Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Louis opened his eyes on the first of March, the first thing he saw was the grey Manchester sky, unrelenting as rain traced lines down the windowpane. He didn’t need to turn his head to know the other side of the bed was empty and cold. That had become the new normal. 

Mornings used to start with smiles against his skin, lazy kisses down his chest, and a mouth around his cock before either of them spoke. 

That felt like a lifetime ago.

Because now, Harry was serious about waking up at five in the fucking morning to go running. Even when the sky looked like it was about to split in half. His stupid, stupid boyfriend. Who the hell would choose to get out of bed before the sun, peel open the curtains and lace up his trainers instead of staying wrapped up in warm sheets, skin to skin, where he belonged?

It was infuriating, Louis thought, but not enough to drag him fully out of sleep. Most days, he’d just roll over with a groan, bury his face in the pillow, and let the sound of the rain and Harry’s fading footsteps lull him back under.

Later, he’d wake to the soft creak of the bathroom door, to a freshly showered boyfriend who always smelled maddeningly good. Harry never minded Louis’ morning breath or the mess of his hair. He’d just grin, crawl back into bed naked like it hadn’t been his idea to leave in the first place, and that’s when the real morning would begin—smiles against skin, slow kisses, and a mouth that still knew exactly what it was doing.

“You didn’t happen to see my scrunchie, have ya?” Harry mumbled, pressing a kiss to Louis’ neck as he leaned over the bed.

Louis groaned, not even opening his eyes. “How do you manage to lose that shit every single day? I bought you a whole pack last month, babe.”

“They’re tiny,” Harry said defensively. “They just disappear.”

Louis cracked one eye open, giving him a look. “You disappear them.”

“Good morning, my love,” Harry whispered, his voice still husky as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

Louis probably tasted like stale breath and the cigarette he’d lit on the patio around three a.m., when the weight in his chest got too heavy to ignore. He hadn’t meant to wake fully, just cracked his eyes open and known, instinctively, that he needed air. The kind that only came with silence, a sky full of nothing, and the quiet hush of a city fast asleep.

Still, Harry didn’t flinch or pull away. He just smiled against Louis’ lips like nothing in the world could put him off.

“Morning, sun,” Louis murmured, blinking slowly. His voice was rough but warm, like it belonged to this bed and nowhere else.

Harry brushed his fingers over Louis’ cheek, eyes scanning his face. “You nervous about today?”

Louis hesitated for half a second, then shook his head. “No.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Liar.”

“Whatever,” Louis muttered, turning onto his back.

“You little shit,” Harry said, grinning as he leaned over him. “Don’t lie to me. I know that face.”

Louis sighed, the kind that sounded like surrender. “Maybe a little.”

Harry didn’t gloat. He kissed him again—slower this time, patient, like he had all the time in the world. “Good. Let me carry some of it then.”

“Don’t want you to worry,” Louis said softly, his fingers weaving through the curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. He tugged gently, more affectionate than demanding. “Promise me you won’t cut it.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Nope.”

“Hazzy…” Louis whined, dragging out the syllables.

“Don’t use your little voice on me.”

“Don’t cut your hair,” Louis insisted, more serious now, though his tone still carried the weight of sleep.

“I told you, it’s all fussy from being tied up all the time.”

“Then don’t tie it,” Louis countered.

Harry blinked at him, amused. “And how exactly am I supposed to run with it flying in my face?”

“Don’t run.”

“Piss off.”

“Run later, then,” Louis groaned, already pulling him close and shifting to curl around him, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. His arm slung over Harry’s waist as his voice dipped into something quiet. “You’re never here when I wake up.”

“I’m always here when you wake up,” Harry said, voice soft but smug, his fingers tracing lazy circles on Louis’ arm.

Louis scoffed, shifting under the covers. “No, you’re not. I wake up, you’re gone, so I roll over and go back to sleep. Then you’re here.”

Harry grinned. “Which means I am here when you wake up.”

“That’s cheating, and you know it.” Louis pouted, voice dipping just slightly. “I miss my boyfriend.”

“I’m literally right here,” Harry said, laughing under his breath, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“Yeah, but you weren’t here thirty minutes ago, and I missed you so much I thought I’d die.”

Harry snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m touch-starved. Let me be dramatic.”

“Well, get up then. The electric kettle is calling your name.”

“Let her call,” Louis said, smiling as he hooked a leg around Harry’s waist. “I want to fuck you.”

“We don’t have time.”

“You never have time for me anymore.”

Harry dropped his head with a groan, laughing despite himself. “Jesus Christ. You were the one who told me to get a job.”

“I did not tell you that.”

“You suggested it.”

“I didn’t know it’d come with consequences, ” Louis muttered, rolling his eyes as he finally pushed the covers off and sat up, hair sticking out at odd angles.

Harry watched him with a crooked grin. “Your consequences are very clingy.”

“My consequences are neglected,” Louis shot back, grabbing Harry’s scrunchie from the bedside table and tossing it at him.

“Thanks, love.” 

Harry caught the scrunchie mid-air, a playful grin crossing his face before he turned and disappeared into his closet, the sound of clothes rustling filling the space. Louis watched him for a moment, lingering in the warmth of their shared silence.

He followed behind Harry, moving towards his own drawer and pulling out a soft hoodie to layer over his T-shirt. Then, he pulled open his second drawer, eyes scanning for socks. Because, shockingly, his stuff had expanded into more than one drawer. Finding the socks he wanted, he pulled them on, still lost in the quiet routine that had slowly woven itself into their mornings together.

In the kitchen, they sat side by side at the counter, cups of tea in hand. They had long since abandoned the big table. The table was only used when the boys came over, or when Louis’ family or Harry’s showed up for one of those rare gatherings.

For now, it was just them, sitting side by side at the counter, enjoying the rare quiet of the morning. Well, mostly quiet. Harry couldn’t do quiet. Lately, he'd developed this habit of humming children’s songs under his breath while he sipped his tea—every damn day. 

Today, it was "If You're Happy and You Know It" looping in the background like an annoying jingle, but it could just as easily have been "The Wheels on the Bus" or some other earworm. It didn’t matter; the kid’s songs were a constant presence now, as much a part of their mornings as the tea they drank.

Louis looked up from his phone, where he was reading the online diary—something he’d picked up recently, like some grumpy old man getting his news from the internet. That was Louis now. 

