Archive of Our Own

The first time Louis meets Harry, he’s already annoyed.

Luke’s hand is warm in his, fingers intertwined as they cross the threshold of the flat Luke now shares with his childhood best friend — someone Louis has only heard of in vague mentions. “You’ll love him,” Luke had said in the car, eyes flicking toward Louis with that soft smile that still makes Louis' chest ache. “He’s a bit much, but you’ll see.”

Louis wasn’t worried. He never is, not really, when Luke’s with him. They’ve been together two years now — long enough to build a language of glances and silent reassurance. Louis knows how to navigate a room. He knows how to smile when he needs to. He knows how to charm. And Luke’s friends always end up liking him anyway.

But then Harry opens the door, barefoot and shirtless, curls dripping from a recent shower, and Louis immediately understands what Luke meant by “a bit much.”

He's stunning — not in the classic, clean-cut way, but in that arrogant, magnetic kind of way that demands attention without ever asking for it. There’s something infuriating in the curve of his smirk, the way he leans against the doorframe like he owns the universe, not just this flat.

“Well, well,” Harry says, eyeing them both with a grin. “So this is the infamous Louis.”

Louis straightens slightly. “Infamous?”

Harry shrugs, stepping aside to let them in. “Luke talks about you constantly. It’s exhausting.”

There’s no real malice in his tone, but there’s something else — teasing, maybe, or a challenge buried beneath the words. Louis doesn’t rise to it. Not yet.

“Nice to meet you too,” he says dryly, brushing past Harry and pretending not to notice the way his skin prickles as their shoulders almost touch.

Inside, the flat is lived-in and warm. Vinyl records scattered across the coffee table, an abandoned guitar leaning against the wall, open textbooks and notes covering the kitchen counter. It smells faintly of coffee and incense and something citrusy Louis can’t quite place.

Harry disappears into the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, “Make yourselves at home. Want a drink, Lou?”

Louis bristles. “Louis is fine.”

Luke squeezes his hand, a silent warning he’s used before. Don’t start.

Harry laughs, and Louis can hear the smirk in it. “Touchy.”

The rest of the evening is bearable. Barely. Zayn and Niall arrive, loud and chaotic, immediately dragging Louis into their banter. They’re fun, easy to get along with — and Louis finds himself relaxing, loosening his shoulders, sipping at his drink and laughing more than he thought he would.

But Harry never really leaves the room, even when he’s not saying much. He’s always there — lounging too comfortably on the arm of the couch, commenting just loud enough for Louis to hear, smiling too knowingly when their eyes meet.

It gets under Louis’ skin in the most irritating way.

When they’re leaving, Luke kisses Louis softly by the door, murmuring, “See? Not so bad.”

Louis smiles back but doesn’t answer.

Because Harry is still leaning against the wall, watching them with that infuriating glint in his eye.

And Louis has the strangest feeling he’s just walked into something he won’t be able to get out of.

The second time Louis sees Harry, he’s shirtless again.

Of course he is.

It’s a Thursday evening, one of those spontaneous nights when Luke decides to swing by his and Harry's flat to pick up a jacket he forgot. Louis is with him because they had dinner plans, and Luke had promised it would take “literally two seconds.” Famous last words.

Louis barely has time to cross the doorway before he hears a loud pop — that obnoxious snap of gum between teeth — and then Harry strolls into the room, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants and the kind of smugness that should be illegal.

“Evening,” he says, stretching his arms over his head in a way that’s far too casual to be innocent. The gum shifts between his lips. “Didn’t know you two were stopping by.”

Louis looks away before his eyes can wander too long over the exposed skin. “We wouldn’t want to interrupt your… chewing.”

Harry grins, unbothered. “Addicted to the stuff.”

He walks toward Louis with slow, deliberate steps, like a cat circling something it wants to toy with.

“Want one?” he asks, voice low.

“No, thanks. I don’t need—”

Before Louis can finish, Harry tilts his head slightly and, without breaking eye contact, sticks out his tongue. Balanced on it, wet and pink and obscene, is the gum he’s been chewing.

“Sure?” he says, lips curling.

Louis freezes.

His mouth opens, then closes again. “You’re disgusting.”

Harry chuckles, retracts his tongue and pops the gum back in, chewing lazily. “That’s a shame. Thought you might want a taste.”

Louis is this close to losing it — not just because of the way Harry looks or the way he talks, but because he means it. He’s not bluffing. He enjoys this.

And Louis? Louis should walk away. Should say something cutting and sharp.

But all he does is glare, flustered and pink-cheeked and barely holding it together.

Luke calls out from down the hall. “Got it! Ready?”

“Please,” Louis mutters, brushing past Harry with clipped steps, jaw clenched and heart slamming against his ribs.

But just as he reaches the door, he hears it — soft, smug, right against his ear.

“You should’ve taken it when you had the chance.”

Louis doesn’t turn around.

But he’ll think about it all night.

The pub is loud and humid, thick with sweat and stale beer. Music thumps from somewhere overhead, but Louis barely hears it over the clatter of glasses and the buzz of conversation. He leans back in the booth, wedged between Luke and Zayn, trying not to show how tightly wound he feels.

Harry isn’t there.

It’s not like he cares.

He doesn’t.

He’s just… aware. That’s all.

Niall is halfway through a story about his disastrous flat inspection when Louis glances toward the door for the third time that night. Still no sign of him.

He leans closer to Zayn. “Do you think Styles finally gave up on showing his face?”

Zayn arches a brow. “You mean Harry?”

Louis shrugs with forced nonchalance. “I mean whoever. He’s Luke’s best friend, not mine.”

Niall snorts. “He’s probably out hunting.”

Louis frowns. “Hunting?”

Zayn smirks. “Yeah, you know — wandering around like a fucking wolf. He’s always pulling when we go out. Must be that whole tall-dark-and-dumb appeal.”

Niall laughs into his pint. “You’ll know he’s here when you see someone getting devoured in a corner.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Charming.”

Zayn nudges him. “Speak of the devil.”

Louis turns — and freezes.

Across the pub, dimly lit in the red glow of a wall sconce, Harry Styles is making out with a guy. Not just a kiss. He’s pressed against the wall, hands in the twink’s hair, teeth grazing lips, hips angled forward like he owns him. The boy’s practically climbing him.

Harry's eyes open briefly — lazy, glazed, and just a bit smug — and land directly on Louis.

Louis looks away first. Fast. Scalded.

“Jesus,” he mutters, clutching his drink tighter.

Luke chuckles beside him, completely unfazed. “He always finds someone.”

“Good for him,” Louis replies, voice flat.

Zayn, sensing the shift, gives Louis a look. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Louis lies.

He drains the rest of his beer and pretends not to hear the wet sound of Harry's lips on that boy’s neck across the room. Pretends not to care. Pretends it doesn't bother him that Harry’s fingers are digging into someone else’s waist like that.

Someone who isn’t him.

Not that he wants it to be him.

Of course not.

He barely knows the guy.

He doesn’t even like him.

So why does it feel like something’s been ripped open inside his chest?

Why is his throat tight?

Why is he still watching?

Harry saunters back to the table like he didn’t just spend ten minutes swallowing someone else’s tongue.

His curls are a mess — flattened on one side, sticking up in chaotic loops on the other. There’s a faint red smudge on his jawline, and his mouth is swollen, pink, like he’s been bitten. Which he probably has.

Louis watches him approach, stomach twisting.

He fucking hates him.

Hates the way Harry slouches lazily into the seat across from him, stretching out his long legs like he owns the fucking floor. Hates the way Luke smiles and claps him on the back like they’re brothers. Hates the glint in Harry’s eyes when they lock onto his.

“What?” Louis snaps before he can stop himself.

Harry raises a brow, pops a chewing gum into his mouth. “Nothing. Just surprised to see you scowling already.”

Louis bristles. “Must be your face.”

Zayn chokes on his drink. Niall lets out a low “oof” and leans back with popcorn-level interest.

Harry smirks. “Touché.”

He starts chewing, obnoxiously slow, jaw flexing. The sound of it — the snap, pop — grates on Louis’ nerves. Or maybe it's the way Harry licks the gum off his lip between bites, tongue slow and deliberate like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Louis tears his gaze away.

“You have fun?” he asks, dry.

Harry shrugs. “He was cute.”

“Didn’t ask if he was cute. Asked if you had fun.”

The smirk sharpens. “I always do.”

Louis looks down at his drink, fingers twitching around the glass. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet, you keep watching.”

That lands hard.

Zayn whistles low under his breath. Luke looks between them with furrowed brows. “Everything good here?”

“Peachy,” Harry says at the same time Louis mutters, “Perfect.”

They don’t look at each other.

Not again.

Not yet.

But the air is electric. And the space between them — just a battered wooden table — feels like a battlefield.

“Think I need some air,” Louis says suddenly, standing too fast. His chair scrapes harshly against the floor.

Luke looks up. “Want me to come?”

“No. Just—” Louis doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.

He walks off toward the back exit, heart pounding, pulse erratic, ears hot.

Behind him, he hears the faint click of gum between teeth. Feels the heat of Harry’s stare on the back of his neck like a brand.

And he hates it.

He hates it so fucking much.

The night air is cool when Luke steps outside, wrapping his arms around himself as he scans the small alley behind the pub. He spots Louis right away — hunched slightly, cigarette between his fingers, exhaling smoke in lazy swirls that float upward like ghosts.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Luke says softly, making his way over.

Louis glances sideways and manages a tired smile. “Didn’t mean to disappear.”

Luke shrugs, nudging him lightly with his shoulder before sliding an arm around his waist. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis lies, and Luke doesn’t press.

They stand like that for a moment, silent. Luke presses a kiss to Louis’ temple, then to his jaw. Louis turns, and they kiss fully — slow and familiar, the kind that feels like home. Luke cups his face with both hands like he’s something fragile, and Louis melts into it, lets himself believe this is enough. That he’s okay. That he loves Luke. That nothing is missing.

The door swings open behind them with a sharp creak.

Harry.

