, his scent glands, his collarbones—scenting him possessively, coating him back in his own mark until Harry reeked of him. The Alpha melted under it, pliant in his haze, bliss-drunk on possession and bond, letting Louis claim him right back.

When the knot finally softened, loosening with a slick, messy pull, Louis gasped at the sensation. A gush of heat spilled out immediately, thick come and slick pouring from his overstretched hole in a flood, dripping down his thighs, soaking the sofa beneath them. It kept coming, leaking endlessly, obscene proof of his Alpha’s claim.

Harry only growled and pulled him tighter, pressing their foreheads together as if to keep him close while his seed marked its territory deep inside.

What he did next made Louis’s breath catch.

In one fluid motion, Harry slid out—Louis gasping at the wet stretch and the gush that followed—and immediately cupped his hand between Louis’s trembling thighs. He caught the thick spill of slick and come that poured from his omega, holding it like something holy. Without hesitation, like instinct demanded it, he smeared it over himself—across the bare skin of his throat where a bond mark would one day burn, down his chest, his cock, his thighs. Marking himself with Louis’s release, painting his body in the proof of what he’d claimed.

Louis stared, stunned, heat crawling up his spine as Harry moaned through the motions—soft, guttural sounds of satisfaction—as though baptizing himself in Louis’s scent. Each pass of his hand looked more ritual than rut, reverence laced through filth, his Alpha drunk on the taste of ownership.

And then, still shaking from his own climax, Harry reached down, gathered a pearly streak of come from the flushed head of his cock, and lifted it to Louis’s lips.

Wordless. Demanding. Sacred.

Louis’s mouth fell open without hesitation, dazed, hypnotized by the rawness of it all. He wrapped his lips around Harry’s fingers and sucked them clean, licking slow, swallowing down the sharp salt of their bond. Harry watched with heavy-lidded hunger, green eyes glowing with wolf-fire, every line of his body humming with satisfaction.

Not just claiming Louis’s body. Not just scenting him outside. He was feeding it back into him, making him taste it, saturating his omega from the inside out.

When Harry was finally finished—marked, coated, bliss-drunk—he let out a deep, pleased rumble and reached instinctively for Louis, arms opening like they belonged wrapped around him forever.

But Louis hesitated.

His body ached deliciously, stretched and used, every nerve still buzzing from the knot, but some fragile thread of clarity tugged at him. The couch wasn’t enough—not for this. Not where they shared meals, entertained friends, laughed with family. Harry’s rut was far from over; the next wave could crash over them any moment, and Louis wanted the sanctuary of their bed: the softness, the sheets that smelled of them, the privacy of their en suite when things got messy again.

So instead of folding into Harry’s grasp, he leaned forward and pressed kisses along his Alpha’s jaw, soothing the confusion that flickered in those wild, dark eyes. “No, Alpha,” he whispered sweetly, catching Harry’s hand in his own. “Come to bed.”

Harry blinked, brows furrowing, wolf still thick in his gaze. Panic threatened at the edges—his mate pulling back, his instincts clawing to hold tighter.

Louis steadied him, as he always did. He pressed their foreheads together, soft lips brushing Harry’s, his canines just pricking into view as he smiled.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, low and steady, the promise wrapping around them both like a tether. “Just come to our bed.”

He tugged gently, and Harry—still dazed, still wolf-eyed and heavy with rut—let himself be led. Silent, obedient, like he didn’t quite grasp the logic but knew the command in his bones: follow your omega. Even in the haze of rut, Harry was utterly, hopelessly whipped.

Louis guided him into their bedroom, the air soft and dim, the familiar scent of home wrapping around them. He went straight for the water bottle Harry had left earlier, uncapped it, and drank deep, grateful. His throat worked around the cool liquid, then he passed it to Harry without a word.

Harry took it instantly, lips slicking wet around the mouth of the bottle, throat bobbing as he swallowed greedily. His eyes never left Louis. Possessive. Hungry. Like watching Louis drink, watching him breathe, was as necessary as rutting him full.

Louis’s heart softened at the look—at the awe and devotion simmering behind the feral black of his gaze. He helped Harry onto the bed, nudged him into pillows, pulled the blankets into a loose cocoon like he was handling something breakable.

Harry didn’t question, didn’t resist. He just followed every touch, every press of Louis’s hands, like Louis was tethered to the deepest instinct he had. Like his wolf knew: obey your omega.