“Babe,” he said, breaking the rhythm of the song. “Remember when you used to sing me Fleetwood Mac ?” he teased, his voice taking on a playful, sexy edge. “Or Prince ,” he continued, grinning. “Or Lady Gaga .”

Harry let out a soft laugh. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry enough,” Louis replied, leaning forward slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re humming loudly , babe.”

That was Harry now. In his robe, hair a mess, humming children’s songs at full volume, day in and day out. Every single morning. And Louis? He had to bug him about it. It was practically his duty as the boyfriend. But truthfully? He loved it, even if it meant having the same tune stuck in his head for hours.

One night, during Harry’s first few days at work, he came home bursting with excitement. “ Loueeeeh !” he shouted the moment he stepped inside, like he hadn’t seen him in years instead of just hours. “Where are you, love?”

Louis, perched on the toilet with his phone in hand and a furrow between his brows, didn’t even look up. “I’m in the bathroom, love,” he called back, too focused on his screen to worry. That was until he heard the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. “Do not come in here, Harry!” Louis barked.

“Why not? I need to talk to you.”

“I’m literally shitting, Harry. Don’t open the fucking door!”

There was a second of silence, but then he heard Harry’s voice again, “So what?”

Louis groaned. “So what, what? I’m mid-shit, that’s what! Stay out, yeah? Give me five minutes. Babe. Please.”

“But it’s important!” came Harry’s muffled reply.

“Then tell me from the hallway like a normal person!”

“I want to see your face when I say it!” Harry huffed, now pressed against the other side of the door. “C’mon, we’ve been dating for a year. I’ve seen worse things from you.”

“Are you actually mad?” Louis snapped, horrified. “You’ve lost your fucking mind. This is sacred space!”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m taking a shit, Styles!” Louis nearly yelled. “Respect my dignity!”

“Fine!” Harry sulked. “But I’m telling you, you’re going to wish I said this in person.”

Louis rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “Jesus Christ.” Then louder, he said, “If it’s a proposal, I swear to God—”

“It’s not!” Harry cut in, scandalised.

“Then can it wait five fucking minutes?” Louis pleaded.

“Fine,” Harry muttered, clearly unconvinced. “But I’m not happy about it.”

Less than five minutes later, Louis walked into the living room, still drying his hands on his joggers. He found Harry curled up dramatically on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through Instagram.

“Are you seriously sulking because I didn’t let you see me take a shit?” Louis asked, eyebrows raised.

Harry didn’t even look up. “Yes.” 

Louis huffed a laugh, crossing the room and sitting beside him. “Babe, come on. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Harry muttered, flicking his thumb over the screen. “I’ve seen you have a wee. I’ve kissed you with toothpaste still in your mouth. I’ve held your hair when you were drunk. What’s the big deal?”

“Uh—everything?” Louis threw an arm out for emphasis. “There’s a line, and it’s drawn firmly at the bathroom door.”

He reached out to touch Harry’s arm, but Harry leaned away, dramatic as ever.

“Don’t touch me. I’m wounded.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis muttered, trying not to laugh as he leaned in closer. “What were you even going to say?”

Harry looked at him, finally, eyes narrowed. “Now I don’t want to tell you.”

“You’re so annoying,” Louis said through a laugh, trying to nudge closer. “Tell me, come on.” 

He reached out again, but Harry leaned away with exaggerated suspicion.

“Did you wash your hands?”

Louis gasped, offended. “Yes! Smells like bloody roses, have a sniff.”

He shoved his hands under Harry’s nose. Harry sniffed, nodded solemnly.

“Alright. Fair enough.”

“So can you tell me now?” Louis pressed, hopeful.

Harry tilted his head. “Only after a kiss.”

Louis rolled his eyes, already grinning. “Oh, what a sacrifice,” he said, dramatically placing both hands on Harry’s cheeks and pulling him into a kiss. It was warm, soft, and a little longer than necessary.

“There,” Louis whispered against his lips. “Now what happened?”

“Today, this kid—she’s like five—asked me what my job was,” Harry said, a soft smile playing on his lips. “I told her I’m a music teacher, and she said she thought I was just another one of her classmates.” Louis snorted. “Her name’s Molly. We became instant friends. Then she asked me what my wife’s name is.”

“And what did you say?” Louis leaned in, grinning.

“I told her my wife’s name is Louis. And he’s a boy.”

“ Ooown , baby,” Louis cooed, kissing his cheek. “But... are you sure I’m not the husband in this situation?”

“Nope. You’re more delicate,” Harry said matter-of-factly, eyes twinkling.

“Excuse me?” Louis burst into laughter. “Right, and then what?”

“That’s it,” Harry shrugged.

“That’s it?” Louis repeated. “That’s the urgent news you nearly broke the door down for?”

“Yes.” Harry grinned. “It’s a cute story. I wanted to see your face.”

Louis softened. “It is. And I love you.”

“I love you more,” Harry said, nudging their knees together. “And I love my job. Can you believe that?”

And Louis loved it too— especially because it made Harry shine. Ever since he’d started working as a music teacher, Harry had been all glowy and soft-eyed and stupidly content, like some sort of romantic movie montage brought to life. Louis absolutely adored it. Watching Harry walk into their flat with his music sheet in one hand and paint on his shirt from the toddlers’ art corner? Delightful. He looked proud, useful, and buzzing with stories. 

That was Louis’ favourite version of Harry so far, which would be easily beaten by the next one.

And the best part? It had come after a proper row . Because yes, they still argued sometimes. Nothing changes that much. The row had been about money—obviously. That one topic that always managed to sneak into their conversations like a fart in a lift.

This time, the explosion happened after Harry—sweet, ridiculous Harry—bought him a ring. Not just any ring. A very, very, very expensive ring. The kind of ring that comes in a velvet box and makes your stomach drop before you even open it. And he'd used his dad’s money for it.

Louis had nearly combusted on the spot. He’d practically thrown the ring across the room and made it exceedingly clear, once and for all, that he would not—under any circumstances—accept anything that came from Desmond bloody Styles.

First, because it was Desmond . And Louis still wasn’t a fan, even if the man was hovering around more these days and actually making an effort. Louis appreciated that it made Harry happy—he really did—but Desmond had once made the monumental mistake of asking Louis if he “needed help with expenses,” and that was that.

Louis wasn’t just not a fan anymore. He was a card-carrying hater .

So Harry had cried. Obviously. They both had, if Louis was honest. And the next week, Harry came home all puffy-eyed and triumphant, announcing he’d gotten a job. A real one. One where he earned actual money and not just good vibes and organic vegetables from the farmers’ market.