His curls are a mess, shirt slightly wrinkled, and his jaw is tight — clenched so hard it looks painful. He’s chewing gum with an aggression that could be felt from across the street. His eyes fall instantly on them — still tangled together, Luke’s hands on Louis’ face, their lips barely parted.

Harry’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to react.

“The others want to head home,” he says, voice rough, clipped.

Luke straightens first. “Right. We’ll be there in a sec.”

Harry doesn’t respond. He doesn’t move either. Just stares.

Louis doesn’t say a word. But his body has gone stiff, spine tight as a wire, and he doesn’t look at Harry — not directly. He can’t.

Harry takes a slow step forward, popping his gum obnoxiously loud. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Looked intimate.”

Luke frowns, but doesn’t say anything. Louis bites the inside of his cheek, the aftertaste of the kiss now laced with something bitter.

Harry’s eyes flicker over Louis’s lips — swollen, red. Then to his neck, where a faint smudge of Luke’s touch remains. His own jaw tightens further.

“Well,” Harry says eventually, rocking back on his heels, “Don’t take too long.”

And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the pub like nothing happened — but Louis feels the weight of him even after he’s gone, like smoke clinging to his skin.

Luke exhales beside him. “What the fuck’s his problem lately?”

Louis doesn’t answer.

Because if he opens his mouth, he might say too much.

And none of it would be fair.
Not to Luke.
Not to himself.

But especially not to the boy who just walked away with a storm brewing in his chest.

The bedroom is still warm with the echo of what just happened.

Louis is sprawled on his back, chest rising and falling as he stares at the ceiling, skin damp and flushed, Luke’s fingers still tangled loosely with his under the sheets. It had been intense — not rushed, but needy, like they both had something to prove. Louis let himself fall into it, let himself believe the way Luke kissed his ribs meant something lasting. And maybe it does.

Luke’s already drifting off, soft breaths puffing against Louis’ shoulder. The room smells like sex and cologne and something deeper — something heavy in Louis’ lungs.

He slips out of bed carefully, grabbing the first shirt he can find — Luke’s — and pads down the hallway barefoot. His throat is dry. All he wants is a glass of water, something cold, something grounding.

He doesn’t expect anyone to be awake.

But when he steps into the kitchen, he freezes.

Harry’s there.

Sitting on the counter, legs swinging idly, bowl of cereal in hand. He’s shirtless, tattooed chest lit faintly by the fridge light, hair wild and falling over his eyes. A spoon clinks lazily against ceramic as he lifts it to his mouth, chewing like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Except he does.

Because his eyes find Louis the moment he steps in, and they don’t move.

Louis swallows.

Harry lets the silence stretch.

“Can’t sleep?” Harry finally says, voice low and rough with something Louis doesn’t want to name.

“Thirsty,” Louis mutters, walking to the sink. His legs feel too bare. His throat too tight.

He fills the glass slowly, aware of Harry’s gaze burning into the back of his neck.

“You were loud,” Harry says, chewing deliberately slow.

Louis stiffens. “You’re one to talk.”

Harry hums. “I’m not the one fucking my boyfriend in the next room.”

Louis turns then, leaning against the counter, glass in hand. “You jealous or just bitter?”

Harry licks his spoon clean. “Why would I be jealous?”

Louis’s eyes narrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

They stare at each other for a long beat.

The air between them is thick — not quite anger, not quite heat, but something sharper. Something dangerous.

Harry hops off the counter, walking closer, cereal bowl still in hand. He stops just in front of Louis, chest barely a breath away. His voice drops.

“You really think I give a shit about who you let fuck you?”

Louis’s lips twitch into a cold smile. “That’s a lot of words for someone who couldn’t stop staring at my mouth earlier.”

Harry chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re cocky.”

“I’m right.”

Another silence.

Harry lifts the spoon, takes one last bite, then leans in — not enough to touch, but enough to feel it. His breath is warm.

“Hope he was good,” he murmurs, dropping his voice lower, more dangerous. “Because you sounded desperate.”

Louis’s heart skips.

He hates him.

He wants to kiss him.

He wants to throw the water in his face. He wants to drink it and kiss him soaked. He wants to scream. He wants to beg. He wants—

Footsteps down the hallway.

Harry backs off with a smirk, licking milk off his thumb.

“Sleep well, Louis,” he says, before walking past and disappearing into the dark.

And Louis stands there, glass shaking in his hand, chest aching like something’s just snapped in two.

It starts with a stupid game.

Something about stacking cards and answering truth-or-dare questions when someone messes it up. Louis doesn’t really get it, and he’s had just enough beer to not bother pretending.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, squinting at the wobbly pile in the middle of the coffee table. “Why would I take a card from the bottom? That’s just—why?”

“You have to,” Niall says around a laugh. “That’s the point. If you pull it right, you’re safe. If it falls—”

“You answer a question,” Zayn adds, already smirking like he’s got a thousand evil ones lined up.

Louis pouts, still staring at the stack. “Stupid fucking game.”

And then Harry crouches down beside him. Close. Too close.

“Here,” he murmurs, hand brushing Louis’ arm as he reaches across. “You’ve gotta slide it out slow. Like this.”

Louis doesn’t breathe.

Harry’s voice is a low rasp, his breath ghosting over Louis’ cheek, curls falling a bit in his face. He’s chewing gum again—Louis can hear the faint pop of it between his words, can smell the mint—and it makes his stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol or cards.

Harry’s fingers glide along the stack, steady and sure. His forearm brushes against Louis’, warm and taut.

“Then what?” Louis whispers, his voice sharper than intended.

Harry glances up, something sparking in his eyes. “Then you pray it doesn’t fall.”

Louis swallows, and his lips part to say something—he has no idea what—when another voice slices the moment in half.

“I’ll help him.”

Luke.

He’s standing just behind them, arms crossed, jaw set.

Harry freezes.

Louis blinks and shifts back instinctively, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He hadn’t noticed Luke walk over. Hadn’t even thought about him.

“I mean,” Luke adds, forcing a laugh as he steps between them, “he is my boyfriend.”

The room goes quiet. Not awkward, not loud—just quiet in that heavy, too-aware way.

Harry straightens slowly, gum snapping between his teeth. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches Luke kneel down where he’d been seconds before, all while Louis looks anywhere but at either of them.

Then—

“Well,” Harry says, voice flat, “this was fun.”

He stands up abruptly, runs a hand through his hair, and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Where are you going?” Zayn asks.

Harry chews hard, jaw working. “Kendall’s waiting,” he says, casual like a blade. “Apparently, I owe her an orgasm.”

And with that, he’s out—door slamming behind him, tension trailing like smoke.

Louis doesn’t move for a long moment.

Luke shifts beside him, clearly trying to pick up where they left off. “You okay?”

Louis nods.

But he’s not.

Not even close.

Louis knocks.

Three soft taps on the door of Luke’s apartment, knuckles grazing the chipped wood. He’s dressed nicely — dark jeans, a fitted sweater, the silver chain Luke got him for their anniversary catching the porch light as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His hair is perfectly styled, and there’s a nervous flutter in his chest. Two years together and still he gets this way before seeing him.

The door swings open.

But it’s not Luke.

It’s Harry.

Tall, shirtless, curls a mess, standing there in nothing but a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers that sit too low on his hips. He’s holding a toothbrush in one hand and looks utterly unfazed, like Louis showing up at his doorstep in the middle of the night is the most normal thing in the world.

“Hi,” Harry says, voice low and raspy. “You’re early.”

Louis swallows. “Luke home?”

“Not yet.” Harry leans against the door, utterly unfazed by his near-nakedness. “Went out to grab wine or something. Said you were coming over.”

Louis swallows. “Clearly.”

“You wanna come in or just keep staring?”

Louis scowls and walks past him, muttering, “It’s not the first time someone’s said that to you, I bet.”

Harry grins, following him in. “What can I say? I leave an impression.”

“Infection, more like,” Louis says under his breath.

Harry chuckles and throws his toothbrush onto the kitchen counter, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “Thirsty?”

Louis glares. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“I meant the water,” Harry says, handing it over. “But sure. If your mind goes there…”

Louis takes it, resisting the urge to splash it in his face.

They sit. Kind of.

Louis leans against the counter, Harry sits on a stool far too comfortably for someone dressed like that.

Silence settles. But it’s not peaceful. It’s thick, charged, the kind of quiet that begs to be broken.

“You always answer the door half-naked?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs. “You always this judgy?”

Louis scoffs. “I’m not judgy.”

“You’ve judged me five times in the last minute. I’m counting.”

“I haven’t—” Louis pauses. “Okay, maybe four.”

Harry smirks. “I’ll take it.”

There’s a pause. Harry drums his fingers on the counter. Louis notices he’s chewing gum — again, slow, deliberate. The pop of it is annoying.

And hot.

Goddamn it.

“You’re not what I expected, you know,” Harry says suddenly.

Louis frowns. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Less sharp edges. More clingy. Luke always talked about you like you were some sort of angel.”

Louis tilts his head. “And you’re disappointed?”

Harry smiles, leans forward just enough to invade Louis’ space. “Not even a little.”

The air tightens.

Louis crosses his arms. “You flirt with everyone like this, or am I just special?”

Harry’s eyes flick to his lips. “You’re definitely not just anything.”

Louis stares. “You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

Harry leans back, slow, biting his gum with a click. “Maybe I do.”

Louis exhales sharply, eyes darting away. “Luke’s gonna be home soon.”

Harry shrugs. “Shame. I was enjoying this.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but there’s a flicker of something underneath. Curiosity. Annoyance. That creeping heat in his neck.

“I don’t like you,” Louis says suddenly.

“I know,” Harry replies. “That’s half the fun.”

Louis opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “But it's just… I thought you’d be different. Worse, actually.”

Harry arches a brow. “Worse than this?”

“You’re still an arrogant prick,” Louis says. “But. Maybe less unbearable than I assumed.”

Harry smirks. “A compliment? From you? I feel blessed.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t.” He pauses. “But I might hold on to it. File it away for later.”