It made Louis smile, warm and small. Even when Harry was lost in rut, wild and driven by nothing but need, he still listened. Still trusted him. Still followed him anywhere.

Satisfied, Louis hummed softly and crawled into bed. The moment he settled against Harry’s chest, the Alpha folded around him—arms, legs, whole body curling protectively like he meant to cage Louis against the world. His cock, still swollen and sticky with their release, pressed hot against Louis’s thigh, marking him even in rest.

“I love you, Harry,” Louis whispered into the silence, brushing lips against his collarbone, tasting salt and sweat.

Harry didn’t answer in words—but the low, resonant purr that vibrated through his chest, deep and unrelenting, said everything. It rumbled against Louis’s cheek, a sound of claim and comfort all at once, the wolf’s way of promising: mine. safe. loved.

Wrapped in his Alpha’s arms, full, marked, and anchored by that sound, Louis slipped under almost instantly, drifting into sleep with Harry’s scent in his lungs and Harry’s come still seeping warm inside him.

______________

Harry’s second wave hit with the sunrise—gold light spilling across their bed as if to sanctify the filth unfolding there. They’d barely slept, barely caught their breath, before instinct dragged him under again.

There was no warning, no coaxing this time. Harry hauled Louis into place like his body already knew where he belonged—face down, ass up, presenting. One broad palm pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him down as Harry drove in with one merciless thrust. The knot of slick from the night before made it easy, messy, obscene.

Louis screamed into the pillows, back arching as the thick cock buried deep, spearing straight into that tender spot inside him that made his vision go white.

This wasn’t careful. This wasn’t worshipful. Every shred of restraint had burned off in the night. This was rut—pure, savage Alpha instinct tearing through him with single-minded hunger. Harry’s thrusts were punishing, hips snapping forward with bruising force, growls spilling out with every slam. His hands locked tight on Louis’s hips, fingers biting deep enough to leave prints that would last for days.

Each drive was deeper than the last, ownership hammered in with every brutal stroke.

Harry’s breath rasped hot against his back as he wrenched Louis open wider, spreading his cheeks to watch himself split his omega apart. The guttural growl that poured out of him was feral, vibrating all the way down Louis’s spine. A sound of satisfaction. Possession. Mine.

Louis clutched the sheets, nails tearing at the fabric, his moans climbing higher as Harry’s heavy balls slapped wetly against his thighs. The room was filled with the obscene music of rut—slap, slap, slap of skin on skin, the squelch of slick, the broken cries Harry tore out of him with every thrust.

He could feel Harry everywhere—in his belly, his bones, every nerve burning with the stretch. Too much and not enough, filled to the brim and still craving more.

It didn’t take long.

Harry’s thrusts turned sloppy, erratic, his growls breaking into ragged snarls as instinct took over completely. With one brutal shove, his knot forced its way past Louis’s rim, the stretch so intense Louis screamed into the pillow. Harry roared, a guttural, animal sound, as his knot swelled thick and hard inside Louis’s heat, locking them together in the most primal way possible. His cock pulsed wildly, spilling thick, hot waves of come until Louis could feel it flooding him, pressing heavy and obscene against his walls.

Louis’s orgasm tore through him without warning, his body seizing as he gasped Harry’s name, release striping the sheets beneath them. He came from the fullness, from the friction, from the pure rightness of being knotted—claimed, bred, bound to his Alpha.

Still joined, Harry collapsed sideways, dragging Louis with him. He curled around him instantly, arms tight, body wrapped around his smaller mate like he couldn’t bear a single inch of space between them. His mouth was everywhere—neck, shoulders, down Louis’s spine—biting, marking, groaning mine into every bruise he left behind.

Then his hand slid down, broad and possessive, splaying across Louis’s belly. His voice was wrecked, heavy with instinct and rut and craving as he growled, “Puppies.”

Louis’s breath hitched, a shiver running through him. Rationality whispered that he should remind Harry about the suppressants—that it wasn’t possible, not yet. But none of that mattered. Not now. Not when his Alpha’s whole being was fixated on breeding him, on filling him, on keeping him full until the fantasy became truth.

So Louis placed his smaller hand over Harry’s, kissed his knuckles tenderly, and whispered back, “Puppies.”

Harry purred. The sound was deep, vibrating straight through Louis’s chest, wrapping their bond in warmth and satisfaction. Louis smiled faintly, sinking into it, his body sore, stretched, dripping full—and utterly content in the arms of his Alpha.