“So I can buy you a ring myself,” he’d said, chin high, eyes stubborn.

Which meant now they were in a quiet, unofficial race to see who could afford a proposal first. Louis was almost sure that new ring was meant for that—Harry kept hiding it in increasingly stupid places, like behind the oat milk or on the skincare shelf.

Both of them were still a bit far from the goalpost. Louis had other financial priorities—like rent —and Harry, well, he barely made enough to feed himself. Good thing he had rich parents backing him or he’d be out there chewing fingernails and pretending it was gourmet jerky, like Louis had been doing for years.

Before the ring fiasco, Harry had bought Louis a guitar.

Which, frankly, Louis didn’t need . He already had access to Harry’s. And if he really wanted his own, he could save up and buy one someday. It wasn’t urgent. But apparently—something Harry loved to remind him of—Louis had once said he’d only accept a guitar if it came from Harry’s own wallet.

He hadn’t meant it to stick. But apparently, Harry took it personally. And Harry was a stubborn little shit when he wanted to be.

So he did exactly that—saved every penny of his own for two months. Louis tried to be annoyed, because really, Harry could’ve spent that money on something more sensible. But the truth was, he was melting. Because Harry didn’t need to be careful with money; he had more than enough from his parents to blow on overpriced pillows, fancy shampoo, and his endless rotation of new runners. And yet, every single day, he dragged himself to work after class, dealt with sticky-fingered, shrieking kids, came home knackered—just so he could buy Louis a fucking guitar.

And then, one random Tuesday evening, Harry came home with a guitar case and a triumphant look in his eye.

“It’s not a Taylor,” he announced as he stepped into the flat, holding it up like it was a first-place trophy. Louis was curled up on the couch, wine glass in hand, mid-scroll through his phone. His jaw dropped.

“What the fuck, Haz?”

“Now you have to accept it,” Harry grinned. “I’m serious this time.”

Louis just blinked. “You didn’t—”

“If you make me return this one too,” Harry warned, “I swear I’ll shove it up your arse.”

Louis stared at him, and then at the case, and then back at him. He could feel the heat rising behind his eyes, totally blindsided.

Louis was too overwhelmed to come up with a comeback—partly because Harry looked two seconds away from crying, and partly because Louis was two seconds ahead of him. It was so stupid. So unnecessary . But Harry had done it anyway, because he wanted to. Because he listened , remembered some offhanded line from months ago, and went through all that just to see Louis unwrap a guitar with his name on it.

So yeah, Louis cried. And Harry did too, obviously. And then Louis held the fucking thing like it was a newborn puppy and played for hours. Every love song he knew, one after the other, until his fingers were sore and Harry was lying on the rug looking up at him like he’d hung the stars.

He only knew about twenty songs, but he made them count. Played them soft and slow, eyes never leaving Harry’s.

So, yeah . Every morning Louis watched him hum kids' songs and he thought: this is it . This was the man he’d say yes to—no doubt about it. Even if he had to beat Harry to the proposal first.

Because Harry getting a job he didn’t even need , not with parents like his, felt like more than just a whim. It felt intentional. Like Harry wanted Louis to see it—see that he was serious about building something real, something that wasn’t cushioned by Desmond’s bank account or Anne’s safety net. Like he was saying, “Look, I want a life with you, and I’ll work for it.”

And Louis believed him. Every fucking day, he believed him more.

So when Harry offered to pay for dinner, Louis would let him—but only if it was his money, the kind earned in classrooms full of shrieking five-year-olds and off-key singing. Suddenly, Harry wasn’t insisting on splitting the bill anymore. He just let Louis pay, because now Louis was the one with the bigger paycheck.

“What time are you getting there?” Harry asked, sipping his tea and eyeing Louis over the rim of his mug.

“Five-ish?” Louis shrugged, tapping aimlessly at his phone. “But you can show up at six, it’s okay.”

Harry frowned. “Are you sure? Like— completely sure? Because I can ask to leave earlier.”

“I’m sure, love,” Louis said, soft but firm.

Harry didn’t look convinced. “But you’ll be nervous.”

“So what? I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

Harry let out a dramatic sigh and pouted. “Fine. I’ll be there at six on the dot. With Niall and Zayn and Liam. I promise.”

“I told them they don’t have to go,” Louis muttered.

“Yeah, well, stop being so fucking stubborn,” Harry said, rolling his eyes affectionately. “It’s your book launch, Louis. We want to be there. We want autographs and photos and dramatic readings.”

“They’re not even going to read the damn thing,” Louis grumbled, though a smile tugged at his mouth.

“Maybe not,” Harry teased. “But they’ll buy it. Doesn’t that mean you get paid?”

Louis raised an eyebrow, amused. “Well, well—look at you. Getting all clever about money.”

“Watch out,” Harry said with a grin. “Next thing you know I’ll be doing our taxes.”

Which, of course, was a complete lie. A sweet one, sure, but still a lie. Because Harry, despite being brilliant at a lot of things, kind of sucked at adulting.

It had been almost three months since Louis had stepped in.

One night, they got to the flat and the electricity got cut off because Harry had forgotten to switch the account to debit. So, Louis accessed his email to check the bills, since Harry looked like he’d rather explode than deal with it. His email, of course, was another area Louis had to step in. Louis had taken the liberty of changing all of Harry’s account passwords, especially considering Harry’s tendency to use LOUIS123456789! for his bank account, where a small fortune was sitting. So, one evening, Louis sat him down at the dining table and changed all his passwords to safe codes Harry absolutely hated. 

Once he had access to the email, Louis quietly made sure they split the bill. Not that Harry knew about it, it just felt fair. Sometimes Louis forwarded the bill for him to pay, sometimes he didn't. Harry seemed completely unaware that Louis covered the bill every other month.

Louis only did it because, well, even though he didn’t technically live there—he kind of did. Four nights a week, sometimes five, he’d end up at Harry’s. They weren’t living together officially , but the lines had blurred ages ago. There were always clean boxers in Harry’s drawer, a toothbrush beside his in the cup, and tea bags only Louis liked tucked in the back of the cupboard. 

Also, he’d earned himself two drawers in the closet. Not after months of negotiation, no. Two weeks. That’s how long it took after Harry moved in. Harry wasn’t exactly difficult to convince. In fact, he was the opposite. Louis had made an offhand comment about his jeans being crumpled from living out of a tote bag, and the next morning, there was another empty drawer waiting for him, scented drawer liners and all. That was Harry.

