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Chapter Text

Who knew a giant steel arch could be so aesthetically appealing up close? It was so tall and—well—metal. A wonder, really, how it didn’t topple straight into the Mississippi River under its own weight.

Harry found the thought ridiculous enough that he actually stepped back, lowering his camera to eye the curve from another angle before lifting it again. He snapped shot after shot of the silver sweep rising out of the snowy ground, the sky fading to a faint pink behind it. Winter light gleamed off the metal, catching in a way that made it look unreal—too polished, too perfect, like it had been dropped here from some other world.

He checked the screen, lips quirking when he saw the frame: the Arch stretched clean against the skyline, the river winding below, tiny bundled-up figures milling at the base like ants. A tourist cliché, maybe, but Harry didn’t delete it. It felt right.

He was a tourist. A true one, for once, in the big city of St. Louis—a welcome change from the pressure of being London’s newest rising star. Not that “pressure” was bad. Harry loved the work, the stage, the crowds. But he was still a small-town lad from Cheshire at heart, and fame had turned “popping out for milk” into a potential security risk.

London was brilliant, but sometimes he missed being invisible. The quiet anonymity of home. The way people waved because they knew you, not because they’d seen you on telly.

Now, people shouted his name across streets. He still hadn’t gotten used to it. He’d never been popular growing up—just a lanky kid who wouldn’t shut up about music. His devotion paid off, sure, but lately, it was hard to remember how to just be.

He wasn’t running away. He told himself that. He just needed a pause. To breathe. To exist somewhere no one knew his name.

So that’s how he ended up in St. Louis, Missouri, the week of Christmas.

Well—sort of.

Two weeks after finishing his London and Ireland tour, his manager had confirmed three blessed months off. Before anyone could talk him out of it, he’d booked a flight across the Atlantic.

You’re probably wondering: Why St. Louis? Why not L.A. or somewhere glamorous?

Simple. The Arch. And, according to Ed Sheeran, toasted ravioli.

Harry had gotten a text from Ed at nearly midnight asking, You ever had toasted ravioli?

He hadn’t. Which prompted a FaceTime call in which Ed proudly displayed the dish like a newborn child.

“Mate, you have to try it,” Ed said, mid-bite. “Only in St. Louis.”

So naturally, Harry decided he’d go. For the ravioli. And the Arch. And maybe—to quietly steal St. Louis’s recipe and dominate the U.K. snack scene.

The plan had sounded charmingly spontaneous. Three days in, it felt more like a cry for help.

He’d already walked to Imo’s twice. The Arch had lost some of its sparkle when it was the only thing visible from his Hilton suite window.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone, bored out of his mind. Spiraling, honestly. When it rang, he nearly wept with relief.

“Ed,” he said, answering mid-sigh, “what else is there to do in St. Louis besides eat cracker pizza and stare at the Arch?”

“Hello, mate. I’m great, thanks for asking. The baby’s good.”

Harry groaned. “Ed, seriously. I’m dying here. I thought taking a solo trip would be great, but I didn’t think about the alone part. Empty hotel, seven thousand kilometers from home, no one to talk to—bit of a flaw in the plan.”

“That’s the fun of it,” Ed countered. “Their pubs are great! Go out somewhere, meet people, find a hot chick—or bloke—and get laid. Enjoy yourself.”

Harry scowled at the phone. “Brilliant advice from a man with a wife and a baby.”

Ed just laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re not gonna meet anyone. Go chat up an elderly person, you’re good at that.”

Harry hung up on his laughter, still scowling. Easy for Ed to say. Ed had a family. Harry had a mini fridge with overpriced Pringles and a view of the Arch.

Still, the idea stuck. A bar. People. Noise. Anything other than the silence.

So that’s how he ended up at O’Malley’s, three blocks from the hotel, nursing a beer that tasted suspiciously like tap water and trying not to look like a British pop star hiding in Missouri.

The place was loud, warm, and packed with ugly sweaters and twinkle lights. He should leave. He was halfway to standing when a group burst in, laughing so hard they jostled his chair.

One of them—shorter, sharp jaw, laugh like he was daring the world to tell him no—headed straight toward the back.

Harry’s fingers tightened around his glass. Maybe he’d stay for one more drink.

He tried not to stare, but that laugh lingered, cutting through the noise. It was the kind of sound that cracked open a room. Sobering and intoxicating all at once.

Harry shook his head, downing the last of his beer like it might steady him. Everything felt heightened—the lights, the chatter, the clink of glasses. He needed air. Or the loo.

He shouldered through the crowd toward the hallway lined with neon signs and arrows pointing Restrooms →

And that’s where he bloody met him.

Of all places.

Chapter Text

Harry shoved the bathroom door open—too hard—and it clipped someone right in the arm.

“Shit, sorry!” he blurted.

The man turned, eyes narrowing, then softened into a smirk. “You always come into bathrooms like you’re breaking and entering, or are you just trying to break my nose?”

Harry winced, heat flooding his face. “No! Christ, no. I didn’t mean to. I promise.”

“Oh! And you’re British?” The man’s tone was quick, animated—Midwestern drawl wrapped around every syllable—and those blue eyes were unfairly sharp.

Harry grinned despite himself, dimples betraying him. “Guilty.”

“Your accent’s really strong—”

They spoke at the same time, both freezing mid-sentence before bursting into laughter.

Harry could’ve stayed right there, soaking in the sound of that laugh—low and easy, the kind that made the air feel different. But his bladder had other plans.

“Jinx,” he teased.

The man shook his head, still smiling as he turned toward the sink.

Harry ducked into a stall but couldn’t stop himself. “So why are you hiding out in the toilets?”

“I’m not hiding in the toilets, thank you very much,” came the reply, sharp with humor. “I actually came to pee.”

Harry snorted. “Fair. Though you’re still here.”

“So are you,” the man shot back—and then, with a passable British accent: “Why are you here? Not in the bathroom, but in St. Louis? You’re quite British.”

Harry laughed. “I’ll give you points for effort. I’m actually on vacation. My mate called a few weeks ago, told me about Imo’s, and I booked a flight on a whim. Been here three days, already eaten my weight in cracker pizza. Was starting to think this trip was a total waste—until I literally bumped into you.”

He dried his hands on a paper towel, meeting the man’s eyes again.

“Tell me you’re single.”

Before Harry could respond, the door swung open, nearly hitting the man a second time.

“What the fuck!”

“Oh, there you are,” said a ginger-haired guy, poking his head in. “We thought you ditched your own party… again.”

“Your party?” Harry asked, looking between them.

“Ollie, meet this British guy who overshares while he pisses,” the man quipped.

Harry laughed, unoffended. The glare that followed only made him laugh harder. “That’s not wrong. Sorry,” he said, extending a hand. “Harry. I just washed them, I promise.”

Ollie and the man shared a silent look before Ollie shook his hand. Whatever passed between them ended with a shrug.

“Well, British Harry, we’re taking shots and this one’s needed at the bar. Come on—it’s on the house.” Ollie was already halfway down the hall.

Harry hesitated for half a beat, then followed.

The bar was louder now, music thrumming underfoot. A brunette was lighting candles on a cake at their table when the crowd broke into song.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Harry froze, realization dawning.

“Happy birthday dear Louis…”

Louis.

Harry’s eyes locked on him—the man from the bathroom—now sitting beside the brunette, her phone angled up to record. Louis smiled for the camera, but there was a faint tension in his jaw, a tiny roll of his eyes at the fuss.

Harry’s chest dipped. So he wasn’t single. Or gay.

The song ended in cheers, glasses raised. Ollie shoved a shot into Harry’s hand before he could slip away.

“To thirty!” the brunette called in what Harry guessed was an Irish accent.

Louis muttered something under his breath but raised his glass anyway.

Harry clinked his against the nearest one, trying not to look too out of place. “To thirty,” he mumbled.

Back at the Hilton, the night felt quieter than it should have.

The hum of the heater filled the room, the telly flickered with reruns of some American sitcom, and Harry sat at the edge of the bed—shoes off, head buzzing.

It wasn’t the shots. Well… not entirely.

It was him.

Louis.

Harry leaned back against the pillows, flipping through channels he didn’t recognize—sports he didn’t care about, weather reports for counties he couldn’t pronounce. Even limited cable felt lonelier tonight.

He gave up and let the screen drone on, mind replaying the bar like a highlight reel.

They’d surprised him, that group. Warm. Effortlessly welcoming. They made him feel like less of an outsider and more like he’d wandered into a table that had been waiting for him.

Ollie’s endless jokes. Zayn showing off his murals with shy pride. Lottie—bright and ambitious—talking about her salon and side hustle. Her tattooed husband inviting him to “stop by the shop, mate.” Niall, the Irish one, orchestrating shots like a carnival barker.

Even Eleanor. Harry had wanted to hate her—the way she leaned into Louis, hand brushing his arm like it was hers—but she was lovely. Funny, too. Explained one of their inside jokes until half the table groaned. Harry laughed until his ribs ached.

They were good people. Artsy. Clever. Different.

But all he could think about was Louis.

That laugh—warm, reckless, alive. Those eyes that kept finding him across the table, like there was something magnetic between them neither could name.

He wasn’t imagining it. Every time Harry glanced up, there Louis was.

Every time Harry spoke, Louis listened.

Harry shut off the telly, the room falling into silence.

He stared at the ceiling, smile tugging at his mouth.

Louis. Louis. Louis.

Chapter Text

The next day was Christmas. 

Harry had convinced himself it would feel magical—snow, lights, strangers in scarves—but when you’re spending it alone, magical turns quickly into mildly depressing.

He woke late, dragged himself to the theater in the Galleria, and bought tickets to three movies back-to-back. By the third showing his legs were stiff, eyelids heavy, and he was fairly sure the concession staff thought he lived there.

Still, the films passed the time. And passing the time was the point.

By the time he left, the streets were quiet, most restaurants dark. He Googled restaurants open Christmas Day near me and ended up in a booth at a 24-hour diner, sipping watery coffee beside a plate of turkey that tasted suspiciously microwaved.

He FaceTimed his mum when he got back to the Hilton. She was all Christmas jumpers and twinkling lights, asking too many questions about whether he was eating enough and if he’d gone to Mass.

He smiled through it, gave her the answers she wanted.