Louis laughs, despite himself. “God, you’re so—”

But he doesn’t get to finish.

Because that’s when the bedroom door creaks open.

A boy — twinkish, soft features, messy hair — walks out in one of Harry’s t-shirts. Ramones logo stretched across his thighs, bare legs, dazed and sleepy.

He rubs one eye, looking between the two of them. “Haz. You coming back to bed?”

Harry doesn’t even glance at him.

His eyes stay locked on Louis.

Something ugly and burning coils low in Louis’ stomach. His jaw clenches.

Harry doesn’t say a word.

The boy disappears back into the bedroom. The click of the door is loud in the silence.

Louis blinks once. “I’ll wait in Luke’s room.”

Harry steps forward slightly. “Louis—”

“Don’t,” Louis says, voice sharper than he intends. “Seriously. Go back to whoever that was. I’m just here for my boyfriend.”

He turns on his heel and walks away, heart pounding.

And Harry just stands there. In the quiet. In his boxers.

Still chewing his gum.

Still watching him go.

Still not knowing what the hell just happened — or why it’s starting to feel like he’s losing something he never even had.

The fork barely touches his plate.

Louis stares at the pasta in front of him, perfectly plated — Luke’s doing — but it might as well be sawdust in his mouth. He nods along to whatever Luke is saying, something about a new project Zayn pitched and how they’ll need extra help next week, but Louis doesn’t catch more than a few words.

Because the moment Luke set the dishes down, the moment they sat at the small dining table in the open-plan kitchen… the sounds started.

From the bedroom.

Near them.

At first, it was subtle. The rhythmic creak of a bed. The thump of something hitting the wall. Louis had frozen, wine glass halfway to his lips, pulse jumping in his throat.

Luke didn’t seem to notice. Like he's used to it.

But then — a moan. Distinct. Drawn out.

High-pitched.

Not Harry’s.

Not yet.

Louis stabs at a piece of rigatoni, his grip on the fork too tight.

“So then Zayn says,” Luke chuckles, completely oblivious, “that if I don’t fix the lighting by Tuesday, he’ll swap me out with his cat—”

Another moan. This one Harry.

Low. Deep. Strained.

Louis' hand slips slightly, fork scraping across the ceramic with a shriek. He covers it with a cough, forcing a sip of wine.

“Are you okay, love?” Luke asks, pausing mid-story.

Louis swallows hard. “Yeah. Yeah, just… a bit hot in here.”

Luke smiles, rising to open a window. “Summer’s catching up to us.”

The second Luke turns his back, the fucking bed slams against the wall. Once. Twice. Rhythmic. Violent.

Then — Harry’s voice.

“Yeah, just like that—fuck—don’t stop.”

Louis grips the edge of the table.

His appetite’s gone.

He feels it in his spine, in his thighs, in the tight coil low in his stomach that he refuses to acknowledge. Harry’s voice echoes through the ceiling, through his skin, curling like smoke under his collarbone.

Luke comes back, leans in to kiss Louis on the temple. “Better?”

Louis nods, barely.

More groans now. Faster. Rougher. Skin slapping skin. A headboard slamming. And over it all, Harry’s low, filthy growl, like he's fucking the boy to prove something.

Louis’s fork falls to his plate with a loud clatter.

Luke flinches. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m—” Louis forces a breath, stands up too fast. “Sorry, I just—need a second.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Heads straight to the bathroom, but stops in the hall.

Because the bedroom door is cracked open. And Harry’s voice comes through loud and clear:

“Fucking take it. You wanted it—so take it.”

The boy moans something unintelligible. A whimper. Maybe a please.

Louis feels like he might be sick.

He moves faster, past the door, past the stairs, slams the bathroom door shut and locks it behind him.

Leans against the sink.

Stares at himself in the mirror.

His cheeks are flushed. His pupils blown. His throat tight.

This is what Harry wanted.

He did this for him.

And Louis hates it.

He hates him.

He hates how it works.

The next morning, there’s a group text.

ZAYN
pub tonight.
@harry ur dumbass better show up
@luke @louis @niall same

HARRY
fuck u zayn
i’ll be there

NIALL
i want to eat too

LOUIS
we’re in

LUKE
me too

HARRY
what a relief, my best friend AND his boyfriend

LOUIS
thrilled, truly.

Louis tosses his phone on the bed and mutters, “prick,” under his breath.

The pub is loud as always, the air thick with laughter and sweat and the kind of tension Harry can’t seem to shake off his chest.

He’s at the bar, fingers curled around a glass of whiskey he hasn’t really touched. He’s not alone — a tall, willowy guy with cropped bleach-blond hair is pressed up against him, practically purring in his ear. Harry doesn’t even know his name. Doesn’t care.

All he cares about is Louis.

Who’s at a corner table with Luke, Zayn and Niall, legs crossed, drink in hand, lips painted in that soft pink shade he always chews off halfway through the night. He’s laughing at something Niall said, eyes glittering, and Harry hates how beautiful he looks in the light of the neon sign above him.

He doesn’t realize Louis is watching him too until their eyes meet.

And it’s sharp. Electric. Like a spark crackling to life.

Harry tilts his head, then — just to drive it home — he lets the blond guy lean in and press a kiss to his jaw, slow and wet and obvious.

Louis’s smile falters for half a second before he shifts in his seat and reaches for Luke’s hand. Twines their fingers on the table. Leans in close and whispers something in his ear that makes Luke laugh and nod.

Harry’s jaw clenches.

He whispers something to the blond guy — doesn’t even know what — and turns to walk toward their table with the guy waiting behind for him like a loyal pet. When he reaches them, he tosses his chewing gum in a napkin, flashes a grin.

“Evening,” he says, eyes locked on Louis. “Didn’t think I’d find you here after that text, sunshine.”

Louis doesn’t even blink. “Didn’t think I’d find you attached to another twink.”

Harry lets out a low chuckle. “What can I say? Had to blow off some steam. Last night was… intense.”

He looks right at Louis when he says it. Watches the twitch of his fingers, the way he pulls his hand back from Luke’s just a little too fast.

Zayn raises a brow. “You were with someone last night?”

Harry nods slowly. “Yeah. Took him home. Fucked him hard enough that I’m sure the whole flat heard.”

Louis doesn’t look at him, but his jaw tightens. His hand finds Luke’s thigh, resting there deliberately.

Luke beams, completely oblivious. “Mate, you're fucking insatiable.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry says, swirling his glass. “Had a lot on my mind. Needed a distraction."

He’s still looking at Louis.

Louis finally meets his gaze, and something flashes between them — rage, lust, challenge. Then he smirks.

“Hopefully he was better than the one from two nights ago. That one sounded like a dying pigeon.”

Niall bursts out laughing, but Harry barely hears him. His pulse is too loud in his ears.

He leans in, dangerously close to Louis now, and says low, only for him to hear:

"Did you like it?"

Louis swallows. Hard. His hand curls into a fist on Luke’s thigh.

“You know - None of them sound like you.”

“Good,” Louis whispers back. “Because you’ll never get the chance to have me like that in your bed.”

Harry smiles. “You sure about that?”

Before Louis can answer, Luke turns to him with a kiss to the cheek. “Everything okay?”

Louis blinks. “Yeah. Just tired."

And Harry watches, helpless, furious, as Louis melts into his boyfriend’s arms.

So he turns back to the bar.

And grabs the blond again.

And kisses him like punishment.

The air is heavy with summer. A thick, slow kind of heat that makes everything feel a little lazier, a little closer. The sun beats down through the trees in thin streaks of gold, and the gravel path crunches softly beneath Louis’ sneakers.

Clifford pulls at the leash, nose low to the ground, tail wagging as he sniffs at every bush and tree root like it’s his life’s purpose. Louis hums distractedly, phone in his hand, scrolling through something mindless to keep his brain still.

He’s barely paying attention.

Not until a solid chest nearly slams into him.

“Fuck—”

Louis stumbles back, fingers tightening around the leash as Clifford barks in protest.

And then he sees him.

Sweat-slick curls, damp against his forehead. A black tank top clinging to every inch of his chest. Tattoos glistening, skin flushed, mouth parted. Harry.

Breathing heavily. Jogging gear. AirPods out.

“Jesus Christ,” Louis hisses, pushing back his fringe. “Watch where you’re going.”

Harry’s chest rises and falls, mouth curving in a half-smile. “You were the one on your phone.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Still standing on the path. It’s a public park, not your personal runway.”

Harry lets out a soft breath, clearly amused. “You always this defensive on a walk or is this a special occasion?”

Louis doesn’t answer immediately. He just stares. And Harry stares back. Neither of them moves.

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of Harry’s neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Louis watches it.

Disgusting. He tells himself it’s disgusting. And then he clears his throat, shaking his head, breaking the eye contact first.

“Why are you even here?” Louis asks, voice tight. “This isn’t your neighbourhood.”

Harry shrugs. “Needed a longer route. Helps me clear my head.”

“Didn’t realise stalking your best friend’s boyfriend was part of your cardio.”

Harry’s jaw tenses.

And Louis instantly knows he’s hit a nerve.

“Bold of you to assume I even knew you’d be here.”

"Oh, come on,” Louis scoffs. “You’ve been pulling this shit for weeks. Lingering when Luke leaves the room. Sitting too close. Making those fucking comments that you pretend are jokes.”

Harry steps closer, eyes dark.

“What comments?”

Louis laughs bitterly. “You know what comments.”

There’s a long pause.

Clifford sniffs at a patch of grass, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the storm building above him.

“You think you’re that important, huh?” Harry says quietly, voice low and sharp. “That everything I do revolves around you?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “No. I think you’re a coward. And an asshole.”

Harry takes another step forward.

They're far too close now.

Louis can see the sweat on his temples, the way his lips are just barely parted, the faint rise and fall of his chest. There’s a wildness in his eyes that makes Louis’ stomach twist.

“I’m a coward?” Harry echoes.

Louis doesn’t flinch. “You flirt with me constantly and then act like I’m the one imagining things.”