______________

It didn’t take long for Louis to realize Harry’s wolf wasn’t going to let go—not for the rest of his rut. Unlike most Alphas, who could slip in and out of clarity, Harry was gone. Fully submerged. His green eyes had been swallowed by wolf-black, every look pure hunger, raw possession.

And oddly, Louis found comfort in it. No doubt, no second-guessing. Just instinct. Just need. His Alpha growled instead of spoke, kissed instead of explained, touched instead of asked. Louis knew what that meant—Harry wasn’t letting him out of sight.

Which became a problem.

The first time he slipped into the kitchen, Harry came charging after him like Louis had been stolen. Heavy footsteps, that feral growl that made Louis’s knees buckle before Harry even touched him. And the second his Alpha saw him standing there, safe, Harry’s relief curdled into something else.

“Harry—” Louis barely managed, before his world tilted.

Harry shoved him over the kitchen table, pinning him there with one hand while the other tore his pants down. Louis gasped, bracing instinctively as Harry sank into him in one savage thrust.

“Fuck!” Louis cried, voice cracking, his cheek pressed to the cool wood. His back arched as the thick length split him open, deeper than he could breathe. “God—Alpha, slow down—”

But Harry didn’t. Couldn’t. He drove in hard, again and again, the table shuddering under their weight, wood groaning with each punishing thrust.

Louis’s nails scraped against the surface, useless, desperate. “Christ—fucking hell—” he panted, torn between complaint and plea, his words lost under the slap-slap-slap of Harry’s balls hitting his thighs.

Harry’s growls shook the air, feral and raw. He spread Louis open with both hands, forcing him wider, watching their bodies join. The sound he made—low, hungry, satisfied—sent heat straight to Louis’s gut.

Louis could feel it in every brutal thrust: the desperation, the panic, the need to prove something. “You think I’m going anywhere, huh?” he gasped out, voice trembling, sweat dripping down his spine. “You’ve got me—fuck—you’ve got me so deep I’ll be limping for a week.”

Harry snarled in answer, hips slamming forward harder, and Louis broke into a sobbing moan, his cock leaking against the edge of the table.

He was being used, fucked open, claimed in every savage thrust—and he let it happen, gave himself over to it, because he could feel the truth in it. Harry wasn’t just mating him senseless. He was begging him to stay, branding him so the wolf would never doubt he belonged.

Afterward, they collapsed on the kitchen floor, still tied, panting, slick smeared across skin and tile. Harry clutched Louis like if he loosened his grip even a little, Louis would disappear again. His cock throbbed heavy and locked inside, knot keeping them fused together, heat radiating between their bodies.

Louis spotted the half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the counter and, breathless, reached for it. “Romantic,” he muttered, pressing a bite to Harry’s lips. His Alpha took it instantly, chewing slow, never breaking that hungry, wolfish stare. Then Harry pinched off a piece and fed it back, gentle fingers against Louis’s mouth like it was a holy ritual.

So there they sat—naked, flushed, knotted on the kitchen floor—feeding each other scraps until their bellies were full, until instinct purred content in Harry’s chest.

When the knot finally softened, Harry didn’t pull out. He just curled tighter around Louis, face buried in his neck, arms caging his waist. Mine, every part of him said. Not letting go.

And, yeah—Louis should’ve been annoyed. Should’ve reminded him about boundaries, about privacy, about maybe not shadowing him like a guard dog on steroids. But instead, the sight of Harry like that—wolf-black eyes, swollen cock still dripping, jaw clenched with possession—made Louis’s heat spark like a lit fuse. Which meant leaving him alone wasn’t an option.

So, fine. He took Harry with him.

That was how Louis ended up standing in front of the toilet, cock in hand, while his Alpha loomed right beside him, eyes locked on him like Louis might evaporate midstream.

“Really?” Louis muttered, cheeks hot as he tried to piss. “You gonna growl at the toilet if it looks at me funny?”

Harry only tilted his head, eyes still blown, chest rising and falling in that slow, predatory way that meant yes.

The second Louis shook himself off, Harry scooped him up like he weighed nothing, carrying him straight back to bed without so much as a pause. Louis squeaked, clinging instinctively, muttering under his breath, “Christ, you’re mad.”

Back in bed, Louis grabbed the water bottle and drank deep, gulping until his chest heaved. He handed it over, but Harry just leaned forward, lips sealing on his, and tipped the water straight into Louis’s mouth. Sharing like it was sustenance. Like he was feeding his omega the way nature intended.