The ache came after. It always did. They didn’t talk often—not about the things that mattered, anyway. Geography, remarriages, polite silences: they’d all built a sort of distance that phone calls could never bridge. So he let her fuss, let her believe she knew everything. It was simpler that way.

When the call ended, the room was still empty. The minibar still overpriced. The view still the same Arch, slicing the night sky like a question mark.

Harry flopped back on the bed and started scrolling.

He told himself not to do it. Told himself it was weird—borderline creepy. But curiosity had already chewed through his restraint.

He opened Google. Typed without thinking:

urgent care south st louis

The first result blinked up at him:

South City Urgent Care — Louis Tomlinson, MD.

Harry exhaled, half-groan, half-laugh. Well. That answers that.

His thumb hovered too long before tapping the link.

The clinic’s website loaded: four headshots under a cheery Meet Our Providers banner. Three looked exactly as expected—middle-aged, polite smiles, lab coats starched to hospital crispness. One pediatrician in a dinosaur tie, clearly trying to distract kids from impending needles.

And then there was him.

Louis.

Clean-shaven, white coat over a navy shirt. The smile was small, professional, but one corner tugged higher, like he couldn’t quite help himself. Even in bad lighting, his eyes looked sharp. Sharp enough to catch Harry right there in his too-big hotel bed, surrounded by silence.

He stared until the screen dimmed. Tapped it awake. Scrolled again.

Louis Tomlinson, MD.

White coat, sharp eyes, that same easy smirk he’d worn in the bar. None of it would let go.

He told himself it was ridiculous. That he wasn’t actually going to do it. That it was insane to even google his place of work simply because he mentioned it that night at the bar. Absolutely insane.

He closed the laptop. Then opened it again. Checked the address on his phone. Closed it once more, shoved it in his pocket.

It didn’t help.

New Year’s Eve. 4:30 p.m.

The squat brick building stood dull against the gray sky, South City Urgent Care spelled out in block letters above the door. The winter air bit his cheeks, but Harry barely felt it. He stared through the glass like it was an exam he hadn’t studied for.

And then—because Harry had never been good at walking away—he pushed the door open.

The receptionist barely looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Uh—yeah. Sore throat,” he said, rubbing his neck like an amateur actor. “Bit achy. Thought I should get it checked before the new year.”

She slid a clipboard toward him. “Fill this out. Doctor will see you soon.”

He sat and filled in the blanks with half-truths:

Name: yes.

Address: the Hilton.

Phone: his manager’s backup.

Insurance: a single question mark.

By the time Louis stepped into the exam room—white coat, navy scrubs, every bit as devastating as his photo—Harry was already grinning.

“Really?” Louis said flatly, leaning against the doorframe. “You show up at my job?”

Harry raised both hands. “In my defense, I might actually be dying.”

“Of what?”

“Loneliness, probably.”

For a second, Louis’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. Then he shook his head and grabbed the chart. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re here,” Harry shot back, grin widening.

Louis skimmed the scrawled form. “Insurance: a question mark?”

Harry reclined on the paper-covered table. “Wasn’t sure if you take British boyfriends’ plans.”

Louis froze—just long enough for Harry to see it—then rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re impossible,” as he reached for his stethoscope.

He shut the door with a soft click, flipping through the chart like it held state secrets. “So. Sore throat, achy, possibly dying. That about cover it?”

Harry’s grin turned wicked. “Better safe than sorry. Thought you might want to, you know, listen to my heart. Check my pulse. I’m fragile.”

“Fragile,” Louis repeated, unimpressed. “You look perfectly fine.”

“That’s how it starts. Silent killers.”

Louis sighed, snapping on gloves. “Fine. Humor me.”

The stethoscope was cold against Harry’s t-shirt, Louis’s knuckles brushing his collarbone as he adjusted it. Harry didn’t flinch—he wanted to feel every second.

“Deep breath,” Louis said.

Harry obeyed dramatically, chest rising slow and exaggerated, eyes locked on Louis’s face.

Another breath, another beat. Louis pulled back, shaking his head. “Lungs clear. No fever. Heart steady—shocking, considering how full of shit you are.”

Harry gasped, hand to chest. “Doctor, please. I could be on death’s door, and you’re insulting me?”

Louis peeled off the gloves with a snap. “You’re wasting my time.”

Harry groaned, flopping sideways across the table. Then went still. Limbs loose, eyes fluttering shut.

Louis blinked. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fading…” Harry croaked. “It’s happening…”

“Might need…” he cracked one eye open, “…mouth to mouth.”

That did it. Louis barked out a laugh—quick, startled, genuine. “You clearly don’t need it if you can breathe enough to ask for it.”

Harry sat up, grinning. “Worth a shot.”

Louis muttered something too low to catch, but his ears were definitely pink.

The air shifted. Humor thinned into something quieter, heavier. Louis lingered, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “You’re perfectly fine,” he said at last. “So why are you actually here?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. Didn’t look away.

“Because,” he said simply, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The silence stretched. Louis froze, sarcasm stuck somewhere behind his teeth. His eyes flicked up—blue, startled, unguarded.

Harry smiled, softer now. “So go ahead. Write me a prescription. Or, you know… your number works too.”

Louis arched a brow, crossing his arms, stethoscope swinging. “And why would you think I’d give you my number?”

Harry tilted his head. “Because you haven’t kicked me out yet.”

Louis’s lips pressed into a thin line, but the lack of comeback said enough.

“Also,” Harry added, grin crooked, “because you keep looking at me like you’re trying very hard not to.”

Louis scoffed, eyes darting away—but the blush gave him up, climbing from his collar to the tips of his ears.

Harry leaned back, gaze sliding toward the counter where Louis’s phone sat. He reached for it, stepping in—close, too close—until Louis’s back met the counter edge.

For a heartbeat neither moved.

Louis’s breath caught. His pupils widened.

Harry held out the phone, thumb hovering. “So… your number?”

Louis stared at him for a beat, then snatched the device with an exaggerated sigh. “If it’ll stop you from stalking people at their workplace, I’ll sacrifice myself.”

Half-grumble, half-laugh—but his cheeks stayed stubbornly red as he typed.

Harry didn’t care what he said. Only that Louis took the phone. That he stayed close enough for Harry to count his lashes. That when the screen came back, glowing with a new contact—L. Tomlinson—Harry felt something in his chest spark to life.

Mission accomplished.

Louis practically shoved him toward the exit, but he still followed Harry all the way outside, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight like he didn’t know why he was walking him out.

They stood under the clinic lights, breath misting in the cold.

Harry slid into the back seat of his waiting Uber, window halfway down. “By the way, Louis…”

Louis looked up, wary.

Harry grinned. “You’re the hottest doctor I’ve ever seen.”

The window rolled up before Louis could respond, the car pulling away, leaving him on the curb—cheeks pink, mouth parted, fighting a losing battle with his smile.

Chapter Text

Harry lasted until ten pretending he might go out.

Then he gave up, ordered room-service pasta and a bottle of wine, and watched Ryan Seacrest shepherd other people’s joy in Times Square. The whole thing felt hollow—like a party happening behind glass.

The Hilton hummed too loud, too empty.

At 11:50, he stopped pretending entirely.

Harry: Happy New Year, Doc 🥂

The reply came faster than it should have.

Louis: Why are you awake?

Harry smiled at the ceiling, thumbs moving.

Harry: Hate being alone in hotels. Everything hums. Beds too white. Feels like a hospital. Kinda creepy.Harry: And you? Why are you awake?

Dots. Stop. Dots again.

Louis: Brain’s too loud. Happens sometimes.

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. Then:

Harry: Want to come keep me company?

The response was instant.

Louis: You’re insane. It’s midnight.

Harry: So that’s a not tonight… what about tomorrow? After your shift?

The pause stretched.

Louis: I’m off tomorrow. But I have plans with Eleanor.

Harry read it twice. He’d expected the name. It still pinched.

Harry: Rain check, then. You can’t hide behind Eleanor forever.

Dots appeared, lingered, vanished.

Harry’s thumb hovered—figured he’d overstepped.  He let charm fall away and sent the truth.

Harry: (puppy eyes)
Harry: I’ll get beers. We can watch whatever American sport you like. I just really don’t want to be alone.

Vulnerability landed heavier than any joke. He left it there.

Finally:

Louis: You’re ridiculous.
Louis: …but honest. Which is worse.

Harry rolled onto his side, smiling into the pillow.

Harry: So is that a yes?

The pause this time was long enough for doubt to bloom—then:

Louis: I can’t cancel my plans. But… I can probably figure something out after our reservations.

The grin that spread across Harry’s face felt slow and certain. A small, privase victory.

⸻

The restaurant was warm and loud, tables pushed too close, staff wishing Happy New Year with every refill. Eleanor leaned over the candle, finishing her wine with a grin that said she knew more than she was saying.

“You’re distracted,” she said—not a question.

“Am not,” Louis muttered, attacking his pasta.

“Louis.”

He sighed, set his fork down. “Fine. There’s this guy.”

“Harry,” she supplied, lips quirking when his eyes snapped up.

“How do you—”

“You haven’t stopped saying his name in your head since Christmas Eve.” Teasing, then gentler: “I’m not blind.”

Heat crept under his collar. “It’s not… it’s not a thing. He’s just—he’s…”

“Cute? Charming? The first bloke in ages who makes you look like you’ve put the world down for five minutes?” She said it easily, fond. She’d been here before—through real crushes, fake ones, rescues from family dinners.

Louis scowled at her glass. “We agreed. After uni—keep the families quiet, spare ourselves the questions. Pretend.”

“And it worked.” Her thumb ran absently along the stem. “But you don’t owe me your heart, Lou.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why,” she asked, amused, “are you going to his hotel after this ‘date’?”

He froze, then groaned. “You’re annoyin’, you know that?”

She reached across the table, warm hand covering his. “You’re nervous. You don’t get nervous for just anyone. Go. See what happens. Let it be natural.”

He wanted to argue. She squeezed once and leaned back, annoyingly right.

Natural.

Except nothing about Harry Styles felt natural. He was bright and ridiculous and impossible to ignore. And Louis was about to walk into his hotel room like he wasn’t already halfway in over his head.

⸻

He didn’t drive to the Hilton first.

The house looked the same as always—brick, porch light glowing, curtains drawn. His childhood home. His mum’s house.