They’d tried doing the “go home after dinner” thing, back when Harry had first started working. But it sucked. Harry came home knackered, Louis was always running late from work or class, and before long they were both standing in the hallway, coats half-off, already leaning into each other like gravity was pulling them together. It got to the point where they’d just collapse into bed mid-conversation, feet tangled, Harry’s hair still damp from his rushed shower, and Louis complaining about the legal system like a pensioner.

Being apart at night became impossible. Harry slept better with Louis there. And he cared very much about his baby’s sleep. So yeah, Louis paid the electricity bill every other month. Quietly. Because he was part of that flat, whether there was a lease with his name on it or not. 

But he was already working on the next thing. The big one. He wanted to buy half of Harry’s flat.

Which was stupid, really—ridiculous, even. Because it meant spending money Louis didn’t have, and wouldn’t have unless he won the lottery, published four more books, or sold a kidney. Preferably someone else’s.

So, the next good option—the next realistic option—was: earning his place.

He’d keep bringing over groceries without making a fuss, scrubbing the bathroom when Harry forgot, fixing the leaky tap in the kitchen because Harry just “doesn’t trust pipes.” He’d keep paying for half the electricity, whether Harry knew it or not, and making sure the fridge wasn’t only filled with oat milk and weird yoghurt.

He didn’t need his name on the deed—not yet. What mattered more was showing Harry that he was all in. That he wasn’t just crashing for the night or overstaying his welcome. He was building something there. Slowly, maybe. Quietly. But building it.

And Harry helped, too. He gave him the second drawer. Bought him a toothbrush holder, like an official one, not just the spare mug under the sink. He started calling it our place without noticing, and Louis never corrected him.

He had started a savings account for this. Louis had already done the maths (with Niall’s help, because Niall graduating on economics had to be useful somehow), and if he skipped one pint a week, kept working with Mr. Taylor, and didn’t buy a new jacket even though his was falling apart at the elbow, he might— might —have a deposit scraped together by the end of the year.

Not for half the flat. That was still delusional.

But maybe enough to pitch in for the council tax, or help with any emergency repairs, or—God help him—get Harry a proper office chair that didn’t make his back ache every time he worked from Harry’s flat. 

He had high hopes, though, because he thought he might have a plan that could actually work. Louis wasn’t entirely sure how it was going to play out, but he was optimistic. If it did work, he’d have to pray and thank Mr. Taylor later. Because, as it turned out, Mr. Taylor hadn’t just become one of Louis’ friends, but one of his closest ones. A mentor, a confidant, his bloody co-writer… and then, to top it all off, the man had gone and become his business partner.

Oh, how things could change in six months. 

Back then, Louis hadn’t even imagined what he’d do after they finished writing their book. Now, on that very day—their book’s fucking launch, no less—he was also standing as the co-founder of a publishing company. A proper, real-life company with a website, a business number, and a terrifying accountant named Deborah. It had all come about rather unexpectedly, as most things in Louis’ life did lately.

Mr. Taylor, a man with strong opinions and absolutely no patience for incompetence, had decided their original publisher was, in his words, “complete and utter rubbish.” So, naturally, the logical next step for a retired, wealthy academic was to create his own publishing house. Louis, of course, had laughed. Rich people really did get bored easily. But then Mr. Taylor looked him straight in the eye and said, “Come on, Louis. Be my business partner. Manage this bloody thing.”

And that’s how Louis found himself knee-deep in publishing contracts, talent scouting, and editing manuscripts from stressed-out Law students who thought their fanfiction about constitutional law could be the next big thing. He was still finishing his Psychology degree, still worrying about how their own book would be received—and now he had a dozen other people’s literary dreams resting on his shoulders too. No pressure at all.

But God, he was so fucking happy.

That morning, as they always did, they went to uni together. Louis couldn’t wait to be done with it. He loved Psychology, he really did, but to be fair, what he really loved, what made his chest feel full, was writing. Somehow, he’d found himself a job where he could actually write about people, about minds, about stories that mattered. 

And he got paid, which still felt like a dream—for work he would’ve done for free, if he could afford to. But he couldn’t, not anymore. Not if he actually wanted to move in with Harry and finally say goodbye to flat 302 and its eternally broken tap.

Mr. Taylor knew that. They talked more than Louis would admit—not that Mr. Taylor liked it, but somehow he kept picking up the phone. And for some reason, he kept placing opportunities right into Louis’ hands like it was no big deal. Ghostwriting gigs, publishing contacts, leads on panels and events.

“You’re a crazy old man,” Louis told him the first time they were handed a manuscript from someone else to write. He stared at the pages like they were a bomb. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Why would you choose me to work with you when that’s clearly obvious?”

Mr. Taylor didn’t even look up. “Because I have no idea how to turn on a computer.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Louis narrowed his eyes. “You’re not giving me all this stuff just because I said I want to move in with Harry, right?”

Mr. Taylor snorted. “Christ, no. You think I’m that sentimental?” Then, grumply, he added, “I’m giving you this because—God help me—you’re good at it. Annoying as hell, but competent. Now shut up and read.”

So Louis did just that. And he’d been doing that for two months now.

That morning, Harry and Louis parted with a kiss, and Louis trudged off to class, fully aware he wouldn’t be able to pay attention to a single thing. His mind was already racing ahead.

At lunch, they met back at Louis’ flat. Most days, they did—it was closer to both the university and Harry’s work. Plus, lately, all the boys had started coming back for lunch just to see Harry more often. They missed him. Even Zayn, who didn’t say it out loud, but had rearranged his nap schedule to fit around it.

“Where’s Li?” Louis asked as he sat down, noticing the one empty chair.

“Out,” Niall said.

“Of course he is.” Louis rolled his eyes. “He’s gonna be there tonight, right?”

“Yes, Lou, of course,” Zayn said, trying to sound reassuring, though his eyes never left his phone screen.

Louis narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you really have to talk to her all the fucking time, Zed?”

“You,” Niall said, pointing at Louis, then at Harry, “and you, have absolutely no right to talk about clingy. We had to endure the full romance arc in person. Let the man text.”

“She lives down the fucking hall,” Harry added, turning off the stove. “Just invite her over for lunch already.”

“She’s not home,” Zayn replied calmly, still typing.