Louis coughed once, sputtering as he swallowed, and shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and arousal. “You’re bloody feral, you know that?”

Harry purred low, satisfied, and pressed another mouthful between Louis’s lips.

And Louis—wet, sticky, still sore—let him.

Each time they mated, Harry returned to his now-sacred ritual. He’d gather the mess spilling from Louis—slick, sweat, come mixed into something thick and obscene—and smear it across his own skin. His neck, his bond mark, his cock, his thighs. Every inch of him marked in Louis’s scent until he reeked of nothing else. Until his wolf could breathe again.

Sometimes he’d push cum-slick fingers between Louis’s lips, silently demanding. And Louis took it every time. He licked him clean, swallowed down what was offered, watching the way Harry’s eyes softened with feral satisfaction, as though feeding his omega his own taste completed something deep inside him. Possession layered over worship, filthy and raw.

Louis endured it. Wanted it. Craved it even. But there was one thing he couldn’t ignore.

Harry’s prosthesis was still strapped on.

By the third day, the skin around the stump was angry and red, swelling from the constant friction. It wasn’t bleeding yet, but Louis knew it would be soon. Harry didn’t seem to feel it—too far gone in rut, too consumed by instinct—but Louis’s trained eyes caught it immediately. He couldn’t stand by. Not when it was his Alpha.

The first time he reached for it, Harry snarled low, a sharp, defensive sound, his whole body tensing like Louis had just threatened him. His eyes flashed blacker, grip tightening around Louis’s waist.

“Alpha,” Louis said firmly, his voice cutting like steel through the haze, “you’re going to injure yourself. You’ll let me take it off. Just for a few hours. That’s not a request.”

Harry’s growl deepened, wolf bristling, his gaze confused and feral. Louis’s chest ached, but he didn’t waver.

“You’ll let me do it,” he said again, softer this time, coaxing but unyielding. He reached anyway, hands steady, ignoring the sound. Treating Harry not like a beast, not like a danger, but like a patient who couldn’t reason through his own pain.

Harry huffed, shifted, whined. He looked wild and stubborn and utterly lost. But when Louis kept murmuring, calm and steady, “It’s alright, love. I’ve got you. Trust me,” the fight bled out of him.

So Louis worked carefully, gently, undoing the straps, sliding the prosthesis free. Harry’s breath hitched, chest rising fast, but he didn’t stop him. He let it happen. He let Louis in.

And Louis’s heart clenched because even in this mindless rut, even in feral instinct—Harry still trusted him. Trusted that his omega would protect him, care for him, keep him whole.

That trust was as binding, as claiming, as any knot.

______________

By the fourth day, Louis couldn’t take it anymore.

His skin felt raw beneath the layers of sweat, slick, and come. The bed was soaked through with them—unapologetically claimed, every inch reeking of rut—and while he knew better than to strip the sheets (Harry would lose his wolfish mind), he could at least rinse off. Just a little water. Just a little reprieve from being marinated in Alpha scent.

But Harry didn’t like the idea.

He followed Louis into the bathroom, heavy-footed and scowling, watching suspiciously as Louis twisted the taps until steam filled the air.

“Don’t give me that look, Alpha,” Louis warned, pointing a damp finger at him. “I need to shower. Just a rinse. I’m not trying to erase you—I just want to smell a little less like a bloody orgy.”

The growl that left Harry’s chest was low, rough, and unconvinced. He didn’t understand all the words, but the implication of washing away set his wolf bristling.

Louis sighed, rolling his eyes fondly. “Christ, you’re hopeless.” He caught Harry’s hand, guided him to the shower bench, and coaxed him to sit. With quick, efficient movements, he detached the prosthesis, set it safely aside, then stepped under the spray himself.

The water poured over him like salvation, steam curling against his flushed skin, washing away the sticky layers. Louis tipped his head back with a sigh, letting the heat chase away the ache. A baptism, a reset.

When he peeked back, Harry was still watching with a thunderous frown, looking as if Louis had just betrayed him personally.

Louis laughed, a soft, incredulous little sound. Instantly, Harry’s face shifted, frown cracking into a small, pleased smile, like his wolf couldn’t resist Louis’s laughter. The sight made Louis’s chest ache.

“God, you’re easy,” Louis teased under his breath, grabbing Harry’s body wash. He lathered his palms and walked over, spreading foam over Harry’s chest, his arms, his shoulders. Harry grunted low, unhappy at being fussed over, but his resistance melted quick. Soon he was touching back—soaping Louis’s waist, belly, thighs, his hands careful, reverent, as though Louis might break in his grip.