Josie sat propped on the couch, blanket over her lap, true-crime murmuring from the telly. Smaller these days, but sharp-eyed, the loop of oxygen tubing careful at her ears.

“You’re late,” she said, smiling.

“Evenin’ to you too, Ma.” He kissed her hair, keys still in his hand.

“Where you off to? Thought you had dinner with Elle.”

“Did.” He toed off his shoes. “Now I’m, uh… meeting a mate.”

“A mate?” One eyebrow lifted.

“Don’t start,” he warned, but there was no heat in it.

She only smiled—soft, knowing, the way mothers do. If she guessed, she’d still love him. She always would. But she’d been through enough. After the divorce—after the man whose name Louis still carried moved to Florida with his four youngest and a new wife—Josie had rebuilt herself piece by stubborn piece. Louis had sworn he wouldn’t be the one to crack her again.

So he let her keep the picture she liked: Eleanor, steady and kind, the girl Jo asked after, the safe story that made her smile.

His room hadn’t changed much since he’d moved back after uni. Posters peeling, an old scarf looped over the bedframe, shelves cluttered with things that had stopped mattering. The Xbox sat where he’d left it, two controllers knotted together.

He crouched, untangling cords while old weight pressed into his ribs. This room had once been a refuge. Now it felt like a museum of what he’d tried to hold together.

Josie appeared in the doorway, leaning on the frame. “Taking up gaming again?”

“Something like that.” He tucked cords into a bag.

“Good.” Her smile was tired but genuine. “You’ve been too serious lately.”

“Can’t be serious all the time,” he said, zipping the bag. He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back tonight. Love you.”

“Love you too, Lou.” She didn’t press. She never did. Somehow that made the lie heavier.

The front door opened as he pulled on his jacket. Phoebe breezed in, cheeks pink from the cold. “You’re leaving already?”

“Just grabbing something.”

“Tell Eleanor I said hi,” she chirped, sly smile in place.

“Yeah. Will do.” His answering smile didn’t quite reach.

In the car, he sat with both hands on the wheel, the Xbox bag glowing faintly in the passenger seat like contraband.

Harry Styles. Hilton Hotel.

7:45, the dash read.

He took a breath and started the engine. Just a mate and a game, he told himself. Like nights with Zayn and Niall. Fine. Normal. Easy.

Everything is great, he lied to the empty street.

Everything is fucking great.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 — The Bar, Again

The days blurred, stitched together by the vibration of Harry’s name lighting up Louis’s phone.

At first, it was just a good-morning text—every morning without fail. Then midday updates: blurry selfies with his lunch, pictures of odd American snacks Louis swore were chemical warfare.

That’s not food, that’s poison, he’d text back.

Harry would reply with three laughing emojis and a promise to bring him a bag anyway.

By the second week, Harry was sending memes he barely understood but insisted were “absolutely hilarious.”

Louis told him he was an idiot but saved the ones that actually made him laugh.

Then came the calls—sometimes in the middle of the day, Harry wandering the city, narrating storefronts and strangers; sometimes late at night, his voice low and rough with sleep, babbling about a lyric he couldn’t finish or a film he’d just watched alone.

Louis would listen, half-asleep under his duvet, telling himself he was only half-awake.

But he always stayed until Harry’s words slurred into silence, the line soft with breathing.

It was fine, he told himself.

Just something new. A distraction.

Except—

When his phone buzzed during a shift, Harry Styles lighting up his screen, Louis didn’t send it to voicemail.

He slipped into the break room, sandwich in hand.

“Lou!” came that bright voice. “Do Americans really eat peanut butter with celery? Just saw a bloke do it and I swear my eyes are scarred.”

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose, smiling despite himself. “You’re callin’ me at work for celery?”

“Not just celery,” Harry said. “Crimes against celery.”

“I’m trying to eat lunch. Like a normal person.”

“That’s debatable,” Harry replied. “You’ve been chewing that same bite for thirty seconds.”

Louis froze mid-chew. “You watchin’ me now?”

“Wish I was,” Harry said, unashamed.

Louis choked. “You’re an idiot.”

“Guilty.”

They fell into their usual rhythm—banter that tumbled too easily, comfort that shouldn’t have existed yet.

When Harry asked about his evening plans, Louis said, “Meetin’ the lads. Couple of pints at O’Malley’s.”

“I wanna go. Take me with you.”

Louis laughed. “And what am I supposed to tell them? That some British pop star googled my job, faked a sore throat, and nearly fainted on my exam table just to get my number?”

The line went quiet for a beat before Harry’s laugh roared through the speaker.

“God, when you say it like that, it does sound ridiculous. You’re blushing, aren’t you?”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Louis rubbed his face, thankful no one else was around. “If you’re that desperate, just show up first. I’ll handle it.”

“So you do want me there.”

“God, you’re insufferable.”

“No promises.”

Louis hung up before he could laugh again, already knowing this was going to backfire spectacularly.

Except a few hours later—

Harry sat at the far end of the bar, pint glass sweating under his hand, thumb scrolling mindlessly.

He’d been there twenty minutes, pretending he wasn’t early.

Louis had told him to be there first. Said he’d handle it.

So Harry waited.

The doors burst open, laughter and cold air spilling in.

Boots scuffed, voices layered—Ollie, Zayn, Niall.

“Yo, look! It’s the British guy!”

Heads turned. A grin split Ollie’s face.

“Brit!” Zayn called. “No way you’re here again!”

Harry looked up, heart thudding as Louis walked in behind them—pink-cheeked, pretending to be unbothered.

“Evenin’, lads,” Harry said lightly, tipping his glass. “Didn’t expect to see you lot.”

Louis gave him a look—half warning, half warmth—and nodded toward an empty space at the booth.

They folded him in easily.

Ollie clapped his back, Niall poured shots, Zayn leaned across the table to show him photos of his newest mural.

“Bloody hell, that’s brilliant,” Harry said, leaning closer.

Zayn’s grin went bashful. “Cherokee Street. You can come by, man.”

Louis sat back, arms crossed, trying not to smile too much but failing miserably. Harry fit in—effortless, magnetic—and Louis hated how natural it looked.

A fresh round arrived, laughter louder now.

Harry tried cheese curds for the first time and pretended to faint from joy, which nearly sent Ollie into cardiac arrest.

Niall pitched trivia night.

Even the waitress lingered too long, teasing him about his accent.

Louis wanted to roll his eyes.

He wanted to say it was just Harry being Harry.

But it wasn’t. It felt personal.

The door jingled again near midnight.

Eleanor arrived with Lottie and the girls, cheeks pink from the cold. She spotted Louis immediately and crossed to him with that easy, practiced smile.

Harry saw it before he could look away: the way she slid in beside Louis, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

Casual. Familiar.

Like she’d done it a hundred times before.

It wasn’t a deep kiss, not even particularly romantic. But it was real enough to make Harry’s chest tighten—sharp and low, like being winded without warning.

Lottie flopped into the seat beside Ollie. “So the British guy really did come back! Thought you’d scared him off.”

“Not yet,” Harry said, forcing a grin. “Can’t seem to stay away.”

Eleanor laughed, gesturing around them. “Dangerous habit to pick up in a place like this.”

Louis chuckled, answering something Harry didn’t quite hear—something soft that made her lean in, fingers brushing his wrist as she spoke.

Harry looked away first.

The group swelled again, louder, easier, drinks refilled.

But the air had changed.

Every time Louis laughed, Harry felt it. Every time Eleanor leaned close, Harry felt that, too.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He told himself Louis could kiss whoever he wanted.

But he still noticed the way Louis’ smile faltered once when he caught Harry’s gaze across the table—like maybe he felt the same fracture.

The night went on, loud and messy, and Harry played along—charming the table, joking with Zayn, pretending not to notice how perfectly Eleanor’s hand fit against Louis’s shoulder.

When last call came, coats went on and goodnights blurred.

Harry said his as if it were nothing, as if he hadn’t already replayed that kiss in his mind a dozen times.

And walking back to the Hilton through the quiet streets, he told himself to let it go.

But the ache in his chest wouldn’t.

It stayed, stubborn as a heartbeat.

Louis and Eleanor.

He tried to laugh at himself, but the sound didn’t stick.

It was never supposed to matter this much.

But somehow it already did.

Chapter Text

Wednesday had a rhythm now. Louis woke early, checked the pill organizer, buttered his mum’s toast right to the edges.

“Don’t fuss,” Josie muttered, batting him off without force.

“Not fussin’,” he said, tucking the blanket higher anyway.

He hated how light she felt when he lifted her coat on. Hated that she leaned into him a little more each week. He smiled through it—easy, practiced—while his stomach tied itself in knots.

The drive to Barnes-Jewish was quiet. Radio low. Josie hummed. Louis’s mind drifted where he didn’t want it to: the bar, Harry laughing with his friends like he’d always belonged there, Eleanor’s hand on his shoulder and that quick, practiced kiss to his cheek. It had been nothing, really—polite, a habit—yet it weighed more than it should.

At patient drop-off he jogged for a wheelchair; when he reappeared, Josie was smirking.

“You make it look like a race.”

“Well you deserve a good pit crew,” he said, breathless and pretending not to be.

In the lift, numbers ticked up, slow. Josie watched him the way mothers do.

“What’s crowding your head, Lou?”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“Mhm.”

He stared at the floor, jaw set. She slid her fingers to where his hand gripped the push bar and gave a small squeeze.

“You’ve always carried too much up here,” she said, soft. “Whatever it is—let a little light in. It won’t feel so heavy.”

He swallowed. The bell chimed for five. Her hand stayed on his a beat longer than necessary.

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. Forms, signatures, the routine. He guided her hand when it trembled; she shot him a look—half-annoyed, half-thankful.

Vitals, then beige walls and old magazines. Dr. Kaplan was kind, efficient.

“Oxygen’s steady. That’s good. Weight’s down a touch—nothing alarming. We’ll increase the night dose.”

Nothing alarming. The phrases doctors used like bubble wrap. Louis nodded and stared at the chart until print blurred.

When they were alone again, Josie tipped her head. “You’re frowning.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Work. Bills. You.” The last word slipped out before he could stop it.

“Louis,” she said, and he met her eyes.

“You can’t stop life hurting sometimes,” she said. “But don’t shut out the good because you’re bracing for the bad.”

He wanted to joke, to deflect. Couldn’t. He nodded once, sharp. “Yeah. Okay.”