“I’m not flirting with you.”

“Then stop looking at me like that,” Louis snaps.

Harry leans in. “Like what?”

“Like you want to pin me to a wall.”

Harry doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

And then — “Maybe I do.”

Louis' heart skips a beat.

It’s so quiet that even the rustle of the trees sounds deafening. A bird chirps in the distance. Clifford barks at a squirrel.

Harry watches him, waiting.

Louis laughs — but it’s dry, bitter. “You’re disgusting.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “You always say that like you don’t love it.”

“Luke is my boyfriend.”

“I’m aware,” Harry murmurs.

“You’re his best friend.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

“Then why—”

“Because you look at me like you want me to ruin you,” Harry says, voice dropping even lower. “And I can’t fucking stand it.”

Louis swallows. Hard.

There’s a buzzing in his ears now, hot and dizzying.

“You don’t get to say that,” he says eventually, voice cracking.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the one who keeps showing up. You’re the one who keeps flirting and chewing that fucking gum like it’s some performance. You’re the one who keeps bringing twinks home that look like me—”

Harry grabs his wrist.

Just for a second.

They stare.

Neither one breathes.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

Louis tilts his head. “Don’t I?”

And then, just like that, he yanks the leash, turns around, and starts walking away.

Clifford trots beside him, completely unfazed.

Harry stays behind, fists clenched, chest heaving.

He watches Louis go, watches the curve of his shoulders, the sway of his hips. Watches the way Louis doesn’t turn around once.

It takes everything in him not to run after him.

Harry slams the gym bag down on Zayn’s kitchen table with a thud that makes the glass salt shaker jump.

Zayn looks up from his rolling paper, one brow arched. “You look like shit.”

Harry shrugs off his jacket, breath still coming in uneven bursts from the jog, from the argument, from everything. He rubs a hand through his sweat-damp curls and leans heavily on the counter like he’s seconds away from losing it.

“Ran into Louis at the park,” he says flatly.

Zayn hums, still calm. “Clifford?”

“Yeah. Both of them.”

That earns a glance. “You fight again?”

“No.” Harry laughs bitterly. “Not really. I mean—yeah. Sort of.”

Zayn flicks the lighter and lights up, taking a slow drag before he gestures toward Harry. “You wanna maybe stop orbiting around your best friend’s boyfriend like a fucking lovesick planet?”

Harry’s jaw clenches. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

Harry stares at him for a long second, then exhales, pacing now.

“It’s not like that. I’m not trying to ruin anything. I swear I’m not. I just—” He pauses, then growls. “I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Zayn leans back, lazily amused. “Sounds about right.”

“He’s always there,” Harry spits, dragging both hands through his hair now, tugging at the roots. “In my flat, at my table, wearing Luke’s hoodies like they’re married. And it’s fine, it’s fucking fine, because Luke loves him. He loves him, right?”

Zayn hums. “Right. The boyfriend. Of the guy you’re totally not obsessed with.”

“I’m not—” Harry starts, then stops, groans. “Fuck. Maybe I am.”

He steps closer, voice lowering. “But then he looks at me like that. Like he knows. Like he fucking wants me to snap.”

“Maybe he does,” Zayn says.

Harry’s breath catches.

Zayn shrugs. “Maybe he’s testing you.”

“And what if he is?” Harry hisses. “What the fuck am I supposed to do? Break my best friend’s heart? Steal the one thing that makes him happy? For what? For some brat who doesn’t even like me?”

“You don’t think he likes you?” Zayn blinks slowly. “That’s adorable.”

Harry’s fists curl. “He hates me.”

“He wants you,” Zayn corrects. “He just doesn’t want to want you. Big difference.”

Harry goes still.

Niall bursts through the door at that exact moment, humming some song under his breath until he sees Harry’s expression. “Oh, shit. Are we unpacking trauma?”

Zayn nods. “Harry’s in love with his best friend’s boyfriend.”

“I’m not—” Harry starts, but Niall just throws himself into the nearest chair, cracking open a can of Coke like this is the best show in town.

Harry sinks into the couch. “I can’t take it anymore. I used to feel in control. Now I’m… burning.”

“Dramatic,” Zayn says mildly, passing the bong.

Harry ignores it. “It’s not even about sex. I mean, it is. But not just. It’s the way he looks at me sometimes. Like he knows. Like he’s fucking laughing at me.”

“Isn’t he always kind of laughing at you?” Niall asks. “It’s sort of his thing.”

Harry glares. “I hate this.”

Zayn shrugs. “You sure? Kinda seems like you live for the angst.”

“I fucked some guy the other night,” Harry says suddenly, voice low and bitter. “The twinkiest twink I could find. Loud. Pretty. Looked a bit like him.”

Niall winces. “That’s dark, mate.”

“I did it in my room while Louis was having dinner with Luke,” Harry continues, relentless. “Made sure they’d hear. And then I told Louis I hoped he liked it.”

Zayn lets out a low whistle. “And they say romance is dead.”

Harry drops his face into his hands. “I’m such a dick.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, “but a sexy one. So you’ve got that going for you.”

“I can’t keep doing this,” Harry mutters. “I thought I could just… distract myself. Sleep with other people, act like I don’t care. But he’s under my skin. Every fucking breath I take feels like it’s half his.”

“You’re spiraling,” Zayn says, but not unkindly.

“I know.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Niall says, “You ever think that maybe you should just stop fucking everything that moves?”

Harry lifts his head slowly. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious. Try celibacy. Or, like, monogamy with a person who isn’t Louis. Get a boyfriend. Someone real. Not a Louis lookalike with a lip ring.”

Harry stares. “You think that’ll help?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Zayn says. “At least you’ll stop moaning in the kitchen while poor Luke tries to cut his lasagna.”

Niall snorts. “Or accidentally traumatizing Louis during his late-night water runs.”

Harry groans again and sinks lower into the couch. “I’m doomed.”

“No,” Zayn says, standing up to get another drink. “You’re just dramatic. There’s a difference.”

“Big difference,” Niall agrees. “Now come smoke with us and watch this penguin documentary. It’s oddly soothing.”

Harry sighs. “Fine. But if one of those penguins starts looking like Louis, I’m leaving.”

The restaurant is dimly lit, flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across the polished wood table. Olivia sits across from him, radiant and poised, one hand wrapped around a glass of red wine, the other resting delicately near his on the table. She’s laughing at something he’s just said — a real, throaty laugh — and Harry feels it in his chest. Warm, easy. Like maybe he really could make this work.

She’s beautiful. Undeniably. Legs for days, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, her confidence so seamless it wraps around her like silk. And she’s into him. Really into him. The way she looks at him makes him feel seen. Valued.

Wanted.

He lets himself smile, raising his glass in return, feeling a small flicker of peace he hasn’t known in weeks. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the shift he needed.

Then the door opens.

And everything inside him stutters.

Harry catches the movement first — two figures being led to a table across the room. The first is tall, familiar, with the kind of charm that lights up spaces before he even speaks.

Luke.

The second is smaller, in black jeans and a thin white sweater that clings just right, hair fluffy from the breeze outside, cheeks a little pink. He’s smiling, lips curled soft, one hand still on Luke’s arm like he hasn’t quite let go of him yet.

Louis.

Harry freezes, glass midair.

Olivia doesn’t notice. She’s saying something about a new director she’s working with, but Harry doesn’t hear a word of it. His heart is thudding too loudly, pulse thumping behind his eyes.

Louis hasn’t seen him yet. Neither has Luke. They're too busy sliding into their booth, sitting far too close for Harry’s liking, their knees probably brushing under the table, the backs of their hands grazing as they share the menu.

Harry’s stomach turns.

He tries. God, he tries. He forces his attention back to Olivia, nodding along, pretending like the air hasn’t shifted completely, like he doesn’t feel every cell in his body begin to splinter.

But then Louis laughs. Loud enough to carry. That stupid, gorgeous laugh Harry has heard a thousand times since the day they met. It slices right through him.

Olivia finally pauses. “You okay?” she asks gently.

Harry blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out.”

He’s not sure what his face is doing, but her smile falters slightly. She leans in, eyes kind. “If you want to talk about whatever’s on your mind—”

“I’m good,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

He turns his head before he can stop himself.

And that’s when Louis sees him.

It’s brief — the second their eyes meet. But it’s electric. Painfully so. Louis goes still, mid-sentence, lips parted slightly. Harry holds his gaze, something raw flickering just under his skin, something unspoken and desperate.

Then Louis looks away.

Like it didn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter.

Harry swallows hard. His hand grips the stem of his wine glass too tight.

Across the room, Luke says something low into Louis’ ear, and Louis smiles again, soft and fond, and lets his fingers trace lightly along Luke’s wrist before picking up his fork.

Harry watches the touch. Watches the way Louis leans in, too close. Watches the way Luke’s face softens, proud and glowing like he’s the luckiest man in the room.

And maybe he is.

Maybe Harry’s the fool.

He tears his eyes away, turns back to Olivia — who’s now quietly observing him, her brow slightly furrowed, but too gracious to push.

He clears his throat. Forces a smile. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just been a long day."

But even as he says it, he knows he won’t remember the rest of this night. Not the food. Not the wine. Not even Olivia’s hand in his.

Because Louis is right there.

And he’s not Harry’s.

Not even close.

Harry pushes a bite of steak around his plate, but he’s not hungry anymore. Across the restaurant, Louis lifts his wine glass, his fingers wrapped around the stem in that delicate way that drives Harry mad — like he knows his hands could be weapons, but chooses instead to be soft. Just not with him.

Every time Harry looks up, Louis is smiling.

At Luke.

At the waiter.

At the fucking tablecloth, for all he knows.

But not at him.

Not once.

And it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t. He’s here with Olivia — stunning, smart, successful Olivia — and she’s trying. She’s leaning forward, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist, telling stories about a weekend trip to Prague, her voice rich and warm.

But it’s background noise. All of it.

Because Louis just leaned over to whisper something in Luke’s ear, and Luke grinned. His hand — his fucking hand — dropped to Louis’ thigh under the table.