That was news. Zayn was dating now. The neighbour—blonde, beautiful, tall, with legs that didn’t quit and a laugh you could hear through the hallway walls. Louis still didn’t know her name, which was getting embarrassing, honestly. She’d waved at him twice and smiled like they were already friends. He was pretty sure she’d even offered him banana bread once, but he’d panicked and pretended to be on the phone. And, well, she had witnessed their very first kiss on the stairs—surely that earned her a spot at their wedding someday. 

Zayn, though—Zayn was gone. Fully whipped. Louis couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mate voluntarily smile like that. Zayn used to roll his eyes at couples holding hands in public, used to say love was a scam invented by card companies. Now he was glued to his phone like it held the meaning of life.

“He’s doomed,” Louis muttered, grabbing plates from the cupboard. “We’re losing him.”

“Just give him a few more weeks,” Harry said, setting the pasta to rest. “They’ll be matching outfits and baking sourdough by June.”

“She has a cat,” Niall added with a grin. “He’s allergic. But he still goes over there every night.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louis said.

Zayn didn’t look up, just grinned down at his phone, thumbs still flying. “Say what you want. I’m getting laid.” Louis gave Harry a look, and Harry just snorted into the tea towels.

Life felt pretty different now at flat 302. Mostly because Louis was hardly ever there. He still paid rent, still split the bills, still showed up to grab clean clothes—but he only ever slept in his own bed if he could stomach the idea of leaving Harry behind for the night, which usually meant watching his boyfriend go all theatrically sad about it. And even then, Zayn was hardly around either. His bed might’ve been in 302, but his heart—and apparently his toothbrush—were in 201.

The whole place had started to feel like a memory. Their lease was ending soon, which was another reason Louis needed to start figuring out his next steps. Niall and Zayn were graduating in July, and Liam’s bar course would be wrapping up right around the same time. Life was changing, fast. The flat that had once been all laughter and chaos and midnight ramen was turning into something else. Grown-up decisions, packed boxes, a new kind of life.

Zayn’s news was the calmest of them all, to be fair. He had a new girlfriend, and that was pretty much it. He didn’t talk much about what he planned to do with his History degree, but Louis had a feeling it would be something for love. That’s just who he was. Someone who moved cities, changed habits, made entire life choices for love. He’d recently taken up painting, too, and he was actually getting good at it. Louis’ side of the room had quietly become Zayn’s makeshift studio, half taken over by brushes, canvases, and the faint smell of turpentine. 

And then came Niall, who was also doing a lot of things for love. He was ready to move to France once uni ended, and that worried Louis and Harry more than they cared to admit—because Louis had a gut feeling it was going to be a very short holiday. Sometimes, during dinner, conversation would quietly drift back to Niall’s situation, uninvited but impossible to ignore. He’d been dating Anna for over a year now, and honestly, the whole thing felt… off.

It was the first time Louis had ever seen Niall properly committed to someone. He was all in, heart first, the way Niall did most things. It was a long-distance relationship—Anna lived in France—but Niall made it work. He flew over whenever he could, made time between exams and shifts, and always came back with this sad sort of smile, like he was trying to convince himself it was all worth it.

None of them had met her. Not once. There were always excuses, conflicting plans, missed chances. And there were stories—bits and pieces that slipped out over drinks. Niall would show up at the pub suddenly, needing a pint and a laugh, but never quite sharing the whole truth. Just enough to make them all worry.

“Honestly, Louis,” Niall slurred one night, clearly well past his limit, his phone dangling loosely in one hand. “She’s just... so beautiful. I love her.”

“I know, Nialler.” Louis smirked, watching his mate, who was currently swiping through photos of Anna like a lovesick teenager.

“I know you don’t like women, but honestly, if you did—” Niall hiccupped.

“I’m bi, Niall.” Louis blinked slowly.  “I like women.”

Niall squinted at him, then at Harry. A hiccup escaped him, and for a moment, he looked like he was seeing Louis in a new light. “But...?”

“Bi-sexual?” Louis said, deadpan, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, right!” Niall laughed loudly, as if he'd just had an epiphany. “I keep forgetting. But listen, if you really liked women, you’d totally get it. I’m telling you, I’m in love with her. She’s... everything .”

Louis rolled his eyes and got up from the table, his patience wearing thin. “Oh, fuck off,” he muttered, shaking his head. 

He got up from the table and headed to the bar, ordering another pink cocktail. This one was for himself; Harry had long since outgrown them and was now into the blue ones. Louis was genuinely concerned now that Harry, his sweet little boy, was growing into a man. Maybe it was the hair. It had to be the hair.

When Louis returned to the table, Niall was staring at his phone, flicking through pictures of him and his girlfriend in a daze. “Mate, just call her.”

Niall looked up slowly, almost defensively. “She’s asleep, Louis. I can’t just wake her up.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “What time is it in France?”

“Seven p.m.,” Niall muttered, eyes back on his phone.

“ Oh .” Poor Niall, Louis thought.

But Louis was not one to judge people for following their heart. Honestly, it was kind of sweet in a way—Niall genuinely thought he was going to live in France forever, but Louis and Harry just exchanged looks every time Niall talked about it. They were already placing bets on when he’d return. Two weeks, max. He’d probably come back after an “emotional conversation” with Anna and a couple of croissants. Maybe he’d even have an existential crisis while staring at the Eiffel Tower.

And still, Niall’s news wasn’t even the most shocking one. Oh no, that crown went to Liam. 

Because Liam, sweet, responsible Liam—who always had his shit together—had some news that had everyone collectively choking on their drinks. Liam’s news had been growing inside a womb for the past two months. And this time, the positive test was very real. It wasn’t some mistake or misunderstanding. At least it wasn’t from his ex-girlfriend, that’s for sure. That one was now officially an ex-girlfriend. 

One night, after an explosive argument between Liam and Jess—one that left them barely speaking to each other—Niall, ever the good friend, dragged Liam out for a drink to cheer him up. In his haze of alcohol and frustration, Liam ended up finding a girl, and the night took a turn. A one-night stand. A non-safe one, too. Again.

When Liam confessed he got a girl pregnant, Louis nearly gave him a lecture on how to put a condom on a banana, though to be honest, Louis hadn’t done that in so long that he was pretty sure he’d forget the basic technique. But Harry, fortunately for Louis but unfortunately for himself, could never be the one to accidentally get pregnant.

Louis' gaze was intense as he stared at Liam, trying to make sense of what he had just said. "So what? Now you're gonna be a dad?"