She smiled, tired and proud, and let it rest.

—

That night, the house hummed its small sounds—vents, old pipes, Phoebe’s door clicking shut. Louis lay on his back, phone warm in his palm, his mum’s words looping steady.

Don’t shut out the good because you’re bracing for the bad.

He shouldn’t. He had Eleanor’s script, work, family. He didn’t have space for a pop star with a grin that rearranged his ribs.

And yet.

He hit call before he could talk himself out of it.

“Hey,” he said when Harry picked up on the second ring, voice rough. “You’re late for our nightly meeting.”

A low chuckle, easy as a hand at his back. “Didn’t know we had official hours. D’you miss me already?”

Louis closed his eyes. “Nah. Guess I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Silence, warm and charged.

“Yeah,” Harry said, softer. “Me too.”

This is insane, Louis thought, staring at the ceiling. Dinner with Eleanor, clinic, the appointment—then this: holding onto a voice like oxygen.

“So,” he cleared his throat, “what’ve you been up to? You sound tired.”

“Tried writing. Words weren’t sticking,” Harry said. “Played your Xbox instead. You’ve got truly chaotic taste in games.”

Louis huffed, a laugh sneaking out he hadn’t found all day.

Harry rambled on, about American game shows and how he couldn’t understand why a wheel of fortune needed to be that big, or why everyone shouted when they could just talk. Louis let the words wash over him. Not the content—though it was funny, ridiculous—but the rhythm of them. The way Harry filled the silences Louis usually drowned in.

“How d’you do that?” Louis asked, quiet.

“Do what?”

“Make the world feel less heavy just by talking.”

The line went quiet for a long second. Louis almost wished he could pull the words back, shove them down where they belonged

The. Harry said at last, voice teasing with something true, “maybe it’s lighter ‘cause you’re listening.”

“Idiot,” Louis whispered, but there was no sting.

“Goodnight, Lou.”

A beat stretched thin and sweet. “’Night, Harry.”

He set the phone on the pillow beside him and didn’t hang up. Neither did Harry. Their breathing threaded the line, soft and steady, until sleep tugged Louis under.

—

Harry didn’t move. The room was dark, the phone still on the pillow like a body double. He should press End.

Instead he listened—to that faint, even sound on the other end. Louis sleeping. It felt intimate in a way he hadn’t prepared for, like being let into a room no one else knew existed.

He could almost see him: sprawled, one arm flung above his head, brow smooth for once. The ache that had started as a spark stretched out, warm and undeniable.

It wasn’t just a crush anymore. It was how Louis’s voice had made St. Louis feel less like a stopover and more like a place he might want to belong.

Harry closed his eyes and let the soft breath on the line carry him, past the restless thinking and into quiet.

He didn’t hang up. Not yet.

Chapter Text

The first thing Harry registered when he woke was the thud of his phone sliding off his chest.

The second was the black screen. Dead.

“Shit,” he muttered, fumbling for the charger. He jammed the cord in, flopped back, and stared at the ceiling while it buzzed weakly to life.

The dread hit instantly. He hadn’t hung up.

He knew he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep to Louis’s breathing, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. Which meant—

“Fuck.” Harry covered his face. If Louis had noticed—if Louis thought he’d been creepily listening—he’d never live it down.

The phone finally lit, chiming like it had been saving his humiliation for morning.

Three new texts blinked up.

Louis: Who needs an alarm when you have a British guy sawing wood through your speaker.

Louis: And were you listening to me sleep?? Strange way to flirt.

Harry groaned, dragging the duvet over his head. Of course Louis had noticed. Of course he’d turned it into ammunition.

He peeked again.

Louis: Good morning, Sunshine.

Something warm and stupid bloomed in his chest. Three casual words, and he was grinning into his pillow like a teenager.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, smiling anyway. “He’s gonna kill me.”

By eight, the clinic was buzzing. Phones rang, nurses weaved between rooms, someone coughed like they wanted the building to feel it.

Louis tugged on his white coat, half-drained coffee in hand, slipping behind the counter to check charts.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He shouldn’t look. He did anyway.

Harry Styles

Oi, for the record, I don’t snore that loud.

Louis bit back a smirk.

Louis Tomlinson

Didn’t say it was bad. Just loud enough to sound like you were sawing wood.

Dots blinked, vanished, blinked again.

Harry Styles

Unfair accusation. Maybe I was just… breathing deeply.

Louis grinned, helpless.

Louis Tomlinson

Deep enough to sound like a tractor?

Harry Styles

Careful. Keep calling me out and I’ll return the favor. Pretty sure you were breathing into the mic on purpose.

Louis blinked, heat creeping up his neck.

Louis Tomlinson

Right, nothing sexier than me half-choking on recycled clinic air.

Harry Styles

Didn’t say it wasn’t sexy.

Louis froze. The words sat there, bold, daring.

His pulse jumped.

Louis Tomlinson

You’re impossible.

Harry Styles

And yet you’re still texting me first thing in the morning. Who’s really impossible here?

He snapped the phone face-down on the desk, grinning like an idiot.

“Doctor Tomlinson?” a nurse called.

He cleared his throat, pretending nothing in the world was wrong.

But his pocket buzzed again, and the smile tugged before he could stop it.

The clock above the nurses’ station clicked to 4:37.

Louis leaned back in his chair. Charts signed, scrubs itchy, clinic quiet. He just needed to last until five.

He stared at his phone instead.

Harry’s last message glowed back: Still think about last night’s call?

With a winky face he refused to dignify.

He was still staring when the door opened.

“Louis?”

Eleanor stood there, scarf looped loose, cheeks pink from the cold. For a heartbeat he felt caught.

“El,” he said, pocketing the phone. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Wanted to talk. In person.”

Something in her tone straightened his spine. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Better than okay.” She took the seat opposite him. “I… met someone.”

He blinked. “Met someone?”

“Not like that. We’ve just been talking. But it feels different.”

Her voice softened. “And I thought I should tell you. Because of… us.”

Louis exhaled, chest tight but not from jealousy. Just inevitability. “Right.”

“I’m not rushing into anything,” she said. “But if it does become something, I don’t want to keep lying forever.”

Her smile was kind, steady. She was giving him freedom.

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall—heavy, familiar.

Harry.

Hair tousled from the wind, cheeks pink, car key spinning between his fingers. He stopped short, eyes flicking between them.

“Oh. Shit.” He rubbed the back of his neck, words tumbling. “Sorry— I didn’t— I was just—” He waved the keys helplessly. “Picking up a prescription? Didn’t mean to crash anything.”

Louis groaned under his breath. Idiot.

Eleanor’s lips twitched. She rose, wrapping her scarf. “Actually, I was just leaving.”

“El—” he started, but she only squeezed his arm, her voice low and sure:

“Let yourself want something real, Lou.”

Then she was gone, perfume fading with the click of the door.

Which left him standing there. With Harry.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets, guilt written across every line of him. “Oh my God, Lou, I swear I didn’t mean to walk in on—whatever that was.”

Louis raked a hand through his hair. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Harry’s mouth curved. “Yeah. But you like it.”

“It’s not funny.” Louis rolled his eyes, heart hammering anyway. Eleanor’s words still pulsed in his head. Something real.

He sighed. “What are you even doin’ here, Harry?”

“I—” Harry faltered, the practiced swagger slipping. “I just wanted to grab food. And, uh—” he held up the key, sheepish “—show you the car. Took me fifteen minutes to find the handbrake. Spoiler, it doesn’t have one. Thought you’d laugh at me.”

He grimaced. “I really didn’t mean to… mess anything up. Do you want me to go?”

Louis should say yes.

He didn’t.

“No, Harry,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to go.”

Something changed in Harry then—the hesitation fell away, replaced by quiet certainty.

“So you want me to stay,” he murmured, stepping closer.

“Don’t push it,” Louis said, but it came out soft, his breath catching as Harry closed the distance.

The heat rolled off him, close enough for Louis to feel his pulse trip over itself.

“Break up with your girlfriend,” Harry said, voice low but sure, like it wasn’t even a question. 

Louis’s breath stuttered. “Why would I—?”

Harry’s hand lifted, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Because I don’t want to feel guilty when I kiss you…” he whispered. “And I really want to. Right now.”

Louis’s mind screamed a dozen protests—Eleanor, the clinic, common sense—but Harry’s palm was warm against his cheek, and the only thing that made it out was a hoarse, “She’s not my girlfriend—”

The rest disappeared against Harry’s lips.

The kiss landed soft at first, hesitant, testing the line they’d been toeing for weeks. Louis froze for a heartbeat, the shock of it thrumming down his spine—then leaned in, answering without words.

Harry exhaled through his nose, pressing closer, the restraint shattering. His lips deepened the kiss, slow turning to hungry, like he’d been waiting far too long. Louis’s fingers fisted in his shirt, holding on as the world tilted.

When Harry tilted his head, tongue brushing his bottom lip, Louis’s knees nearly gave. The taste of him, the certainty of his hands, the ache in his chest—all of it crashed through him at once.

And for the first time, Louis didn’t fight it.

He let himself want something real.

Chapter Text

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Louis stumbled back a step.

His chest rose and fell too fast, heart pounding so loud it filled the silence. Harry just grinned—wide, reckless, like he’d just scored a goal no one else knew they were playing.

“C’mon,” Harry said, twirling the car keys between his fingers. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“Oh no, a boy and his toys,” Louis muttered, but he let himself be pulled toward the door anyway.

The cold hit sharp and real, grounding him just enough to remember where they were—and just enough for the dizziness to settle into something that felt like excitement. The parking lot was quiet, empty except for a gleaming black Range Rover under the streetlight.

Louis stopped short. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Harry leaned against the hood, smug as anything. “Told you I’d impress you. I’ll bring you back to your car later, promise. But there’s a place I know you haven’t been yet.” His grin softened, turning from playful to hopeful. “Can I show you?”

Louis eyed him, torn between suspicion and the warmth curling low in his chest. “If you kill me with your driving, Styles—”

“You’ll die laughing,” Harry said brightly, swinging the door open with a flourish. “Now get in. You’ve never seen a Range Rover handled quite like this.”

Louis got in. Against his better judgment.

Every too-sharp turn, every dramatic flick of the blinker had him gripping the door handle and muttering curses under his breath. Harry’s laugh filled the car, unbothered.