Harry’s chest constricts so hard he forgets to breathe.

He lifts his wine glass again. Empties it in one swallow.

“Another one?” Olivia asks, reaching gently for his glass.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Thanks.”

He watches her flag the waiter, still smiling. Still trying. And he feels like shit. Like a fraud. Like a traitor.

Because the truth is — he thought this would fix it. Thought being here, with someone who wants him, would drown out the need clawing at his insides. The need that has a name, a voice, a bratty laugh and a fucking chain always dangling from his neck.

But Louis is right there.

And Harry is unraveling.

“Excuse me,” he says suddenly, standing too quickly.

Olivia blinks up at him. “Harry—?”

“I just— I need the restroom.”

She nods, but he’s already moving.

Not toward the toilets.

Toward the bar.

And past the bar.

Straight to the exit.

The air outside is sharp, biting at his lungs. He leans against the brick wall, fists clenched, head tipped back.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Why can’t he let it go?

Footsteps. Soft ones.

Harry doesn’t look until the figure stops beside him.

Louis.

Of course.

He’s got a cigarette in hand, unlit. Probably just an excuse to get outside. His eyes are guarded, but he doesn’t look smug this time. He looks… tense.

“What,” Harry mutters, “come out here to gloat?”

Louis exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

Harry scoffs. “Right.”

Louis shrugs, lighting the cigarette. Takes a drag. “Could say the same about you.”

“Difference is,” Harry says tightly, “I didn’t plan on watching you let someone else feel you up under the fucking table.”

Louis freezes, eyes narrowing. “Jealous?”

Harry steps closer. “Do I look jealous?”

Louis doesn’t answer. He just holds Harry’s gaze, smoke curling between them like something alive.

And then, voice low, dangerous: “You’re the one who brought a date.”

Harry bites down a bitter laugh. “I did it to stop thinking about you.”

Louis’ breath hitches.

Harry swallows, jaw tense. “Didn’t work.”

A pause. Heavy. Thick with everything neither of them should be saying.

Louis flicks ash to the ground, then looks up with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You should go back inside,” he says quietly. “She’s waiting.”

Harry doesn’t move. “So is Luke.”

Louis’s lips twitch, but not into a smile.

“I know.”

And then he turns. Walks back inside.

And Harry stays out in the cold, heart thundering like a war drum in his chest, trying to remember what it feels like to breathe without wanting something he can’t have.

The flat is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that wraps around your throat like a hand, squeezing until every breath feels borrowed.

Louis steps out of the bedroom slowly, closing the door behind him with care. Luke’s asleep, sprawled out on his side with one hand curled beneath his cheek — peaceful, familiar, safe.

Louis presses his back to the wall and exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering shut for a second too long. Then he moves. Barefoot, cautious, like any wrong sound might wake not just Luke, but the guilt crawling under his skin.

And Harry is there.

Of course he is.

Sitting on the couch, elbows on knees, head in his hands like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. His curls hang loose, shadowing his face, and he doesn’t look up until Louis is fully in the room.

Their eyes meet.

It knocks the air right out of Louis’ lungs.

Harry sets the bottle down, elbows on his knees, and leans forward. “We can’t keep doing this, Louis.”

“Doing what?” he snaps, a little too fast, a little too loud. “I haven’t done anything.”

Harry stares at him, sharp and quiet. “Exactly.”

Louis’s face twists. “What do you want me to do, Harry? Cheat on my boyfriend? Your fucking best friend? The person I’ve built a life with for two fucking years? You think I’m just gonna throw it all away because you—”

“Because I what?” Harry cuts in, low and broken. “Because I make you feel something you don’t want to admit?”

Louis falls silent.

Harry rises to his feet slowly, like it costs him. “Do you think I want this?” he asks, stepping closer, voice raw. “Do you think I fucking enjoy sitting across from you and Luke, watching him touch you like you’re his when every part of me is screaming to—” He stops himself, fists clenched at his sides. “I can’t breathe around you, Louis.”

Louis takes a shaky step back. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Harry laughs, bitter and tired. “Don’t tell the truth?”

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“You think I don’t see it?” Harry’s voice cracks. “The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching? You think I don’t feel it too?”

Louis’s breath stutters.

“I know you love him,” Harry whispers, softer now. “And I’m not asking you to stop. I’m not asking you to choose. I just…” He steps closer again, close enough to see the shimmer in Louis’s lashes. “Please. Just let me touch you. Once. Just once. I swear I won’t ask for anything else.”

Louis trembles. “Harry…”

“Please,” Harry begs, voice wrecked. “Just one touch. That’s all.”

Louis’s mouth opens. Closes. His chin trembles, eyes wet and full and shining. “I fucking can't,” he whispers, “I can't, Harry.”

Harry’s chest heaves. His fingers twitch.

And then — he steps back.

His whole body turns like it weighs too much to carry. His back to Louis, fists clenched, head bowed like something sacred just cracked in half.

Louis inhales sharply through his nose, the sound desperate and small. He wipes at his face, but the tears fall anyway.

Then —

Fuck. 

Harry stops.

He turns around.

Crosses the room in three long strides, eyes locked on Louis’s face.

He reaches out, both hands cradling Louis’s jaw so gently it breaks something open. Their eyes meet — glassy, burning, aching — and Harry leans in.

But he doesn’t kiss him.

He presses his lips to Louis’s forehead. Soft. Reverent. Devastated.

When he pulls away, Louis is crying.

Harry brushes his thumbs across his cheeks, thumbs trembling.

“I’m sorry I'm not him,” he murmurs, barely audible.

And then he walks away.

Louis is left standing there, breathless, with the ghost of Harry’s touch pressed to his skin — and the weight of everything they can’t have drowning him from the inside out.

Harry packs in silence. It’s nearly three in the morning, and the only light in his room comes from the hallway, a faint glow that casts long shadows over the floor.

He moves like a ghost, careful not to make noise, stuffing clothes into the suitcase with trembling hands. Every zipper he pulls, every item he folds, is deliberate. Controlled.

But inside, he’s falling apart.

The sound that finally broke him wasn’t even loud.

It was a soft gasp. A half-muffled moan. Louis’ voice — breathy and low, tumbling through the paper-thin walls of the apartment like a cruel echo.

And Harry had known. Of course he’d known. They’d been together for two years. Of course they still touched each other. Of course Louis still kissed Luke’s neck and whispered his name and made those same noises Harry heard in his fucking dreams.

But knowing it and hearing it again, again and again — those are two different kinds of pain.

So he packs.

Not all at once. He’s been doing it in pieces, slowly, for days after that night— moving things into boxes, wiping drawers clean. Olivia doesn’t live in the city, but she offered him her guest room when she visited last weekend, and he said yes without thinking.

He just didn’t think it would hurt this much.

By the time the sun starts to rise, Harry is dressed, bags lined up by the front door, keys in hand.

He doesn’t expect to see them.

But he hears the bedroom door creak open, followed by footsteps. Laughter.

Louis’ laugh.

Then Luke’s voice, still sleepy. “I swear, if you finished the oat milk again, I’m kicking you out.”

They’re barefoot. Warm. Wrapped in each other, shoulders brushing, hair messy, faces glowing in the kind of happiness Harry has only ever imagined.

Then they both freeze.

Harry stands at the door, hand on the handle, three suitcases behind him.

Louis’s smile drops first. His mouth parts like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. His eyes are wide, confused. Luke steps forward instead.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Harry’s lips twitch into something like a smile. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Louis swallows hard. “When were you gonna do that?”

“I left a note,” Harry says, quiet. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Luke’s brow furrows. “Where are you going?”

“Olivia offered me a place. Just for a while. I need… space. You know. To focus on my music. And she’s got that little office setup, so I thought—”

“Since when do you focus better in someone else’s flat?” Luke cuts in, suspicious.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t sleep well here anymore.”

It’s not a lie.

Not really.

Louis doesn’t speak. He’s staring at the floor now, jaw clenched tight. His fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, white-knuckled.

Luke steps forward again. “You’re leaving without saying goodbye?”

Harry looks at him — at both of them — and something cracks behind his ribs.

“I didn’t want to make it dramatic.”

Louis finally lifts his head. “You think this isn’t dramatic?”

Their eyes meet. Harry forgets to breathe.

But then he blinks, forces a smile, and turns the knob.

“I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff later,” he says.

And with that, he opens the door.

Steps into the hallway.

And closes it behind him.

Silence fills the apartment like smoke, choking and heavy. Louis doesn’t move. Luke turns to look at him, confused.

“You knew?”

Louis shakes his head slowly. “No.”

But he did.

Not really — not in words, not in certainty. But in feeling.

He’d felt Harry slipping through his fingers for weeks. Felt him retreating, quieter, sadder, colder.

And now he’s gone.

Louis stands there, barefoot in the kitchen, trying not to cry in front of his boyfriend.

And wondering why it feels like the wrong person just walked out the door.

Weeks go by.

And Harry doesn't come back.

Not really.

He replies to texts late — if at all. Zayn calls and gets voicemail. Niall tries to guilt him into movie nights and Sunday pints and trivia games, but Harry always has an excuse.

“Olivia’s planning a weekend away.”
“Working on a new song, can’t lose the inspiration.”
“Next week, promise.”

Louis stops expecting him to show up.

He still goes, though — still shows up at Zayn’s with Luke in tow, still laughs when Niall does something stupid, still drinks beer on the floor with everyone else like his heart hasn’t been feeling hollow for weeks. Like he doesn’t check the door every time it opens. Like he doesn’t replay that night — the night Harry left — over and over again.

Luke makes it easier, in some ways. He’s warm and steady and kind. He runs his thumb over the back of Louis’ hand during films and cooks breakfast without being asked. Louis keeps a drawer at his place now. Then two. Then half the closet.

Sometimes it feels like safety.

Other times, it feels like a lie.

Then comes Niall’s birthday.