Louis hummed, tipping Harry’s chin up, rinsing his curls, scrubbing deep at his scalp until Harry purred. The sound vibrated through the steam, his head tilting into Louis’s touch like a spoiled cat.

Once Harry was rinsed clean, Louis turned, working conditioner into his own hair, water streaming down his back. For the first time in days, he let himself relax—let himself forget about being watched, about being owned.

A mistake.

In an instant, thick arms wrapped around his waist and yanked him backward. Louis yelped as he was dragged down into Harry’s lap, landing with a wet smack against broad thighs.

“Harry—!” He sputtered, soap dripping down his chest.

Harry’s cock was already hard, pressing hot and heavy between Louis’s slicked cheeks, rut-scent spilling into the steam, sharp and feral. His breath came in snarls against Louis’s neck, teeth grazing, body trembling with the need to claim.

Louis twisted, laughing breathlessly even as his pulse jumped. “At least let me rinse the soap—”

Harry growled, a harsh, primal sound that rattled Louis’s bones, grinding his cock against his slick hole as if to say no waiting. no washing. now.

And just like that, Louis knew the shower wasn’t going to save him. It was only going to drown him in another wave.

He rinsed the last of the suds in a rush, muttering, “Bloody hopeless, you are,” before giving in—letting himself fall into it, into him.

Harry hauled him down with rough, eager hands, guiding Louis until he was seated on his cock again, back-to-chest, split wide and full beneath the rain of hot water. The first thrust stole Louis’s breath; the stretch was brutal and familiar, his body clenching instinctively around the thickness pressing deep.

Harry’s hips rolled slow, every movement purposeful, grinding Louis down like he meant to brand him from the inside. Slick and water mixed and ran down their thighs in rivulets, obscene squelches echoing in the tiled room.

Louis braced his hands on Harry’s knees, gasping through the drag, his voice breaking into soft, desperate sounds. “God—fuck, Alpha—never stop, yeah? Just—just take me.”

Harry answered with guttural groans against his neck, mouthing and biting at damp skin, rut-drunk but steady in his possession. Every thrust was a claim. Every bite a vow.

And when the pressure crested, they broke together—Louis arching, crying out as his cock spilled untouched across his stomach, Harry roaring low as his knot forced deep, locking them tight. Heat flooded him, thick and relentless, and Louis sobbed through it, head tipping back against Harry’s shoulder, throat bared in surrender.

Knotted, slick, panting beneath the falling water, Louis smiled through the exhaustion, his lips curving faintly even as his body trembled with aftershocks. Home, he thought dimly. Wrecked and marked and knotted in his Alpha’s lap, and still—home.

______________

It was the final day of Harry’s rut.

Louis could feel it in his bones—the shift. The quiet way Harry clung without urgency, the raw edge of need softened into something slower, heavier. The feverish desperation to mate had ebbed into a steady hum, still possessive, but no longer frantic. Harry slept more now, breaths deep and even, arms locked around Louis like he needed to feel his mate’s chest rise and fall to stay tethered to the world.

There was peace in that. A hush that felt sacred.

Louis lay beside him in the dim wash of morning light, fingers sliding gently through Harry’s damp curls, watching the broad chest rise and fall. Every part of his body ached—used, stretched, drained—but his heart clenched with a pang of sadness all the same.

He didn’t want this to end.

Not the sore thighs or the endless slick, not even the way Harry growled low in warning if Louis dared to shift too far out of reach. What he didn’t want to lose was the closeness. The intimacy woven into the smallest things: feeding each other bites of fruit with lazy, slick-sticky fingers, murmured praise between trembling breaths, the way Harry touched him like something holy even when rut had stripped him down to instinct alone.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Harry’s brow, right where the deep crease of tension had finally smoothed. Another against his lashes, thick and damp with sleep. His stubbled chin. The strong curve of his shoulder.

“I got you,” Louis whispered into warm skin. “Love you so much. Always will.”

Harry didn’t wake—not fully—but instinct stirred. His arms tightened, crushing Louis to his chest, holding him close like nothing in the world could take him away.

Louis melted into it, a soft purr spilling from his throat as he nuzzled closer, his cheek pressed over Harry’s heart. Safe. Sheltered. His own chest aching with a fullness so sweet it almost hurt.

And in that moment, wrapped in the fading heat of rut, the world narrowed to this: one Alpha, one Omega, and a love so fierce it made everything else fall quiet.