When Harry nearly missed a stop sign and mumbled, “Oops. Artistic choice,” Louis barked out a laugh so sudden it startled them both.

Harry’s grin went smug and bright in the dashboard glow. “Knew I’d get you eventually.”

Louis shook his head, still chuckling. “You’re a menace.”

“Correction,” Harry said, slipping into an exaggerated posh accent, “a menace with a destination.”

⸻

The ramen shop was the last thing Louis expected.

Tiny, half-hidden between a laundromat and a pawn shop, plastered wall to wall with Dragon Ball Z posters and hand-drawn doodles from regulars. The smell hit first—broth and fried garlic and chili oil thick enough to make his stomach rumble.

Harry pushed the door open, grinning. “Told you. Only the classiest joints for our first date.”

Louis blinked, raising a brow. “Date? Who said this was a date?”

Harry tilted his head, curls spilling into his eyes. “Me. Just now.”

Louis’s snort came out halfway to a laugh. “Bold of you to assume.”

“Yet,” Harry said under his breath, sliding into the booth.

Louis pretended not to hear. He sat opposite him, scanning the laminated menu tucked under a pile of trading cards.

“Order whatever,” Harry said, waving down the waitress. “I’m paying.”

“Don’t need you buyin’ me noodles, Styles.”

“Too late, Tommo.” His grin was dazzling. “One miso, one spicy tonkotsu, and whatever fried thing you recommend.” The waitress giggled so hard she nearly dropped her notepad.

Louis could only shake his head. “You always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Pushy. Ridiculous. Actin’ like the world bends if you ask it nice enough.”

Harry’s smirk softened. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know what I want—and I go for it.”

Louis ducked his head, pretending to fuss with the chopsticks so Harry wouldn’t see how much that landed.

When the food came, Harry grabbed an egg roll, dunked it straight into his steaming soup, and took a massive bite.

Louis gawked. “Oh, absolutely not. That’s a crime.”

Harry chewed, unfazed. “Then show me how to do it right.”

Louis choked on a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one feeding me.”

“Am not—”

But Harry raised a brow, daring. So Louis dipped an egg roll properly into the sweet-and-sour sauce, holding it out across the table with a deadpan look that didn’t fool anyone.

Harry leaned in and bit down—slow, eyes locked on his.

Louis’s breath caught. He tore his gaze away, shoving noodles into his mouth to cover the heat crawling up his neck. Harry’s laughter followed, low and satisfied.

Dinner after that was too easy.

Harry talked about the chaos of British interviews, a fan who once asked him to sign her dog, his crusade against American tea. Louis laughed so hard his sides ached. For the first time in weeks, he forgot about Eleanor, about his mum, about anything that wasn’t right there in front of him.

And when the laughter faded, Harry was still watching him—steady, unflinching.

Louis met his gaze. One heartbeat, two. His pulse stumbled.

Harry didn’t look away. He just winked, smug and soft all at once.

Louis huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re annoyin’.”

“Good thing you like annoying,” Harry said, dimples flashing.

⸻

The drive back was calmer this time. Harry hummed under his breath—a melody Louis didn’t recognize but already liked. The kind of tune that would stick with him long after the sound faded.

They pulled into the clinic lot, Louis’s car sitting lonely under the streetlight. The easy bubble of the night thinned, reality slipping back in.

Louis reached for the handle, already rehearsing the casual goodbye. Thanks for dinner. Drive safe. See you around.

But Harry’s voice stopped him. “Stay.”

Louis looked over.

Harry’s expression was soft, steady, the bravado stripped down to something honest. “Xbox rematch,” he said. “You owe me.”

Louis arched a brow. “You sure your pride can take another L?”

“Hundred percent,” Harry said without hesitation. “I’m feeling lucky tonight.”

Louis’s mouth twitched, fighting a smile. “We’ll see.”

He stepped out into the cold, pretending he didn’t already know he’d say yes.

Harry stayed there, watching him go, that unshakable grin playing at his lips—like he knew, too.

Chapter Text

Home still smelled faintly of peppermint tea and the lavender lotion his mum favored.

Josie was curled on the couch, blanket high around her shoulders, the soft hiss of her oxygen steady in the quiet. Louis tucked it closer, brushed a hand through her hair just once before straightening.

His chest pinched—the kind of ache that sat deep, familiar.

He checked the pill organizer. Double-checked the locks. Lingered longer than he needed to, like staying could make a difference.

The shower was quick, perfunctory. Scrubs gone, the day stripped from his skin. In the fogged mirror, he almost told himself to stop—to stay put before it got messier.

Then his phone buzzed.

A GIF from Harry: a man impatiently tapping his watch.

Louis huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Pushy bastard.”

The breath he let out was anything but steady.

He kissed his mum’s forehead, texted Phoebe to say he was heading out, and slipped into the cold. The air bit sharp against his cheeks, grounding him in the smallest way.

He told himself to go straight to Harry’s. Just drive. No stops.

But the thought of showing up empty-handed—of Harry missing his sour candies—made him pull into QuikTrip.

By the time he reached the Hilton garage, the passenger seat looked like a gas-station picnic.

Mad. Absolutely mad.

Still, when he crossed the lobby, Paul at the desk greeted him like a regular.

“Evening, Mr. Tomlinson. Straight up to the suite?”

Louis muttered a thanks, flush creeping up his neck. The elevator hummed around him. Beer and candy in hand, he told himself this was harmless. Just company. Just noise.

Then the door opened, and Harry was there—barefoot, curls wild, grin wider.

“You’re here,” he said, eyes bright. “And you brought gifts?”

“Snacks,” Louis corrected, brushing past him. “Beer. Don’t say I don’t come prepared.”

Harry trailed close. “You spoil me.”

Louis cracked open a can, handing it over. “You’re too easy.”

They fell into rhythm quick—controllers in hand, the Xbox humming between them. Harry wiped the floor with him in FIFA; Louis returned the favor in Madden.

“Beginner’s luck,” Harry said loftily.

“Beginner? I’ve been beatin’ you for a week,” Louis shot back.

“Exactly,” Harry said, turning toward him with that grin that disarmed every defense Louis had. “Beginner. Lucky.”

Louis forgot why that didn’t make sense.

Another round. Another beer. Laughter came easier, shoulders brushing, knees staying pressed together. Somewhere between a goal celebration and a curse, Harry’s hand landed on his thigh and didn’t move.

When Harry threw himself back on the bed in triumph, Louis shoved him, laughing.

“You’re insufferable.”

Harry’s grin only widened. “Admit it—you love it.”

Louis froze half a heartbeat too long, staring down at him—hair mussed, mouth pink, eyes a little too open. The air between them changed—shifted from loud to weightless.

Harry’s laughter softened. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach. Louis felt the pull like gravity.

He gave in first.

The kiss wasn’t gentle this time. It hit like relief, like the breaking of something they’d both been holding too tightly. Harry’s hand slid to the back of his neck, anchoring him, guiding him deeper. Louis sank into it, into the taste of beer and sugar and everything he hadn’t let himself want.

The Xbox menu hummed idly in the background. The rest of the world blinked out.

The kiss deepened—hungry, sure, but not rushed. Harry’s thumb traced the hinge of Louis’s jaw, slow and deliberate. Louis’s breath hitched; his hand fisted in the soft cotton at Harry’s shoulder.

When they broke apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet.

Harry smiled, voice rough. “Told you I know what I want.”

Louis’s pulse thudded beneath his skin. “And what’s that?”

Harry’s eyes flicked to his mouth. “You.”

It wasn’t a line. It was simple, devastating truth.

Louis’s reply was another kiss—slower, deeper, less fire and more gravity. His hands framed Harry’s face, thumbs brushing along the stubble there, memorizing the feel of it.

When Harry rolled them easily, pinning Louis back against the mattress, Louis didn’t resist. His laughter tangled with a sigh as Harry kissed the corner of his mouth, the line of his throat, the place just below his ear that made his breath catch.

Everything slowed—heat turned steady, patient. Hands wandered, found purchase, but never hurried. It wasn’t about conquest; it was about permission.

Louis could feel Harry’s heartbeat against his ribs, fast and real. His own echoed it.

The noise of the city outside faded. Only their breathing filled the space—uneven, shared.

When Harry whispered his name—“Louis”—like it was something holy, Louis’s chest broke wide open.

He didn’t think. He just reached for him again.

The night blurred after that—laughter, warmth, a tangle of limbs and unspoken words—until the hum of the TV was the only witness left.

And when Louis finally let his head fall back against the pillow, Harry’s hand still resting over his heart, he knew there was no pretending this hadn’t changed everything.

He’d crossed the line.

And he didn’t want to come back.

The room was still humming when it was over—hearts steadying, breaths slowing, the faint vanilla smoke of the candle still clinging to the air. Sheets tangled around their legs, the telly casting faint colors across the wall.

Harry lay back against the pillows, skin flushed, curls damp against his forehead. His chest rose and fell, a grin tugging soft at his lips like he hadn’t quite caught his breath. Louis didn’t think it was possible to find him more attractive, but here he was—wrecked, glowing, looking at him like Louis had just handed him the whole damn world.

Harry turned his head, green eyes catching him in the half-light. “Was that your first time? With a man, I mean.”

Louis swallowed, shaking his head. “No. Just… it’s been a while.”

Harry’s grin widened, a little smug, a little shy. “Was it good?”

Louis huffed out a laugh, tugging the sheet higher to cover Harry’s bare shoulder. “You fishing for compliments now?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, entirely unashamed.

Louis hesitated, then leaned down, brushing a kiss to his temple. His voice came quiet, honest. “It was better than good.”

They stayed like that for a while—Harry stretched out, Louis propped on an elbow, their bodies pressed close. Warmth and silence twined between them, easy as breathing. But underneath it, Louis felt the weight creeping back in, pressing at his chest.

He sighed, staring at the ceiling. “Eleanor and me… it’s an arrangement. Always has been. We pretend, keep people off our backs, keep our families from asking questions we don’t want to answer. She gets space from her mum. I keep my mom happy. Makes things simple.”

Harry didn’t interrupt. Just listened, his hand tracing lazy patterns against Louis’s wrist. 

“My mom,” Louis continued, voice low, “she’s sick. Wants me settled, married, kids on the way, all that. I just want to give her what she wants.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. His thumb never stopped its lazy circles, but his voice was careful, cutting straight through. “So you pretend to keep everyone else happy?”