Zayn insists on throwing a party. Nothing huge, just a handful of people — close friends, drinks, music. Louis doesn’t expect anything out of the ordinary. He kisses Luke’s cheek when they arrive, drops a six-pack on the counter, and lets himself relax into the familiar chaos.

Until the door opens.

And Harry walks in.

He looks… different.

His curls are a little longer, messier. He’s wearing black slacks and a loose cream shirt with the sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking from under soft fabric. There’s a glint of metal at his neck, a chain Louis doesn’t recognize.

And then — her.

Olivia.

Tall, blonde, confident. She’s holding his hand, her other arm looped through his as they move through the crowd like they belong there.

Louis freezes mid-laugh, the sound dying in his throat.

Harry’s eyes skim over the room. They land on Zayn, then Niall. They pass over Luke. And then — Louis.

But they don’t stay.

They don’t linger.

No smirk. No raised brow. No tension coiled in his jaw.

Just a polite nod. Distant. Like Louis is no different than the guy standing by the stereo or the girl refilling her drink.

And Louis has never wanted to scream more in his life.

Because Harry used to look at him. Like he was trying to memorise him. Like every eye roll, every bratty quip, every sigh was worth cataloguing.

Now?

Nothing.

Harry is all charm and composure. He laughs when Olivia whispers in his ear, kisses her temple like it’s natural. He keeps one arm around her waist and never looks Louis’ way again.

Louis clenches his jaw so tight it aches.

“Hey,” Luke says, squeezing his hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Louis lies. “Just hot in here.”

But it’s not the heat. It’s the ache. The hollow space where something used to buzz between them. That unspeakable tension. That thing that used to make Louis tremble without knowing why.

Now there’s just air.

Still, quiet, indifferent.

Harry Styles doesn’t look at Louis Tomlinson anymore.

And maybe that’s exactly what Louis asked for.

But fuck, it hurts.

The music has dipped into something low and sultry. The lights are dimmer now, flickering faint gold across the floor, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Louis can feel it in his chest — the weight of eyes.

He doesn’t need to look to know they’re Harry’s.

He keeps talking to Zayn, to Niall, to anyone. Laughs when he should. Drinks when the silence claws at his throat. But nothing distracts him from the prickle on the back of his neck, from the burn under his skin.

Harry hasn’t looked at him all night — not directly — but it’s worse this way. The indifference feels rehearsed, intentional. Louis can feel it pulsing across the room like heat.

And then—

Luke’s fingers find his own under the table, lacing gently. Louis blinks.

"Babe, are you okay?" Luke asks again, eyes soft, warm, real.

Louis swallows. "Yeah. Just a bit hot."

"You've been quiet."

Louis offers a small smile. “I'm tipsy.”

But Luke doesn’t let go. He watches him for a second too long, and Louis feels suddenly… exposed.

"Have you talked to Harry at all?" Luke asks, casual — too casual.

Louis’s breath catches.

He shakes his head. “Why would I?”

Luke shrugs, but there’s something sharp in his eyes now. “Just noticed he’s avoiding you.”

Louis lets out a bitter laugh. “He’s not exactly my favorite person, remember?”

Luke studies him. “Still?”

Louis looks down at their hands. He wants to lie. Wants to say something clever, something bratty. But his throat is dry.

Across the room, Harry is smiling at Olivia. Laughing at something Niall says. His hand grazes her lower back and she leans into it, radiant. He doesn’t look over. Not once.

And yet Louis can feel him. Every fucking inch of him.

“I think…” Luke begins, his voice quiet now, trembling. “I think I’ve been pretending not to see it.”

Louis looks up sharply. “See what?”

“The way you look at him,” Luke whispers. “The way he looks at you when you’re not looking.”

Louis stills.

“I wanted to believe it was just tension. That you didn’t like each other,” Luke says, voice cracking. “But it’s worse than that, isn’t it?”

“Luke—”

“Do you want him?” The question falls like a gunshot, soft but final.

Louis opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

He doesn’t have to answer. The silence is screaming for him.

Luke pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. “You could’ve just said yes.”

“I didn’t— I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“But you want to fuck him.” Luke’s eyes are glassy now, shining under the dim light. “And that’s enough.”

Louis stands abruptly, breath short. “Luke—please.”

But Luke just steps back.

“I think I’m gonna go,” he says, and his voice is too even, too calm. “You stay if you want.”

Then he turns, and walks toward the door.

Louis stumbles out the door just seconds after Luke, the night hitting his face like a slap. The air is cold, too cold, and the echo of the door slamming behind him sounds like a final sentence.

“Luke!” he calls out, breath catching.

Luke is halfway down the street already, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s holding himself together by force.

“Luke, please—”

The boy stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stands there, back stiff.

Louis jogs to catch up, breath ragged, heart thundering.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he blurts, voice cracking. “I swear to you, I didn’t—”

Luke finally turns around. His eyes are red, wet, glowing under the dim streetlight.

“Didn’t mean to what?” he asks. His voice is calm — too calm. “Didn’t mean to fall for him? Or didn’t mean to let me fall for you while you were already slipping away?”

Louis flinches like he’s been hit.

“I love you,” he says immediately, desperately. “I love you, Luke. I’ve never stopped—”

“Then why does it feel like you did?” Luke snaps, taking a step back. “Why does it feel like I’ve been talking to a ghost for weeks? Like I’m trying to hold onto someone who’s already gone?”

Louis shakes his head violently, hands trembling. “I’m right here. I’m trying, I’m doing everything I can—”

Luke’s lip wobbles. He swipes at his face angrily, not wanting Louis to see him cry. “And I’ve never been enough for you, have I?”

Louis stills.

“No, don’t answer that,” Luke says, stepping further away. “Because if you hesitate — even once — I’ll never forgive you.”

Louis’s mouth opens, closes. His eyes are shining now too. “You are enough,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You’ve always been enough. I was just… I got lost. I got confused.”

Luke lets out a humorless laugh. “Confused?” His hands fall to his sides. “Do you think I didn’t see the way you looked at him? You thought I was stupid?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Louis breathes, inching forward. “I swear to God, Luke, I never wanted to. That’s why I didn’t do anything.”

“But you wanted to.”

Louis closes his eyes.

“I felt it,” Luke says, choking. “In the way you pulled away from me. I felt it in the fucking way you hesitated before kissing me. The way you never looked me in the eye anymore. Don’t tell me I imagined that.”

“I didn’t want to lose you,” Louis whispers.

“You already have.”

Silence.

A car passes, wind pushing their jackets. Louis’s breath fogs in the cold. Luke is frozen in place, arms wrapped around himself like if he doesn’t, he’ll fall apart.

And Louis?

Louis is already in pieces.

He steps forward once more, gently, carefully. “Please don’t go,” he says, voice raw. “Please. Let me fix this. Let me prove that it wasn’t just—”

Luke’s head drops.

“I don’t think I can be second choice,” he murmurs. “Not even to someone you haven’t touched.”

Louis’s face crumples.

“I’m sorry,” Luke breathes. “I’m so fucking sorry, Louis. But I need to go.”

He turns.

Louis reaches out instinctively — grabs his sleeve — but Luke gently pulls away, not meeting his eyes, and keeps walking.

And this time…

Louis doesn’t follow.

He stands there, shaking in the dark, as the man he was supposed to love forever disappears down the street.

And for the first time since this mess began — Louis cries for real.

Back at Niall's house Louis leans against the wall just outside the guest room, shoulders heaving as he tries to breathe through the mess of it all. His eyes are bloodshot, jaw tight. Luke is gone. Gone. And he doesn’t even know what the hell that means yet—if it’s temporary or forever—but it feels like the end of something massive.

He doesn’t notice Harry until it’s too late.

"Well," Harry says from the doorway, drink in hand, looking maddeningly relaxed. "That went well."

Louis looks up slowly, face streaked with tears, cheeks flushed from crying. “Not now, Harry.”

But Harry just shrugs and steps closer, gaze dragging over Louis’s face like he’s memorising each tear, each trembling muscle. His voice is low, almost amused. “You cry pretty.”

Louis scoffs, wiping at his cheek angrily. “Fuck off.”

"I mean it," Harry continues, undeterred. "All flushed and trembling, lips all bitten up—you're lucky I have some self-control left."

Louis stares at him, stunned. “You’re shameless.”

Harry shrugs with a maddening grin. “I prefer the term determined.”

“You’re literally ogling me while I cry about your best friend.”

“Can you blame me?” Harry says, voice maddeningly soft now. “Your lips are red, and your throat’s all flushed—”

“Are you listening to me at all?” Louis cuts in, incredulous.

Harry licks his lips, eyes trailing down Louis’s neck like it’s the only thing worth looking at in the room. “I am. I’m just multitasking.”

Louis throws his hands up. “Jesus Christ.”

“Look, Lou,” Harry says, stepping impossibly closer. “I get it. You’re upset. Luke’s upset. Everyone’s upset. But right now all I can think about is how beautiful you look when you’re mad at me. It’s a real problem.”

“You’re insane.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

The air between them thickens, electric.

Louis’s fists tighten at his sides. “You’re also impossible.”

“And you’re still standing in front of me.”

Louis breathes hard, his voice low now. “I’m not yours, Harry.”

Harry tilts his head, smile dangerous. “Not yet.”

Louis’s jaw tightens. His breath catches again—and suddenly, all the fury drains from him, replaced by something rawer, sharper. 

“I fucked it all up,” Louis whispers, and his voice finally, finally crumbles. “He’s gone. Luke’s gone and I don’t know if he’s coming back. And I don’t—”

His shoulders shake. He takes one step back like he’s going to bolt. Instead, he falls forward into Harry’s chest, burying his face into his shoulder with a broken sob.

Harry freezes for a beat, stunned. Then his arms wrap around him, pulling him in without hesitation. He presses his lips to Louis’s temple and closes his eyes, breathing him in like air.

He should say something. Anything.

But all he can think is: I waited so fucking long for this.

Even like this. Even with tears on his skin and Luke's name between them. Harry wants him.

“Does it even matter to you?” Louis sobs, voice muffled. “That Luke’s hurting too?”