______________

Louis drifted awake to the unmistakable scent of something sizzling—rich, savory, the kind of smell that made his stomach growl like it had been neglected for years. Disoriented, he blinked at the ceiling, brain foggy, not entirely sure if it was morning or next week. A sluggish reach for his phone told him it was past noon—Saturday, apparently.

He didn’t bother with proper clothes. Just tugged on one of Harry’s clean shirts, the hem barely brushing past his thighs, and padded out of the bedroom, following his nose—and the instinctive pull toward his Alpha.

The closer he got, the more his stomach complained. It smelled like bacon and eggs, greasy and golden, the kind of food that was going to fix him right up. He winced a little as he walked—still sore in all the predictable places—but honestly, it felt more like a badge of honor than anything else.

When he stepped into the kitchen, the sight waiting for him nearly made him laugh. Harry was at the stove in nothing but boxers, curls shoved back by a headband that made him look unfairly soft, considering the size of his shoulders. His back was broad, freckled, and… yeah, covered in Louis’s handiwork: faint bites, scratches, bruises scattered like souvenirs. Louis bit back a smug grin. His Alpha, indeed.

Harry didn’t even need to turn around. “You gonna keep staring, love?” he said, shutting off the burner with a smile in his voice.

Louis snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “Maybe. Depends what’s on offer. You, or the bacon.”

Harry finally turned, dimples deep, eyes softer than Louis had seen in weeks. He looked tired, sure, but there was a peace in him now—a settled sort of happiness that made Louis’s chest ache. He crossed the kitchen in a few strides, wrapped Louis up, and kissed him slow and warm.

Louis hummed into the kiss, not caring that he probably smelled like the aftermath of a small war. Harry tasted of mint—fresh, sharp, irritatingly clean—and Louis thought that just about summed them up. One of them smelling like toothpaste, the other like a rugby locker room, and somehow it worked.

“Hi,” Louis murmured, looping his arms lazily around Harry’s neck, smiling against his mouth.

“Hi, baby,” Harry breathed back, kissing him again, slower this time, tender. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Louis snorted, light and amused. “Cheers. Nothing says romance like comparing me to a bottle of Visine.”

Harry only smiled, dimples flashing, and Louis rolled his eyes fondly before kissing him again anyway. They stood like that for a while, slow and unhurried, two idiots neck-deep in love and too dazed to move. Louis’s body still ached in ways he wasn’t about to detail, but his chest was uncomfortably full in that sappy, content way.

Then, of course, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.

They both laughed, and Louis peeled himself off Harry with great reluctance, shuffling toward the table. He lowered himself into a chair with a wince, cheeks heating as his brain oh-so-kindly reminded him what exactly had happened on this piece of furniture. Loudly. Several times. His blush deepened.

“You okay, baby?” Harry asked gently as he carried over two plates piled with eggs and bacon. He set one in front of Louis, then sat down opposite with his own little wince. “Why’d you get so red?”

Louis stabbed at his food, keeping his gaze down. “How much do you actually remember from your rut?” he asked, finally taking a bite. It was delicious—because of course it was—and a pleased hum slipped out before he could stop it.

Harry stretched lazily, trying to recall, still watching him with that annoyingly fond gaze. “Hmm. Not a lot. First night, yeah. A few bits near the end. Mostly it’s… flashes. Why?”

Louis arched a brow, stabbing another piece of bacon with pointed dramatics. “Let’s just say I really, really hope you cleaned this table before serving breakfast on it.” He waved his fork vaguely. “Also the couch. And the shower.” His eyes flicked toward the hallway, and his stomach dropped with dawning horror. “And the bloody hall,” he muttered, remembering way too vividly.

Harry choked on his bacon, eyes wide. “The hall?”

Louis groaned, dropping his head into his hand. “Don’t. I’m trying to eat.”

Harry looked genuinely stunned, fork frozen mid-air. “Oh, geez. Is there any place we didn’t mate?”

“Not really.” Louis shrugged, mischievous spark in his eyes. “You were… let’s call it enthusiastic.”

Harry went scarlet, ducking his head so his curls bounced into his face. “Was it too much?” he asked quietly, uncertainty flickering. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Louis’s sarcasm softened instantly. He reached across the table and caught Harry’s hand, thumb smoothing over warm skin. “No. You were a complete gentleman,” he said, earnest now. “Even when your alpha brain was off chasing the moon, you still listened—every time I needed you to slow down, every time I needed anything.”