Louis’s throat tightened. “Sort of,” he admitted. “I just… I don’t want to disappoint her. She’s had enough heartbreaks in her life. Hearing about Eleanor makes her smile. So I do whatever I can to keep her smiling.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment, like he was weighing each word. The room held only the sound of their breathing, the faint hum of the telly in the background. Then Harry shifted, turning his head so he could meet Louis’s eyes.

“Does that mean you’re gonna pull back?” Harry asked, softer than he meant to. The words slipped out raw, like he’d been holding them back all night. His eyes searched Louis’s face, green and unsteady, as if bracing for the answer that might undo him.

Louis’s chest pulled tight. He hadn’t expected Harry—so confident, so relentless—to sound like that. Delicate. Hopeful. Afraid.

For a moment he just looked at him, at the curve of his lips still kiss-bitten, at the flush across his cheekbones, at the way his thumb never stopped drawing circles like he was desperate to keep the connection alive.

Louis's chest ached.

He shook his head, voice rough but certain. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

The relief that flickered across Harry’s face hit Louis like a punch. His lips curved, slow and certain, the kind of smile that felt less like victory and more like a vow.

Louis exhaled, tension bleeding out of his chest as he shifted closer. Harry didn’t hesitate, just opened his arm, letting Louis tuck himself in against his side. His skin was warm, still buzzing from everything they’d just shared, but the steady rise and fall of his chest was grounding in a way Louis hadn’t felt in years.

Silence stretched, easy this time. Harry’s fingers traced idle shapes at the base of Louis’s spine, not pushing, not demanding. Just… there. Present.

Louis’s eyes grew heavy. He tried to fight it, tried to cling to the sharp edges of the moment, but the weight of the day caught up to him, soft and irresistible.

Harry pressed one last kiss into his hair, whispering something that barely reached Louis’s ears. A promise, maybe. Or just his name.

And when sleep finally pulled him under, Louis let it—because for once, he didn’t feel like he was falling alone.

Chapter Text

The sunlight broke across the curtains when Harry stirred, stretching across the too-wide bed.

Louis was gone.

For a moment, the room felt hollow again—like it had before. Before Louis’s laugh had filled it. Before his touch had set fire to every inch of it.

Harry blinked, groggy, and reached for his phone on the nightstand. 

6:04 a.m.

Louis: Had to head home. Work in a few. Get some rest.

Harry let his head tip back against the pillow. He could almost convince himself he remembered it—the brush of Louis’s mouth against his forehead, a low goodnight that might’ve been real or might’ve been the last stubborn edge of a dream. Either way, it lodged under his ribs like a secret.

The night unspooled behind his eyes: the kiss that cracked them open, the way Louis had stopped holding back, the quiet confession after—It’s an arrangement. Always has been. The word Eleanor threaded through the dark like a warning and a kindness at once. And Louis’s mum. Sick.

The pillbox, the pretend.

The ways he’d built a life that wasn’t quite his to keep her smiling.

Harry didn’t fault him for it. He recognized the shape of that kind of love—the kind that made you fold yourself smaller for someone else’s peace. But Louis hadn’t felt small last night. (No pun intended.) Not with the way he’d said Harry’s name. Not with the way he’d wanted.

Harry understood. Maybe too well. That need to protect the people you love, even if it meant cutting yourself down to fit their picture of you. He couldn’t fault Louis for it, not when every part of him screamed that he was just trying to keep his mum smiling.

His chest clinched.

Louis had said it wasn’t his first time.

Harry’s chest tightened around the thought. Who else? What other man had gotten to see him like that? To know him in ways Louis barely let himself admit out loud? Harry didn’t want to picture it. Couldn’t. Because Louis was his now. Or at least, Harry wanted him to be.

Traces lingered. In his hair, his skin, the sheets tangled beneath him. The memories pressed warm and insistent against the part of Harry desperate to memorize it all. The look on Louis’s face when he’d finally stopped holding back—God, Harry could’ve believed anything in that moment.

He stared at the ceiling, heart hammering, and fumbled for his phone again. Ed would kill him if he didn’t hear about this first.

He answered on the third ring, voice gravelly. “You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me I shouldn’t hang up.”

Harry flopped back against the pillows, grinning at the ceiling. “I shagged the hot straight doctor.”

Silence. Then a bark of laughter. “Jesus Christ. Finally. I was about to send a search party for your game.”

“Oi.” Harry rubbed at his eyes, still warm with the echo of last night. “Wasn’t for lack of trying.”

“Walk me through it.” Paper rustled on Ed’s end. “No—start with your face. What’s it doing?”

Harry blinked. “My face?”

“Yeah. Are you smirking like a teenager who just nicked a bottle of gin, or do you look terrified? Because both are your brand.”

Harry exhaled, caught. “Bit of both.”

“Right,” Ed said, satisfied. “So. Louis… is he actually straight, or was that a you-problem?”

Harry’s grin faltered. “He’s… complicated.”

“That’s a no,” Ed shot back. “Or a ‘not publicly.’ Which is also a no.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry pushed, too quickly. “He’s got family stuff, and it’s—he’s careful. But with me he—” He broke off, chest tight with the memory of Louis’s mouth, Louis’s hands, the way Louis had breathed out his name like a secret. “He wanted it,” Harry finished, uselessly.

“Not doubting he wanted it,” Ed said, kinder now. “I’m asking if he can have it. With you. In daylight.”

Harry stared at the ceiling. The vanilla scent from the blown-out candle still clung to the room. “I don’t know.

“Okay,” Ed said, all producer pragmatism.

“Then protect your heart. Set terms you can live with. Don’t be the bloke who’s only allowed in after dark.”

Harry winced. “Harsh.”

“Honest.” A beat. “Also—are you safe?”

Harry groaned. “I’m not having this conversation with you, Dad.”

“You’re lucky I’m not your dad. You’d be getting a much worse lecture.” Ed softened. “Listen. I’m happy for you. Genuinely. I heard it when you said his name.”

Harry went quiet.

“And I heard it when you didn’t,” Ed added, gentler still. “But one of us has to be the grown-up here: if he pulls back, don’t chase your own undoing. Leave a door open, yeah, but keep your feet under you.”

Harry nodded, even though Ed couldn’t see him. “I’ll try.”

“One more thing,” Ed said. “If you fuck up, you call me first. I’ll handle the mess.”

Harry snorted. “You’re assuming there’ll be a mess.”

“You’re you,” Ed said dryly. “Of course there’ll be a mess.” He hesitated, then: “And Harry? Wanting something real isn’t embarrassing.”

Harry closed his eyes. Louis’s laugh flared in his chest like a streetlight flicking on. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

“Good lad.” Ed yawned. “Now go write a song before you combust.”

“Already did,” Harry said. “It’s called ‘Always Louis.’”

“Absolutely not,” Ed said, and hung up.

Harry laughed into the empty room, the sound hitting the ceiling and falling back on him warm.

Harry laughed into the empty room, the sound hitting the ceiling and falling back on him warm.

Over the last three weeks, the last thing he expected was to actually get Louis Tomlinson in his bed. The fact that Louis spent so much time with him was something in itself, but after last night? There was no way Harry could go back to pretending he was just being nice. Harry had never been imagining things.

Three weeks. That’s all it had taken for Louis to pitch a tent in his chest. Maybe this was a spark. Maybe it was a fall. Either way, he didn’t want it to stop.

Hot water drummed the back of Louis’s neck, steam fogging the mirror until he vanished.

Guilt had edges. It sat under his ribs like a fist. Not for last night—God, not that—but for morning. For the pillbox on the counter. For the scarf on the hallway hook that didn’t belong to the story he wanted. For the habit of being easy to love by being easy to read.

He shut off the water. Silence hit too loud.

Scrubs. Stethoscope. A glass of water lined up beside his mum’s tablets like control could be counted in milligrams. He kissed her hair, tucked the blanket higher on her shoulders.

“Morning, love,” Josie rasped, cheek tipping into his palm. “You look different. Good night?”

Louis kept his smile even. “Slept,” he lied, and it wasn’t, not really.

He tried to drive with the radio on. It was all fuzz. A memory elbowed through anyway: a flat after uni, a boy with careful hands, a confession that turned into a soft retreat—You’re great, Lou. I just… can’t be that. Lesson learned. Want less. Be less sharp. Keep everyone comfortable.

At the clinic, the day swallowed him whole. Vitals, coughs, a LEGO extraction that ended in a sticker and a high-five. Work made the world small enough to hold.

At a red light, Eleanor’s name flashed.

El: Coffee soon? Need to debrief.

El: Also, I meant it—if it’s real, don’t run from it.

Louis exhaled through his nose.

Louis: Soon. Promise.

By late afternoon, the noise thinned. The staff room hummed with a vending machine and the blink of a green monitor through the door’s window. Louis stared at his phone until the cracked plastic table blurred.

Harry: Hope your day isn’t chewing you up. Save some energy to destroy me in Madden tonight. I like being humbled.

Louis’s mouth tilted despite himself. Then the ache slid in beside it.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Louis: Don’t know about Madden. Long day.

…

Louis: But I could eat.

His thumb hovered. His mum’s voice, soft in a dim elevator—Don’t shut yourself out of it just because you’re scared—threaded the quiet.

Send.

Harry: Picking you up. 30 mins. No arguments.

Harry: Fine, one argument. But you’ll lose, and that’s embarrassing for a doctor.

Louis let his head drop back against the cinderblock, a traitor’s smile sneaking in. Idiot, he told the ceiling. Himself. Both.

He texted Phoebe.

Louis: Late tonight. Can you make sure Mum eats?

Phoebe: Got her. Go breathe.

Breathe. 

He tried.

“Fancy somewhere fancy?” Harry dangled the rental’s key between two fingers, curls tucked behind one ear, eyes bright. “I Googled the best restaurants. I’m prepared to mispronounce everything.”

The thought of crowded rooms and eyes made Louis’s skin buzz. He shook his head. “Actually… could we just do takeout? Back at yours.”

The smile dipped. Not gone, but dimmed. Harry masked it fast, which somehow hurt worse. “Yeah. ’Course.”

He was too quiet on the drive. Not sulking—Harry didn’t do small—but folded in. Fingers drummed the gearshift. Jaw tight. The radio became a wall between them.