Liam’s eyes flickered briefly before looking away, his hands resting tightly in his lap, the tension in his body obvious. 

The question hung in the air, and before Liam could answer, Zayn’s voice cut through the room like a sharp knife. “She’s keeping it?”

“Zayn!” Harry snapped, cutting him off with a sharp look. His brow was furrowed, eyes darting between the group. He turned back to Liam, his voice quieter but just as heavy. “Are we... are we happy about this news?”

Liam didn’t answer immediately. His eyes seemed to look through the wall, as if somewhere, out there, the right words could be found. "I don’t know," he said finally, his voice distant, flat. "I just… I don't know."

It felt like everyone in the room was holding their breath, waiting for someone to say the right thing. The weight of it was almost too much to bear.

Niall, who had been anxiously biting his nails the entire time, suddenly stopped, his hands frozen in his lap. Everyone’s eyes moved to him before returning to Liam. It was clear that the situation was far bigger than any of them were prepared for.

Louis, unable to keep the worry from his voice, reached for Liam’s shoulder, his hand resting there in an attempt to offer some comfort. "And you and the girl... Like, do you know each other, or is she a stranger?" 

Liam closed his eyes briefly, a deep breath leaving him, like he was trying to find a way to process everything crashing down on him. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and the entire room seemed to hold its collective breath.

"Li, do you want some water?" Louis asked gently, but Liam shook his head, still not meeting anyone’s eyes.

And then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Liam said it. "It’s Danielle."

The words hit the room like a bomb. Everyone froze, their faces blank with shock, eyes immediately on Louis. Louis felt the air leave his lungs, his hand still resting on Liam’s shoulder, but now it felt so heavy—like the weight of everything had suddenly landed there.

“Oh.” Louis slowly took his hand off Liam’s shoulder, suddenly hyper-aware of his limbs, not sure where to put them. He let it fall to his side, useless. “Shit.”

“Shit,” Harry echoed, eyes wide like saucers, still gripping the edge of the table like it might anchor him.

“I’m sorry, Lou,” Liam muttered, lips trembling slightly as he bit down on them, looking like he was two seconds from crying.

Louis glanced at Harry. It was one of those looks that carried too much and said nothing at all. Harry’s face was unreadable, jaw tight. Then Louis turned back to Liam, but the words weren’t there. Just a hollow space that sounded a lot like fuck . 

“Fuck, mate.”

“I’m really sorry,” Liam rushed out, the words tumbling like they were escaping a dam. “I shouldn’t have slept with her—it was really stupid. We were just friends for years and I was feeling like shit and she was there and—”

“Liam, breathe, yeah?” Louis said, though his own lungs were questionable. He wasn’t sure if he was actually breathing either. 

Liam nodded. He wiped his palms on his jeans and tried again. “She told me a week after. I thought—honestly, I thought she was messing with me. But then she showed me the test, and then the scan, and now—well, she’s two months.”

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And now you’re dating?”

Liam hesitated. “Yeah. I mean... we’ve been talking a lot. It just sort of happened.”

Louis blinked, trying to process that. “So let me get this straight. You had a drunken one-night stand with my ex-girlfriend—didn’t use a condom, which we’ve discussed —and now you’re in a relationship and having a baby together?”

Liam winced. “When you put it like that—”

“Well, how else is there to put it, Liam?” Louis snapped, the edge of his voice sharper than he meant it to be. Then he took a step back, literally and emotionally. “Sorry. That’s not fair. This just… it’s a lot.”

Zayn, who had been quiet through the entire thing, lit a cigarette by the open window. “It’s insane,” he said simply. “Not bad. Just... bonkers.”

“Do you love her?” Harry asked, gently, like it would make everything easier if Liam said yes.

Liam looked down. “I don’t know yet. But I want to try. And she wants to try. And the baby’s coming either way, so we figured... if we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever, maybe we see what this could be.”

Silence. Then Niall, still pale, finally muttered, “At least the baby’s going to be really good-looking.”

Louis let out a breathy laugh, somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Brilliant. We’re going to be uncles.”

“Godfathers,” Liam added, hopeful.

Harry and Zayn exchanged a look. Louis stared at the ceiling. “Just let me recover from the shock first, yeah? I need a drink. A very large one.”

“You’re not mad?” Liam asked quietly.

“I’m… not not mad,” Louis said, heading for the kitchen to get another beer. “But I’ll get over it. I’m just going to need ten minutes, alcohol , and maybe a little cry in the bathroom.”

Zayn raised his glass. “Welcome to adulthood, lads.”

Later that same night, after too many drinks and not nearly enough food, Louis and Liam slipped into a room. Liam, in a rare show of rebellion, took a cigarette from Louis and lit it with trembling fingers.

“I fucked up with you, Lou. I’m sorry,” Liam said, exhaling smoke and guilt in equal measure. “I’m so sorry. I think I’m actually starting to like her. It’s all a mess, if I’m honest. And I know she’s your ex and it’s weird but we—”

“Liam, shut up, yeah?” Louis cut him off, swaying slightly as he turned to face him. His voice was slurred but warm. “You and Dani have more history than she and I ever could’ve managed. She’s amazing. And so are you, unfortunately.” He laughed a little to himself, then shook his head. “It’s weird as fuck—Jesus Christ, it’s weird—but what can I say? Good luck, lad. I’ll be here.”

Liam’s shoulders sagged, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “I’m so fucking scared.”

“I know,” Louis said, and pulled him into a lopsided, drunken hug, both of them smelling of beer and cologne and bad decisions.

“You’re gonna be a great dad, Li,” Louis mumbled into his shoulder.

Liam didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he nodded, just once. “You better be the godfather.”

“Fucking hell.”

That same night, when Harry finally managed to wrestle a very pissed Louis out of his jeans and into bed, Louis was half-giggling, half-mumbling nonsense into the pillow. Harry tucked the blanket around him, and was just about to leave when Louis rolled onto his back with a lazy grin.

“Do you think I’d have a chance with Danielle faster than Zayn?” Harry whispered, slurring just slightly.

Louis blinked. “What the actual fuck, Harreh?”

“I’m just saying,” he chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She’s been with you, she kissed Niall, now she’s having a child with Liam. If it all goes tits up, I’ve got to move faster than Zayn. I can’t be the last one, that’s just embarrassing.”

Louis threw a pillow at him and missed by a mile. “I hate your arse.”