Then, with a wicked little tilt to his lips, Louis added, “You were the best I’ve ever had.”

Harry’s head snapped up, green eyes gleaming. “The best, huh? Go on, sweetheart, I like where this is going.”

Louis giggled, rolling his eyes. “You were generous—even through rut. Never had that before. Most alphas forget omegas are actual people once the hormones hit, but you…” He paused, his tone softening. “You thought of me. Even when you were out of your mind. Your alpha must be ridiculously in love with me.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “I am ridiculously in love with you.” His voice was low, warm, steady. He looked at Louis like he was both fragile and indestructible. “I’ve had ruts with other omegas—”

Louis flinched before he could stop himself. The thought of someone else seeing Harry that undone, that raw, made something sharp twist in his gut.

Of course Harry noticed. His thumb brushed soothing circles over Louis’s knuckles. “But nothing came close to this. Nothing. I woke up feeling… whole. Like the world finally made sense.”

The sharpness eased, replaced by a swelling warmth. Louis’s chest squeezed tight, a watery smile tugging at his lips.

Then Harry grinned, clearly deciding the moment needed levity. “Didn’t even wake up with a sore stump,” he teased with a wink.

Louis barked out a laugh, loud and unexpected. “Well, it wasn’t easy to get it off, let me tell you. Your alpha looked personally insulted—like I was ripping off his actual leg.”

Harry burst into laughter, unguarded and bright, his head tipping back. “I’m sure he did. How’d you manage it?”

Louis smirked, leaning smugly on the table. “Didn’t manage it. I owned it. Looked him dead in the eye and yanked. Then slapped some salve on before you could get cranky about it.”

Harry just stared, completely undone, dimples deepening as fondness overtook his face. “My prince charming,” he murmured, reverent.

“Yours,” Louis shot back easily, a small smile tugging at his mouth as the word landed between them like a vow.

They lingered over their food, chatting in low voices and stealing kisses between bites, neither of them in any hurry to reclaim personal space. When the plates were finally empty, they shuffled to the sink together, bumping hips as they washed up. Louis flicked suds at Harry’s arm; Harry retaliated with a wet elbow to his side. They laughed like a pair of teenagers, like they hadn’t just spent five days wrecking each other within an inch of their lives. Domestic, ridiculous, perfect.

Later, Louis ran them a bath—warm, fragrant, with oils that smelled of lavender and cedarwood. (Harry had rolled his eyes at the “fancy stuff,” but the way he’d sighed when he stepped in gave him away.) Steam curled around them as they sank into the water, Harry pulling Louis into his arms with the kind of protectiveness that made Louis feel like he’d just been upgraded to crown jewels.

Harry reached for the loofah and began soaping Louis’s skin, slow and careful, like Louis might break. Louis let his head tip back with a theatrical sigh. “Honestly, solidier, if you’re this sweet I might have to keep you. No returns, no exchanges.”

Harry chuckled, pressing his mouth to Louis’s damp hair. “Thank you, baby,” he murmured, quieter now. “I was so scared before—scared of what I’d be like, scared I’d lose myself. But you… you made me feel safe. Grounded. You gave me every bit of confidence I needed.” He paused, voice going softer. “Thank you for choosing me.”

Louis turned his head just enough to catch Harry’s lips in a gentle kiss, lingering there before pulling back with a little smile. “You’re welcome. And thank you for choosing me. You had loads of options, I’m sure—” He smirked, “—but clearly, you went with the deluxe package.”

Harry snorted, shaking his head, but his arms only tightened around him.

And so they stayed there in the warmth of the bath, water lapping at their skin, laughter and softness blending together until it was impossible to tell which was which.

They didn’t need anything else.

The First (and only) Future

Louis knew something was up the second Harry insisted on picking him from work, all jittery-happy in that very specific way only Harry could pull off.

“I can take the tube, you know,” Louis pointed out, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Not today, baby, I insist.”

And well, Louis was hopelessly whipped, so he didn’t push. Not when Harry looked like a Labrador who’d just spotted a ball. Besides, Louis already had Harry’s mark and a ring on his finger. (Because yes, of course Harry put a ring on it. Louis would’ve killed him otherwise.)

The problem was Harry was terrible at surprises. His wolf always gave him away — restless, twitchy, practically vibrating in his seat like his tail was about to knock over the gearshift.