Louis tried for light. “Smoother than last time. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

It earned a twitch at Harry’s mouth. Silence pooled again.

Upstairs, the quiet thickened. The keycard beeped. The door swept open. Takeout slid on the counter. Harry lined containers like a setlist and didn’t look at him.

Louis’s chest pinched. He knew that shape—the edged hurt of being half-chosen.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong,” he asked finally, “or am I supposed to guess?”

Harry’s chopsticks hovered. He didn’t look up. “Just… feels like maybe you don’t want to be seen with me.”

Louis froze. The words were soft, but they cut straight through him. He hated the picture they painted—him with the door half open, Harry on the wrong side of it. He knew what that felt like. He’d been there—late nights, closed doors, the sharp ache of being wanted but never claimed. It hollowed you out, left you half a person in the daylight. And the thought of Harry—Harry—feeling like that because of him made his chest twist.

“No,” Louis said, rougher than he meant. He shook his head, throat tight. “It’s not that. I swear it’s not. I just… today was long. My head’s fried. I wanted it to be us. Just us. No noise, no people. We literally just went on a—out to eat, yesterday.”

Harry glanced up. The hurt didn’t vanish, but it eased. “Just us?”

“Yeah,” Louis said, steady now. “Just us.”

Something unknotted in Harry’s shoulders. His mouth tipped. “You almost called it a date.”

Louis rolled his eyes, relief like air. “Eat your food.”

They ate on the bed with the telly low—pad thai, fried rice, chopsticks waging small wars over the last spring roll. Harry’s commentary returned in spurts, the easy kind that didn’t demand answers. Louis felt his body relearn the shape of the room with Harry in it.

At some point, their legs tangled. Louis’s hand found Harry’s stomach, thumb tracing idle circles through thin cotton. He didn’t think about it; he only didn’t move.

Ed’s voice flashed and faded—don’t be the bloke who’s only allowed in after dark—and for once Harry didn’t feel hidden. He felt… chosen. He let himself have it.

Louis’s guilt didn’t leave. It scooted over, making room for want. For the fact that he’d asked for quiet because he needed it, not because he wanted Harry smaller. He didn’t know yet how to give him daylight. But he could give him this, and mean it.

“Bit clingy,” Harry murmured eventually, amusement tucked under the words.

“Shut up,” Louis said, not moving his hand.

When Harry kissed him—soft, a brush and a promise—Louis leaned in, meeting him there. No urgency. No storm. Just the steady kind of wanting that could outlast noise.

They watched the end of a romcom neither of them had picked on purpose. Credits rolled over takeout containers and the sound of two people breathing in time.

Later, Louis stood at the door with his keys digging crescents into his palm. “I should go,” he said, and hated the way it tasted.

Harry nodded like he’d practiced being gracious. “Text me when you’re in.”

Louis hovered. “I’m not hiding you.”

“I know,” Harry said, and this time Louis believed him.

“Tomorrow?” Louis tried, careful and a little desperate. “After clinic?”

Harry’s smile turned sure. “Tomorrow.”

Louis kissed him once, quick and unpretty by the door, because the elevator would ding and the world would start again. Harry chased it for half a second anyway.

“Go,” he said, soft. “Before I talk you into staying.”

“Wouldn’t take much,” Louis admitted.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it.”

Louis met his eyes. “Wouldn’t take much.”

The elevator doors closed on Harry’s grin and the warm shape he left in the room. In the lift’s mirror, Louis looked like himself and someone he almost recognized—the version who reached for what he wanted and didn’t apologize first.

Outside, the night bit his cheeks awake. Guilt rode shotgun all the way home. So did want. They didn’t cancel each other out. They never had. But for the first time, he let them sit side by side without forcing one to win.

He locked the front door, checked the pillbox, tucked the blanket around his mum’s shoulders. In the quiet kitchen glow, his phone buzzed.

Harry: In?

Louis: In.

Harry: Good. Sleep.

Louis: You too.

He set the phone face down and let the wanting stay. Not hiding. Not loud. Just there, steady as the pulse under his palm.

Chapter Text

Mornings stayed the same—toast buttered to the edges, kettle whistling, helping his mum to appointments or sitting at the table while she measured out her pills. A kiss to her crown, a promise to be back after shift. Work was routine—patients in, patients out, charts and practiced smiles.

Nights were Harry.

The first night, Louis told himself it was a fluke—drop by, share food, go home. Harry, of course, made it impossible. He tried to feed Louis lo mein with chopsticks, pouted when Louis refused, brightened when Louis gave in just to shut him up. Louis choked on a noodle from laughing, and the sound carried them the rest of the way. When Harry leaned in later, lips brushing Louis’s jaw like a question, Louis didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to.

The second night, Louis pretended he only stayed because he was too tired to drive. It had nothing to do with Harry kissing him after scoring in Madden—just to rub it in—and Louis kissing back harder, hoodie fists and half-laughed protests dissolving into heat. The game never finished.

By the third, he stopped pretending. He wanted Harry’s warmth, his laugh, the ridiculous way he left Sour Patch Kids scattered like confetti on the nightstand. He wanted the way Harry’s curls stuck to his forehead after their kisses turned hot and heady, the way Harry would roll half on top of him just to keep him close, muttering nonsense in that lazy accent until Louis’s chest hurt from smiling. He wanted the quiet too—the late-night stretch of silence where Harry’s would pull the sheets over their heads and kiss him like the rest of the world couldn’t touch them there.

Dangerous. Temporary. He knew. Inside the bubble—Harry’s grin in his shoulder, the heater humming—Louis didn’t care.

He had to leave anyway. Harry didn’t make it easy.

Louis had his jacket on when Harry deployed his secret weapon: the pout. Lip out, lashes criminal, eyes wide with tragic sorrow.

“Stay,” Harry whined, hand reaching, dropping, full West End melodrama. “Just a bit longer. Please.”

“Christ, you’re unbelievable,” Louis groaned.

“Unbelievably sad,” Harry corrected, adding a sniff.

It was ridiculous. It worked. Every time.

Louis stomped back like he hadn’t already lost, kissed the pout right off his face. “There. Happy?”

“Delirious,” Harry said, dimples flashing, and caught Louis’s wrist, tugging him down. He burrowed, smug and warm. “See? You like it here.”

“One day that fucking pout’s gonna kill me,” Louis muttered into curls.

“Worth it,” Harry hummed. “You’re like a grumpy cat. Just accept it.”

Louis was already gone, folded by dimples and dramatics—when his phone rattled hard against the nightstand.

“Phoebe?” he answered, stomach dropping at her panicked voice. “She can’t catch her breath, Lou—she keeps coughing—”

He was up in seconds, heart slamming, keys missing, shoes nowhere. “Give her the inhaler—no, I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Harry was already moving, hoodie half on, Louis’s coat in hand. “Don’t drive,” he said, voice steady even as worry flashed in his eyes. “Babe, you’re shaking. I’ll take you.”

Louis didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Harry steered him out; the rental was running before Louis had processed anything. Fast, careful. One hand on the wheel, the other anchoring Louis’s knee.

“It’ll be alright,” Harry said, low and firm, even when Louis couldn’t catch his breath. “We’ll get there.”

The house was chaos—Phoebe at the door, eyes wide, Josie slumped on the couch, tubing askew, coughing and wheezing. Louis dropped beside her, coaxing her upright, rubbing circles on her back, voice breaking. Harry steadied the oxygen, helped Phoebe find her coat, called the ER, grabbed the bag.

They rushed her in. Sirens didn’t wail, but Louis heard them anyway.

Words Louis hated followed fast: dangerous episode, bronchodilator, overnight monitoring. He nodded like the words weren’t shredding him. He should’ve been home. He should’ve noticed. Guilt pressed heavy.

Fluorescents washed everything thin. Machines hummed. Antiseptic bit the air. Louis slipped to the waiting area and collapsed into hard plastic, palms dragging down his face until spots swam.

“Louis.”

Harry’s voice, soft. The chair beside him creaked. Silence held for a beat too long.

“It’s my fault,” Louis rasped. “I was— I should’ve—”

“No.” Harry’s tone snapped clean through the spiral. “Blame me if you need to, but don’t do this to yourself.”

Louis looked up, bracing for pity and finding something steadier. Harry shifted closer, shoulders brushing.

“You couldn’t have known,” Harry said quietly. “You’re here. That matters.”

Louis didn’t answer. He didn’t move away either.

Harry stayed.

He fetched coffee neither of them drank, intercepted a nurse who tried to herd Louis to a family lounge, tugged Josie’s blanket higher when it slipped. Small things. All he could do. Every so often, he tipped his head back until his temple rested against Louis’s knee—no words, just weight. A reminder Louis wasn’t holding this night alone.

Dawn edged gray into the narrow window. Louis finally slumped, sleep snagging him in stutters. Harry closed his eyes only when Louis’s breathing steadied.

Louis woke to the wrong air. Then the beeps reminded him. Josie slept under thin blankets. The chair beside him was empty.

Harry, he thought, stomach dipping. Of course he’d gone—back to real sleep, decent coffee. Louis hadn’t even said thank you.

The door nudged open.

“Morning,” Harry whispered, curls wrecked, eyes bloodshot, arms full: two Red Bulls balanced on Pop-Tarts and a gift-shop bouquet of daisies. Sheepish. Here.

“You’re still here?” Louis asked, voice wrecked.

“Couldn’t drink more coffee,” Harry said, fiddling with cellophane like it would fix it. “Figured I’d risk sugar poisoning instead.” He glanced back, smile softening. “And yeah. Still here.”

He passed a Red Bull. Broke a Pop-Tart in half like he was testing a foreign object. “Pretty sure this isn’t food.”

Louis huffed a laugh despite everything, then really looked—red-rimmed eyes, exhaustion carved deep. “Babe, your—” The pet name landed heavy between them. He swallowed. “You look shattered. You can go if you want. I’ll be alright.”

Harry stilled like he’d felt the word too. Set the pastry down. “I’ll go if you want me to,” he said, careful and steady. “I’d rather stay.”

Louis stared at him—at the stubborn set of his shoulders, the wrecked eyes, the fact of him. “No. Stay.” His voice cracked. He didn’t care.

Harry’s smile came slow, sure. Their knees touched again. “I will.”