Harry stood, laughing, and kissed the top of his head. “Goodnight, love.”

There were a lot of new things happening in their lives. Louis launching a book—something that should’ve made him the centre of attention—ended up feeling strangely ordinary, like a quiet victory he didn’t need to shout about. His mum, Lottie, and Fizzy were coming up from Doncaster to celebrate. All his closest friends would be there too, including William.

Cassie, unfortunately, wouldn’t be attending. The reason was—well, entertaining, if not slightly tragic.

Harry and Louis had gone to absurd lengths to play matchmaker. They were convinced Cassie and Will would be perfect together, and spent weeks hyping him up to her, calling him a secret genius and charmingly introverted . Cassie wasn’t convinced at first, but after a particularly boozy night, she gave in and kissed him.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Cassie fell for him—hard. She texted Louis about it in all caps at 2 a.m. with a thousand heart emojis. Meanwhile, William... did not fall. He told Louis she came on too strong and it freaked him out, like she was auditioning for marriage.

Now Cassie was ghosting every group chat William was in and had politely declined the book launch invite “for mental health reasons.” Louis hadn’t stopped hearing about it since.

But still, it was going to be a great night. Louis arrived at the venue right at five o'clock, only for Mr. Taylor to tell him he was already late. There was a massive photo of Mr. Taylor near the entrance—and a much smaller one of Louis beside it. His mum would definitely snap a picture of him grinning next to it, and probably Harry too. Several of the interviewees were expected to attend, and Louis had even splurged on a new suit for the occasion. There would be a short speech, then some book signings, and hopefully, a drink or two after.

Louis held a copy of his book, turning it in his hands, eyes catching on the author bio at the back cover. “I think I look thinner in this photo,” he said, squinting at it before showing it to Mr. Taylor. “Don’t I?”

“Yes. Your cheeks were less... full,” Mr. Taylor replied with his usual dry delivery.

Louis gasped, offended. “Rude! It’s Harry’s fault. He feeds me like I’m a stray he rescued.”

“Speaking of him...” Mr. Taylor reached into his suit pocket and pulled out something small, slipping it discreetly into the inner pocket of Louis’ jacket. “Here it is.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Taylor gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. “That was a good decision, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Aw, are you proud of me?” Louis grinned.

“I am,” Mr. Taylor replied, deadpan.

“When I marry Harry, you’re going to be our witness.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You can’t fight it. You’re a friend now. That’s the law.”

“Jesus Christ.” Mr. Taylor rolled his eyes towards the heavens. “It’s already enough what you told me yesterday.”

“Oh, about what poppers are? Or edging?”

“Shut up, Mr. Tomlinson.”

The night turned out to be wonderful. Louis had the chance to speak, even though the majority of the crowd had shown up for Mr. Taylor—most of them current or former students who still looked at him like some kind of academic rock star. Louis spotted a few of his old classmates in the audience, and he hated how smugly satisfied he felt about it. He was the one up there, doing well, speaking alongside a respected professor— being the teacher’s pet—and they weren’t. 

Even Danielle was there, clinging to her new boyfriend. Louis was in such a good mood he actually let out a quiet laugh when he saw them.

Harry arrived late, which meant Louis didn’t get his good luck kiss before taking the stage—but that was fine. He wasn’t nervous, not really. And once he started speaking—about how governmental negligence trickled down to harm real, everyday people, and why those stories mattered—he was shining. Confident. Clear.

Then he saw Harry.

He was sitting right between Jay and Lottie, in the front row, holding a ridiculous bouquet of tulips that nearly made Louis roll his eyes. But he didn’t. Because honestly? He didn’t mind one bit.

“I can’t believe you were late because you had to buy fucking flowers,” Louis said later, barely hiding a grin as he signed a book for Harry.

“Can’t blame a man for being romantic,” Harry replied, smug as ever.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with those, huh?” Louis rolled his eyes, though his cheeks were still pink. He still grinned at the page, drawing a little heart before handing the book over.

“Watch your mouth, Mr. Tomlinson,” Mr. Taylor cut in without looking up, flipping through one of the copies. “My granddaughter is in the queue.”

When they got home after dinner, it was already late and Louis was tipsy, still clutching the slightly crumpled bouquet like it was a trophy. The first thing he did was shrug off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair as he kicked off his shoes with a groan.

“I can’t believe you,” Harry said, grinning as he spotted Louis’ socks when he flopped onto the couch and stretched his legs.

Louis blinked down at them, then let out a snort. There they were, the ridiculous pair with googly eyes and a little arm reaching out from the ankle, ending in a tiny magnet. 

“Oh, shut up. I forgot to wash the delicates. These were all I had left.”

Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling. “I wasn’t making fun. Just shocked you had the nerve to wear the soulmate socks without me.”

“Babe,” Louis grinned, half-lidded and flushed from the wine, voice dragging with affection. “Please come sit on me, yeah? I deserve it tonight.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “How romantic.” He padded over anyway, straddling Louis with the ease of muscle memory. He settled into his lap like he belonged there—which, of course, he did—and pressed a slow kiss to his boyfriend’s lips. “You were so fucking gorgeous tonight.”

“Yeah?” Louis asked, voice low, his hands naturally finding Harry’s waist.

“Yeah.”

Louis tilted his head, smirking. “Tell me one thing I said in my speech. One thing.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he giggled and wrapped his arms around Louis’ neck. “Can’t remember. Could only pay attention to you.”

Louis huffed out a laugh, squeezing his hips. “Typical. All charm, no substance.”

“Oi.” Harry leaned in to kiss him again, barely brushing their noses. “You love it.”

“I do,” Louis muttered, eyes tracing the edge of the red bandana tied into Harry’s curls. “Why are you wearing bandanas again?”

Harry glanced upward like he could see it. “Works better than scrunchies. Holds my hair up longer.”

Louis toyed with the fabric, his fingers brushing against Harry’s soft curls as he slowly undid the knot. “The last time I saw you with one of these, I still hated you.” Harry rolled his beautiful green eyes and Louis snorted, finally pulling the bandana free and holding it up. “Well, I think you look pretty.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Do I?”

Louis nodded. “And these…” he twirled the bandana around his finger, then smirked. “They’re also pretty useful.”

Harry tilted his head, amused. “Are they now?”

“Oh, yes.” Louis let the bandana fall between them, but then he picked it up again, eyes flicking from the soft fabric to Harry’s face. Then, he leaned in, voice low against Harry’s lips. “Arm behind your back, love.”