“Where are we going?” Louis asked, giving him the side-eye. “And if you say ‘it’s a surprise’ one more time, I swear to God, you’ve either bought a puppy or murdered someone.”

Harry just grinned, dimples deep enough to qualify as criminal evidence, and tugged Louis along until they stopped in front of a house. A brick house, perfectly suburban, like something ripped straight out of Desperate Housewives.

Louis blinked at it. “Ah. So definitely murder. Where’s the body—garage or basement?”

“Shut up,” Harry muttered, though his laugh gave him away. He pulled out a jangling set of keys like he was about to break into the place, and pressed them into Louis’s hand. “Go on. Open it.”

Louis arched a brow. “Brilliant. Handing me the evidence so I go down for accessory after the fact. Genius, soldier.”

Still, he slid the key into the lock, pushed the door open—
—and froze.

It was huge. Big windows spilling sunlight across polished floors, a sprawling open kitchen Harry would inevitably destroy with flour, and a proper backyard already green with grass and trees. Louis wandered deeper in a daze until he found the bedrooms: one massive ensuite and two smaller ones, still spacious and warm.

“W-what is this? Who did it belong to?” Louis asked, though deep down, he already knew.

“To us,” Harry said proudly, smile wide. “For the future, baby.”

Louis turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. “You mean… you bought us a house so you could finally breed me like the overgrown wolf you are?”

Harry laughed, dimples deep. “Only if you want. We can keep the pup room empty for now. It’s just for us. For our life together.”

Louis groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God. Married less than a year and you’re already buying me a broodmare palace. What’s next, a minivan?”

Harry’s grin only widened. “Actually, the dealership had a sale—”

“Don’t you dare.”

Harry was laughing before Louis could throttle him, tugging him close, pressing a kiss to his temple. “What? I just want you to have everything. You, me, our bond, a place to grow into. That’s all this is, Lou.”

Louis sighed, letting himself melt against Harry’s chest despite his best efforts at sarcasm. “You’re impossible. Absolutely insufferable. Lucky for you, I’m already legally and biologically stuck with you.”

Harry beamed, holding him tighter. “Exactly how I like it.”

Louis rolled his eyes, but his lips curved anyway. “Fine. But I’m decorating the so-called pup room, and if you so much as think about glow-in-the-dark stars, I’m filing for annulment.”

Harry’s laugh rumbled warm against his hair. “Deal.”

______________

Later, they met with their friends and family back at their flat, because of course Harry had pre-planned a party for buying them a house. Louis honestly didn’t even know this man anymore. Who impulse-buys a three-bedroom and also arranges a catered buffet?

The second they walked in, the room erupted. Balloons, streamers, trays of food everywhere—like a gender reveal, except the gender was “Harry’s completely lost the plot.” Louis barely had time to kick off his shoes before Niall shouted, “Did he like it?” as if Louis wasn’t literally standing right there.

Louis deadpanned, tossing his coat onto a chair. “Oh, you know. Mild cardiac arrest followed by deep existential dread. So yeah, he loved it.”

The room burst into laughter.

Zayn leaned against the counter, smirking. “Bet the pup room’s already painted yellow.”

Harry went scarlet. “It’s not—there’s no paint—”

“Sure, mate,” Liam cut in, grinning. “Next week there’ll be a crib delivery. Probably with your name embroidered on the sheets.”

Nick, naturally, had to top them all. He clapped Harry on the shoulder with mock solemnity. “Bold move, Styles. Nothing says romance like a thirty-year mortgage. Really gets the blood pumping.”

Louis took a long sip of his drink, smirking over the rim. “Oh, I swooned, alright. Nearly fainted when he told me about the bloody school districts.”

The room howled. Harry buried his face in his hands, ears bright red, while Louis patted his husband’s back with faux sympathy.

“Cheer up, Haz. At least now everyone knows you’ve gone full wolf. Next stop: minivan.”

“Don’t forget the white picket fence,” Nick added.

Louis perked up. “Ooh, and matching tracksuits for when we’re screaming on the sidelines at the pup football practice.”

“Stop,” Harry groaned into his palms, but his dimples betrayed him.

Nick raised his glass high. “To the happy couple—and their terrifyingly domestic future.”

Everyone cheered. Harry finally peeked up, dimples flashing despite himself. Louis rolled his eyes, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and muttered loud enough for the room to hear, “Remind me again why I married this lunatic?”

“Because you love me,” Harry said smugly.

Louis huffed, smirking into his drink. “Yeah, well. Lucky me”