Harry exhales a long, low breath, fingers smoothing over the back of Louis’s neck. “No. Not really. I'm just jealous. He had what I’ve been dying for every single day. And I can’t feel sorry for that.”

Louis pulls back just enough to look at him, eyes red and lashes wet. “You’re unbelievable.”

Harry smiles faintly. “Your eyelashes are so long.”

Louis doesn't answer. He just curls closer again, and Harry holds him tighter, shamelessly drowning in the moment.

Because if he can’t have all of Louis—then he’ll take this. He’ll take every breath, every tear, every second of being needed.

Even if it ruins him.

Harry doesn't know when it starts to feel normal. Maybe it's the third time Louis ends up sprawled across his sofa, legs bare, a bag of sour candy in his lap like he owns the place. Or maybe it’s the moment Harry finds himself cooking pasta at midnight because Louis is “suddenly craving carbs” and he can’t bring himself to say no.

Whatever it is, it sneaks up on him. Quiet and slow.

They’re watching some dumb action movie one night—Louis curled into the far corner of the couch, toes digging under a throw blanket, his ankle occasionally brushing against Harry’s thigh.

Harry tries not to look every time Louis shifts, tries not to wonder if Louis notices how close they are. He focuses on the screen until Louis huffs dramatically.

“My feet are killing me,” he mutters, wiggling his toes. “Think I pulled something during that walk today.”

Harry lifts a brow. “Want me to kiss them better?”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away. “Be useful for once and massage them, Romeo.”

Harry lets out a soft laugh and shifts on the couch, gently lifting Louis’s foot into his lap. His fingers press into the arch, slow and careful. Louis hums.

“Fuck. That’s—don’t stop.”

God. Harry doesn’t. He just keeps moving his fingers in slow circles, watching the way Louis’s lashes flutter, the way his lips part slightly when Harry brushes over a tender spot. It’s excruciatingly innocent. And yet—

He wants to die with Louis’s foot in his hands. Or in his mouth. 

Later, they play FIFA. Louis sucks at it and swears constantly when he loses.

“I hate this game,” he grumbles, flopping sideways across Harry’s lap like he belongs there.

Harry wants to make a joke—say something snarky about Louis’s tragic lack of gaming skills—but the weight of him is warm and comforting, and it steals the words right out of Harry’s mouth. So he just sits there, hand resting lightly on Louis’s back, pretending this is fine.

Pretending he’s not falling deeper.

Another day, Louis insists on coming with him to the barbershop.

“You always look like a poodle afterwards,” Louis teases. “I need to make sure they don’t screw it up.”

Harry scoffs. “And you’re the expert on curls now?”

“I’m the expert on you,” Louis replies without thinking.

Their eyes lock. It’s brief, a flicker, but it leaves Harry breathless.

At the shop, Louis waits on the little bench, scrolling on his phone. But every so often, Harry catches him watching in the mirror. He tries not to smile. He fails.

Afterwards, they walk back to Harry’s flat in easy silence, arms brushing occasionally. Louis talks about the music he's been listening to lately, about a new pair of shoes he’s been eyeing. Nothing important. Nothing big.

But Harry listens to every word like it’s gold.

They order takeout. Louis falls asleep on the couch halfway through the film they put on, cheek squished against Harry’s shoulder. His mouth is slightly open, his hand curled near Harry’s ribs.

Harry doesn’t move for hours.

He just sits there in the soft glow of the TV, holding all this closeness like a fragile secret.

Because Louis is still healing.

And Harry? Harry is already gone.

The Uber ride up had been quiet. Harry didn’t even know the guy’s name—he hadn’t asked. He just wanted someone, anyone, to fill the silence for one night. Someone to keep his hands busy, to shut off his mind, to erase the image of Louis curled up in the corner of his thoughts, soft and wrecked and always out of reach.

He had texted the guy a vague address. Maybe he’d still come.

But when he opens the door to his apartment and notices the faint light bleeding out from the living room, he stills.

He didn’t leave it on.

His fingers hover over the umbrella stand out of pure habit—he's ready to fight whoever's in there, if it comes to that. But then—

The light shifts.

And then Louis appears.

He steps out from the corner of the couch with sleep in his eyes, hair a tangled mess, bare legs pale under the long, slouchy hem of Harry’s T-shirt.

Harry’s T-shirt.

It’s too big on him, the neckline so loose that it slips right off his shoulder, exposing one delicate collarbone and the slope of his neck, flushed pink from the heat of sleep. His eyes are puffy, cheeks still creased from the pillow.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Louis says, voice raspy, barely a whisper.

Harry just stands there, silent.

“I… I missed Luke,” Louis continues, blinking slowly like he's trying to stay awake. “It’s stupid. I know it is. But everything felt too quiet tonight. I didn’t want to be alone.”

He offers a fragile smile and shrugs, and the shirt slides down another inch, revealing more skin, more softness, more of everything Harry tries not to think about.

“I used the key under the mat. Hope that’s okay.”

It’s not.

It’s not okay because now Harry’s whole body is on fire, and the only thought in his mind is God, look at you. Look at your bare legs. Look at your throat. Look at your mouth. You came here because you missed someone else—and I still want to fall to my knees for you.

Louis doesn’t even notice. He tugs the shirt down a little like it’ll help, like Harry isn’t already undone.

“I was gonna order food but I got tired and fell asleep watching something.”

Harry swallows thickly. “What were you watching?”

Louis rubs at one eye with the back of his hand. “Just… something dumb. I don’t even remember.”

Harry nods, still rooted to the floor.

He was supposed to forget him tonight. That was the whole plan.

But Louis looks like this—barefoot, sleepy, broken-hearted—and Harry forgets how to stand.

“Do you want me to go?” Louis asks after a moment, misreading the silence. His voice is quiet. “I didn’t mean to just… take over your space.”

Harry shakes his head too quickly. “No. Stay. You should stay.”

Because if he leaves, Harry will shatter.

Louis nods and shifts slightly, glancing toward the couch like maybe he’ll crawl back into the blanket and pretend this never happened.

Harry walks past him slowly, his shoulder brushing Louis’s as he does, and it’s enough to make them both inhale sharply.

He drops his bag by the counter and says, quieter now, “I was gonna have someone over tonight.”

Louis turns to look at him, still bleary. “Oh.”

“Not anymore,” Harry says simply, his eyes fixed on Louis like he can’t bear to look away. “He’s not you.”

Louis bites his lip. “I didn’t mean to get in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Harry replies. “You’re the whole reason.”

Their eyes meet.

For one long second, neither of them says a word.

Then Louis, in a whisper, asks: “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

Harry lets out a breath that shakes. “Because I’m trying to not touch you.”

And he means it.

He means I was going to sleep with someone just to stop thinking about you.
He means You came here looking like that and I don’t know how to breathe.
He means I would burn everything I have just to keep you standing here in my shirt, in my home, even if you’re still in love with someone else.

Louis looks down, then up again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Harry says, voice thick. “You know that.”

Louis nods slowly. Then, softer: “I’ll crash on the couch.”

Harry doesn't stop him.

But he watches him walk away, the shirt hanging loose, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs, one shoulder still bare.

The movie plays softly in the background, light flickering across the living room in warm pulses. The couch is big enough, but Louis is sprawled out as always—his feet tucked under Harry’s thighs like they belong there. He’s got a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest, and he keeps tossing kernels into his mouth with a kind of lazy, distracted precision.

Harry hasn’t looked at the screen in ten minutes.

He keeps staring at Louis’s ankles. Bare. Pale. Smooth. Every now and then, Louis wiggles his toes, and Harry swears it’s a test.

Louis shifts, finally breaking the silence.

“Has Luke called you?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

Louis looks over at him. His expression is soft, but there’s something flickering underneath it. “You’re his best friend. I thought maybe he’d—y’know. Say something.”

Harry sighs, dragging his hand over his mouth. “I tried. Called him twice. Nothing.”

Louis nods slowly. “Right.”

There’s a beat.

Harry nudges Louis’s ankle with his knuckle. “You okay?”

Louis gives him a tight smile. “I’m always okay when I’m here.”

Harry swallows.

It’s unfair—how casual Louis can sound, lying there in Harry’s hoodie, his calves draped over Harry’s lap, his voice sweet and wrecked and so fucking easy to fall into.

Harry shifts slightly, adjusting the way Louis’s legs rest on him. His palm lands against the outside of Louis’s thigh, barely touching, but Louis doesn’t move.

He just glances at him sideways. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable,” Harry says with a shrug, even though his heart is jackhammering in his chest.

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Comfortable, huh?”

“You’re the one hogging the couch,” Harry mutters.

“I’m not hogging anything.”

Harry pokes him in the side. “You’re literally spread out like you own the place.”

Louis snorts and kicks lightly at Harry’s thigh. “It’s cozy.”

Harry grins, then suddenly says, “Come here.”

Louis eyes him warily. “Why?”

Harry pats his own lap. “Let’s make it official. If you’re gonna act like you own me, you might as well sit like it.”

Louis laughs, but it’s that soft, breathy laugh—the one that comes when he’s unsure. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it,” Harry says with a smirk.

There’s a beat of hesitation, and then Louis slowly shifts, setting the popcorn bowl aside. He swings his legs around and crawls into Harry’s lap with exaggerated drama, plopping down across his thighs and leaning back just enough to smirk at him.

“There. Happy now?”

Harry is not happy. Harry is dying.

Louis’s weight is warm, solid. His thigh brushes against Harry’s hip. His hands land on Harry’s shoulders for balance, and Harry’s hands instinctively settle on his waist.

Harry clears his throat. “Very happy, actually.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re in my lap.”

Louis hums. “Only because you asked nicely.”

The tension crackles between them now—too loud, too obvious. The TV keeps playing, but neither of them is watching. Harry’s hands tighten slightly on Louis’s hips. Louis doesn’t look away.

“Comfortable?” Harry asks, voice lower now.

Louis stares at him. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, slow. “Actually… yeah.”