“Jesus Christ,” Harry sighed, obeying. 

Louis hummed in approval, leaning forward to brush a kiss to Harry’s neck as he brought the bandana down, tying it snugly around Harry’s wrists. His fingers worked deftly, the knot firm.

“Comfortable?” Louis asked, his voice right against Harry’s ear now.

Harry smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “What are you planning?”

Louis laughed against his skin. “It’s my celebration night. I get to tie up my boyfriend and keep him quiet for a bit.”

"Are you sure I’ll be quiet?" 

Louis smirked, eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer. “Do I need to find another bandana for your mouth?” His hand was already moving, fingers grazing over Harry’s chest, before he pinched one of Harry’s nipples, a sharp twist that made Harry gasp. “Or are you obeying?” he asked, his tone low and teasing.

“I am,” Harry breathed out, voice strained but eager.

“Good,” Louis’ words dripped with satisfaction, and he slid his hand down Harry’s body, guiding him until they were both pressed against the couch. “Gonna be all quiet, aren’t you?” Louis murmured, his lips brushing against Harry’s ear as he slowly unbuttoned Harry’s shirt, one button at a time, the fabric parting with a soft, deliberate sound.

Harry’s breath hitched as Louis’ fingers traced the edges of his skin, teasing and soft. Louis’ gaze lingered on him, watching for any sign of protest, any sign that Harry might slip out of line. But Harry held still, his pulse quickening under the watchful attention.

"Then, if you really are a good boy," Louis whispered, leaning in closer, pressing his lips just beside Harry’s jaw. "I’ll think about letting you come." 

Louis’ fingers lingered at Harry’s waist, teasing the edge of his shirt, then sliding further down, brushing just over the waistband of Harry’s jeans. He moved slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact as if measuring how much Harry could take, how much he could make him crave without saying a word.

"You’ve been good, haven’t you?" Louis’ voice dropped lower, just above a whisper, and Harry nodded before he could stop himself. His body was probably on fire, his limbs aching for Louis to make the next move, but he stayed still, his hands gripping the fabric beneath him as he awaited permission.

Louis’ lips curled into a smirk, satisfied with Harry’s obedience. He leaned down, mouth hovering just above Harry’s skin, lips grazing over the exposed curve of Harry’s collarbone. 

“Good boys wait for what they’re given,” he murmured, before pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s neck, just a brush of warmth before pulling back to look at him again.

And that night, Harry was quiet. Until Louis dragged every last clamor out of him, one touch at a time. But when he dared to make a sound, Louis had him gasping into the cushions, learning fast who was in charge. 

Later, Louis lay back against the cushion, his chest rising and falling beneath Harry’s weight as the two of them lay in the quiet aftermath. Harry, half-draped over him, was nestled against his chest, fingers gently weaving through Louis’ hair. 

"I need you to launch more books if this is going to be every time," Harry murmured, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he pressed a kiss to the skin just above Louis’ collarbone.

Louis smiled, the warmth of Harry in his arms making him feel weightless. He lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s lips. It was lazy and slow, an unspoken promise lingering between them, before Louis began to move, the desire to get up gnawing at him.

Harry, still tucked in his embrace, let out a small sigh. “Stop, where are you going? Stay here with me,” he whispered, fingers tightening around Louis’ waist, pulling him back.

"I need to get up," Louis replied, his voice a little more firm, but not entirely convincing. His body had other plans, wanting nothing more than to stay tangled up with Harry, to lose himself in the stillness of the moment.

“No, you don’t.” Harry’s words were quiet but insistent, his arms refusing to let go, holding Louis firmly in place.

“I do, yes,” Louis said, trying to move again, but Harry held him tighter, pressing his face into Louis’ chest, a soft smile tugging at his lips. Louis chuckled lightly, unable to resist. "Babe, please. I need to show you something.”

Louis stood up, his body bare as he moved towards his clothes, his fingers searching through his suit. He pulled something from his pocket, walked back to Harry, and placed it gently in his hands.

“What’s this?” Harry asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“My final payment for the book,” Louis said, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

“That’s great, Lou—”

“No, wait,” Louis cut him off, taking a deep breath. “It’s for the rent too.”

Harry looked at him, his eyes wide. “What the hell?”

“Please don’t fight me on this, babycakes,” Louis begged, his tone almost pleading as he sat next to Harry. “I need you to take it. I want you to have it. My plan is to buy half of the flat eventually, and I think I can get there one day. Or we could look for somewhere else, but... I don’t see why we’d leave, not when we love this place so much.” He hesitated, his fingers tracing the fabric of Harry’s shirt. “But if you want something new, I’m all in for that too. But this is the final payment for the book. It’s mine, but... it should be yours. Because I want to stay here with you. And since I can’t pay half the flat right now, I want to do this. I know it sounds crazy—”

“It does,” Harry chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand reached up to cup Louis’ cheek, softening the moment. “But I know how much it means to you.”

Louis looked down, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “It really does, Harry. Please take it so I can finally bring all my stuff here. I’m sick of driving back and forth just to stop stealing your underwear.”

Harry laughed, his thumb gently stroking Louis’ cheek. “You can use them whenever you want. You know that.”

Louis nodded. “I know, but... I want this to mean something. If you don’t want to use it, just save it, yeah? Save it for something for us. For a trip, for a future... for a wedding, maybe. I don’t care, but just—just let me give you something, please.”

Harry’s eyes softened as he looked at Louis, a smile tugging at his lips. “Okay.”

“Really?” Louis asked, his voice a little shaky now, hope flickering in his chest.

“Yeah, really,” Harry said, pulling Louis in for a soft, tender kiss on his forehead. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. I really do.”

Louis kissed him deeply, his lips lingering on Harry’s as if trying to communicate everything he felt in that one kiss. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against Harry’s, both of them breathing a little heavier.

“I love you so much,” Louis whispered.

Harry smiled, a soft, contented thing that reached his eyes. “I love you more,” he replied.

Louis let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulled Harry closer, his hand trailing down to rest on his chest. “That’s impossible.”

The next day, flat 302 stopped being Louis’. It had always held a part of him, a place where memories were made and where he first felt the weight of his dreams. That place would always have a special place in his heart, but it wasn’t home anymore. Home was this messy, curly-haired boy who had once been a stranger—then a roommate, a rival, a best friend, and now the love of his life. The boy who had turned every hard day into something bearable, who made him laugh when everything felt too serious.