They talked in low threads—about hospital coffee, about how Harry had memorized “bronchodilator” and wanted a medal, about how Louis once thought pediatrics until urgent care felt more useful. Nothing that mattered, and somehow it all did.

The blanket rustled.

Josie stirred, careful as if testing her own weight. Her eyes opened, hazy then clearing, enough to catch the picture: her son leaning close, voice gentled by the young man at his side. And the boy—the curls, the earnest set—wasn’t just there. He was with Louis. Watching him. Steady.

She rustled the sheets a little louder, announcing herself. Louis jolted, instinctively adding space, then was at her side in two steps.

“Mum? You’re awake. How d’you feel?”

“Like I finally slept,” she breathed, tired smile certain. “The coughing’s eased.”

Relief wobbled Louis’s mouth. “That’s good. That’s really good. I’ll get the nurse.”

As he moved to the door, Josie’s gaze found Harry, who stood just behind the chair, awkward and devoted. She said nothing. Not yet. But the image set itself down somewhere quiet and sure.

And for the first time since the night split open, Louis felt the world tilt back toward center—still heavy, still complicated, but steadied by the weight at his side.

Chapter Text

Jo was discharged the next afternoon, bundled into her coat while Louis fought the zipper like she was five again. Harry wrangled the discharge papers and an extra bag of meds, juggling both with a determination that made the nurse at the desk smile. Between the three of them, it looked less like a medical crisis and more like a family outing gone sideways.

Harry drove them home careful this time—slower, steadier, both hands on the wheel. Louis sat in the back with Jo, one hand braced on her arm like touch alone could anchor her. She dozed against his shoulder, and more than once Harry caught their reflection in the rearview: Louis’s head tipped to hers, exhaustion carved into his face, tenderness softening it.

At the house, Louis eased her out of the car. “Easy, Ma. One step at a time.” Harry hovered—bag, doors, blanket—until Louis shot him a look that said thanks without the word. They got her settled on the couch, quilt to her chin, a cup of tea warming her hands. Louis smoothed the edge of the blanket like he always did, brushing her hair back.

“You comfortable?”

She hummed, eyes dropping closed, then opened again. “Louis.”

His chest pinched at her tone. “What’s wrong?”

Her gaze drifted past him to the kitchen, where Harry stood at the sink rinsing mugs, curls falling in his face. He looked like he belonged there—too natural. It made Louis’s throat ache.

“Harry,” Jo said softly. “I like him.”

Louis swallowed. “He’s… he’s good. A good friend.”

Her mouth curved, faint and knowing. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to find a friend who looks at them the way he looks at you.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

Her frail hand found his, warm despite the tremor. “All I want is for you to be happy,” she whispered. “Live happily—however you choose it. With whoever makes your world lighter. That’s enough for me.”

For years Louis had carried the weight of what he thought she wanted: Eleanor, the tidy story, the safe script. Here she was, stripping it down to something simpler. Freer.

Happiness. That’s all.

His throat burned. He nodded, squeezing her hand. “Thanks, Ma.”

She drifted toward sleep again, the monitors and alarms of the hospital replaced by the quiet tick of the living room clock. Her words stayed, echoing louder than last night’s beeps and guilt.

Louis glanced kitchen-ward. Harry dried his hands on a towel, glancing back with that steady focus that never wavered.

And something settled in Louis—not a question, a quiet answer. He hadn’t needed her permission. But having it loosened a knot he’d forgotten how to untie.

He lingered by the couch until Jo’s breathing evened out, quilt snug at her chin. His thumb brushed the back of her hand one last time before he eased away.

The house was still, save for the faint clink of dishes. Louis padded down the hall, shoulders heavy but his chest… lighter. Not everyone’s lucky enough to find a friend who looks at them the way he looks at you.

Harry turned as Louis stepped into the kitchen, sleeves shoved up, curls a mess, eyes tired but warm.

“She asleep?” Harry asked.

Louis nodded. “Yeah. Out cold.” His voice scratched; he cleared it. “Treatment finally did the trick.”

Harry folded the towel over the oven handle. “Good. She deserves the rest.”

For a beat Louis just watched—the curve of Harry’s shoulders, the exhaustion under his eyes, the soft grin like he’d been meant to be here all along.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Louis murmured.

“Didn’t want to leave,” Harry said, easy as breath.

It winded him, that. No joke, no deflection. Just truth.

Louis shifted closer until their arms brushed. “I… appreciate it. More than I can say.”

“You don’t have to say it,” Harry replied, gentle. “I get it.”

Louis should’ve looked away. Should’ve rebuilt the wall. But Jo’s words pulsed steady: Be happy.

He didn’t step back. He stayed close. Let the warmth in. Let his guard drop just enough to whisper, “You make it easier.”

Harry’s smile was small and sure.

“C’mon,” Louis said, eyes glinting. “Want to show you somethin’.”

He led Harry to the second door on the left and pushed it open.

The room was small, still painted the same muted blue. Posters clung stubbornly to the walls, corners curled. A dented bookcase sagged under paperbacks and old trophies. The full-size bed was made neat, the quilt smoothed into practiced lines.

Harry’s gaze swept the space without mockery—something like reverence instead. He brushed the edge of a poster. “This was yours?”

“Still is, I guess.” Louis huffed. “Never got round to changin’ it.”

Harry waited, letting the silence be easy.

“Moved back when she got sick,” Louis said, leaning on the doorframe. “Couldn’t stand my apartment. Too clean. Too quiet. Couldn’t sleep. Here felt… familiar. Like I could breathe.”

Harry nodded, fingertips tracing the corner of a faded print. “Makes sense. Home’s not just walls—it’s where your head shuts up long enough to rest.”

Louis’s eyebrows rose, surprise shifting into a slow nod. “Guess so.”

Harry crossed the creaky floor and sat on the edge of the bed like it made sense. Louis sat beside him, shoulders brushing because there wasn’t room not to.

“It suits you,” Harry said, eyes too soft.

“It’s small,” Louis countered, tugging the quilt down and dropping back.

“Small’s fine,” Harry said immediately, smirk tugging. He sprawled beside him like he’d always belonged. “You make up for it with other big things.”

“Jesus Christ.” Louis dragged a hand over his face. “Can’t go five minutes without bein’ a menace.”

Harry held the laugh until their eyes met, then cracked, and Louis followed—helpless. “I’m sorry,” Harry wheezed. “You walked right into it.”

The laughter faded to quiet. Harry fluffed the pillow, settled. Louis hesitated—just a second—then lay back too. The quilt shifted over them, the hum of his mum’s oxygen down the hall a soft metronome.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Harry—soft, grateful. “Thanks for being here.”

Harry kissed him back, steady.

Louis matched his breathing until it anchored him. He didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He did. 

When he blinked awake, the light had gone golden. Quilt marks patterned his cheek. The spot beside him was warm and empty.

He padded down the hall, rubbing his eyes.

The kitchen stopped him. Harry was barefoot at the stove, sleeves rolled, curls wild, humming under his breath. Steam lifted from a pot; plates waited on the table. Jo sat with a blanket across her lap, watching like it was a show, offering gentle measurements and “more salt, love.”

Something caught in Louis’s throat.

Harry glanced up, grinning. “There he is. Your mum’s teaching me her secrets.”

“You cook?” Louis asked, dazed.

Harry shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Can’t live off takeaway forever.”

Garlic and onion and something warm filled the room. Louis realized he hadn’t had a proper meal in… he couldn’t remember. Harry slid a plate his way, steam curling.

“Sit. Eat,” Harry said. “Doctor’s orders.”

Louis snorted, but his chest squeezed at the way Harry said it. He sat, watched Harry move like he belonged. For the first time in a long while, it felt like home wasn’t just the house. Maybe it was barefoot at the stove, humming with a grin.

The front door creaked.

“Lou?” Lottie’s voice carried in, chased by a toddler’s squeal. She and Lewis breezed in; both stalled at the sight of Harry at the cooker, curls flopping as he sprinkled parsley.

“Well, well,” Lottie said, handing off the kid. “Didn’t expect to find Brit cooking in Mum’s kitchen.”

Harry turned pink, but smiled. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“Oh, I’m starving,” she replied, eyes darting to Louis, puzzle pieces clicking. “And it smells good.”

“He can cook,” Louis muttered into his fork.

Her mouth curled, but she let it drop, sliding into a chair with the toddler bouncing on her knee. Phoebe came in next, dropping her bag, nose twitching.

“Please tell me Lou didn’t cook,” she said.

“Wasn’t me,” Louis pointed out.

“Harry did,” Jo added from the head of the table. She’d insisted on joining, even if she only picked. Oxygen framed her face, but her eyes were brighter tonight—alive with the noise of everyone in one room. “He’s feeding us.”

Phoebe grinned. “That explains why it doesn’t smell like burnt toast.”

“Hey,” Louis groaned around a mouthful, setting both sisters laughing.

Dinner unraveled the way it always did—fast, loud, overlapping. Phoebe roasted Louis’s culinary crimes until he lobbed a pea at her. Daisy FaceTimed from her dorm like she’d felt the family gravitational pull. Jo pretended to scold their language, and everyone ignored her with love.

Harry kept up, cheeky grin and all, accent turning even the toddler into an audience when he confessed to sneezing on a teacher in primary school. Nothing felt forced; he fit like he’d been slipping into this noise for years.

Somewhere between pea artillery and Lewis cracking a beer, Lottie leaned in, curiosity too bright. “So, Harry. What are you doing this weekend?”

Harry licked sauce off his thumb, casual. “Not sure. My birthday’s Friday.”

Louis’s fork clattered. “This Friday?”

Harry’s grin went sheepish, dimples deep, like he knew exactly what he’d started. “February first.”

Phoebe gasped so loudly the toddler copied her. “You didn’t say! We have to do something.”

“The Loop,” Lottie offered, rattling off bars. Lewis nominated his favorite dive with live music. Phoebe clapped, already booking brunch.

Harry lifted both hands, fending them off. “Oi, oi—don’t make a fuss. It’s just another day.”

Louis barely heard him. He was already somewhere else entirely: the waiting room, Harry steady at his side; Pop-Tarts and daisies; garlic humming in the kitchen; Jo’s soft certainty—Be happy.

Harry didn’t want a fuss.

Louis was already plotting.

Across the table, Harry caught his eye, playing modest like he didn’t care. Louis shook his head, a smile tugging stubborn at his mouth.

Harry had no idea.