And he doesn’t move.

Not even an inch.

At some point, Louis glances at him, brows furrowed. “You’re still chewing that same gum?”

Harry grins without looking at him. “I like the taste.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” Harry’s gaze slides toward him now, green and amused. “You said the same thing that time.”

“Yeah, cause you offered me your chewed gum like I was a trash can.”

Harry chuckles. “That was flirting.”

Louis snorts. “You were terrible at it.”

“Was I?” Harry leans in slightly. “Because you remember.”

Silence stretches. Louis looks away, then back. “Do you still think I wouldn’t do it?”

Harry’s smile is slow, predatory. “Do what?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Put your gum in my mouth.”

Harry cocks his head. “Would you?”

There’s a beat.

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Harry opens his mouth, lets the gum rest on his tongue as he leans forward, letting it almost dangle, eyes locked on Louis. “Go on, then.”

Louis scoffs. “Fuck you.”

“You’re stalling.”

Louis shifts, biting the inside of his cheek, torn between grossed out and intrigued. Then he sighs. “You’re so weird.”

“I’m giving you a chance to prove me wrong,” Harry says, voice low. “You always said that you love a challenge.”

Their faces are close now. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” Louis mutters.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry breathes.

Louis glares one last time, then parts his lips, daring.

Harry’s eyes flash, hot and burning, as he leans in, tongue sliding forward just enough to transfer the gum. Louis closes his lips around it.

For a moment, they both freeze.

Louis chews once. Twice.

“Fuck,” Harry mutters.

He's so fucking hard.

Louis smirks, shoulders rolling back with pride. “Told you I wasn’t a coward.”

“No,” Harry whispers, eyes dark and fixed on his mouth. “You’re something else entirely.”

They sit there, breath shallow, chests rising and falling, the TV long forgotten.

The gum is between them, and so much more.

Louis’ bedroom is bathed in late afternoon light—soft and golden, slipping through the half-closed blinds like it’s trying not to intrude.

Harry leans against the doorframe, chewing slowly, lazily, like he’s trying to distract himself from what’s in front of him.

Louis.

He wants to fuck him so bad. Maybe choke him too. Just a little bit. A little bit. 

Changing his shirt with his back half turned, standing in front of the mirror, the hem of Harry’s own old tee riding up his spine. His jeans are slung low on his hips, and his fingers move with a kind of quiet ease, like he doesn’t realize someone’s watching.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

“I think we’re past that phase, you know?” Louis says suddenly, voice casual. “The whole tension thing. It’s kind of funny we ever thought there was something between us.”

Harry doesn’t answer. He’s too busy watching the way Louis’ jaw tightens as he pushes his fringe back, his gaze lingering on his own reflection for just a second too long. The neckline of the shirt slips off one shoulder, exposing the sharp curve of his collarbone. His skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, still slightly damp, and the light catches on the hollow of his throat like it was made to highlight every detail that drives Harry mad.

Choke him. He wants to choke him. 

Louis glances at Harry’s reflection in the mirror, then smirks faintly. “I mean, we’re just friends now. You agree, right?”

Harry’s jaw works a little harder. The gum tastes like mint and frustration.

Just friends.

He wants to spit in his mouth and watch him swallow everything.

He pushes off the doorframe and takes one slow step into the room. “Sure,” he murmurs, voice dry. “Friends.”

But his eyes betray him—they always do. They drag over Louis’ reflection, over the exposed shoulder, over the narrow waist and the bare feet planted into the soft carpet like he owns the room.

Louis is still talking, still looking at himself, maybe a little too deliberately now. “It’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Being over all that. No weird energy.”

Harry’s lips curl around the gum. “Yeah,” he says, his tone betraying everything his words don’t. “No weird energy at all.”

Slap him in the face with his cock, maybe. 

Louis finally turns to look at him directly.

And Harry stares.

At the way the shirt hangs too loose on him, how it smells like his own detergent. At the way Louis runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it messy and perfect. At the stupid silver chain he never takes off, glinting against flushed skin.

Harry bites down on the gum so hard his jaw aches. He wants to say something. He wants to scream. He wants to press Louis against the mirror and ask him if this—whatever this is—feels platonic.

He wants to beg Louis to let him fuck his round arse. He would do it, he would pray and beg like a good boy, he would do it on his knees too.

But instead he just stands there, tongue slicking against his molars, watching Louis like he’s starving and has been for years.

“You okay?” Louis asks, a little softer this time.

Harry shrugs, nonchalant. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He meets Louis’ gaze through the mirror.

And smirks.

“A friend. You don't know him.”

The place smells like cinnamon and burnt toast. Louis is standing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing again one of Harry’s oversized jumpers, sleeves nearly covering his fingers as he flips pancakes with a kind of reckless confidence. Harry’s sitting on the counter, chewing his gum lazily, scrolling on his phone like he owns the place — well, technically he does, but the energy is more “bored househusband” than anything else.

“I swear to God, if you burn one more pancake—” Harry says, not even looking up.

“Then you’ll eat it anyway and tell me it’s the best fucking thing you’ve ever had,” Louis replies, flicking a bit of batter toward him with the spatula. “Like the simp you are.”

Harry finally glances up, one brow raised. “You callin’ me a simp while wearin’ my clothes and cookin’ in my kitchen?”

Louis shrugs. “You like it.”

Harry doesn’t argue. He grins and tosses a piece of banana into his mouth, still watching Louis like he’s a very well-made breakfast himself.

There’s a knock on the door and a second later, Zayn walks in without waiting. Niall follows behind him, carrying a tray of coffees and a giant box of pastries.

“Smells like something’s on fire,” Zayn announces.

“Louis is cooking,” Harry and Niall say at the same time.

“Fuck off,” Louis mutters, flipping a pancake like a pro this time, which he dramatically gestures toward. “Look at that! Golden brown perfection.”

Harry hops off the counter, casually wrapping his arms around Louis’s waist from behind to peek over his shoulder. “You’re so talented, baby,” he says mockingly sweet in Louis’ ear, chewing his gum right against his neck.

Louis elbows him in the ribs, blushing furiously.

Zayn stares. “What the actual fuck.”

“I thought you two were, like... not a thing?” Niall blinks between them.

“We’re not,” Louis answers quickly, shoving the plate of pancakes onto the table and sliding into the chair farthest from Harry. “We’re just... chill.”

Harry joins him a second later, peeling a banana with way too much eye contact in Louis’s direction. “Yeah. Chill.”

Niall and Zayn exchange a look.

“You literally just made him breakfast in his clothes while he groped you over the stove,” Zayn deadpans.

“And then you called him baby,” Niall adds. “That’s not chill. That’s married.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Okay, first of all, I call everyone baby.”

“You do not,” Louis says, affronted.

“You definitely don’t,” Zayn confirms.

Harry ignores them all and bites into a pancake with defiance. “You two are so dramatic.”

The boys sit around the table, sipping coffee and watching Harry pick blueberries out of Louis’ plate and toss them in his mouth while Louis pretends not to notice — though his smile gives him away.

“I feel like I’m on the set of some domestic sitcom,” Niall mutters under his breath. “Like... ‘Love in Flat 3C.’ Coming this fall.”

Louis snorts. “More like ‘Regret in Flat 3C’.”

Harry leans in, mouth close to Louis’s ear again. “Speak for yourself.”

Louis glares. “Get off me.”

Harry just grins and rests his chin on Louis’s shoulder.

“You two make me physically ill,” Zayn says, standing up and grabbing a pastry. “But in, like, a heartwarming, disgustingly sweet sort of way.”

Louis flips him off.

But when Zayn and Niall retreat to the couch, Harry doesn’t move away. He stays, arms still wrapped lazily around Louis’ waist as they finish breakfast — two idiots in love pretending it’s nothing at all.

They're all together.

The sun cuts across the room in soft golden streaks, catching on the edges of records and dust motes. Harry and Louis are curled up on the couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Louis has his legs thrown over Harry’s lap, flipping lazily through a vinyl catalogue. Harry is chewing gum - again - like a menace, occasionally flicking his thumb across Louis’ ankle.

Niall and Zayn have just arrived, beers in hand and identical expressions of disbelief.

“So,” Zayn says as he drops into an armchair, “you two are really pushing this ‘just friends’ narrative, huh?”

“We are friends,” Louis answers, not even bothering to look up.

“Sure,” Niall mutters. “You’re the reason enemies-to-lovers fanfics exist.”

“And friends-to-lovers,” Zayn adds.

“And slow burns where someone ends up chewing the other’s already chewed gum,” Niall finishes, deadpan.

Harry raises a brow, smirking. “Didn’t even take ‘til the end for that.”

Louis chuckles softly, that scratchy laugh that always hits Harry like a slow shot to the chest.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Wait. Are you saying that actually happened?”

“Yeah,” Louis replies casually, glancing up with infuriating nonchalance. “A few weeks ago. It was a dare or whatever. No big deal.”

“No big deal?!” Zayn sounds genuinely distressed. “You—you took his chewed-up gum into your mouth?!”

Louis shrugs. “It was for the bet.”

Harry, still chewing, leans slightly toward him. “Wanna do it again?”

Louis meets his eyes, tilts his head. “You serious?”

Harry grins. “Always.”

Then—casually, shamelessly—he pulls the gum from his mouth with his tongue, holds it there for a second, and pushes it toward Louis.

Zayn and Niall freeze. The air shifts.

Louis? He fucking smiles and leans forward like it’s nothing, taking the gum right from Harry’s tongue into his own mouth. Like a routine. Like brushing teeth or breathing.

Complete silence.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD,” Niall shrieks, slamming his beer onto the table. “YOU ACTUALLY DID IT. IN FRONT OF US.”

“You’re both unwell,” Zayn whispers. “I’ve seen demons do less unholy shit.”

Louis laughs, chewing again. “It’s mint. Bet you thought it’d be strawberry.”

“I thought it’d be a felony,” Niall says, horrified.

Harry leans back, arms draped along the back of the couch. “You guys are being dramatic.”

Zayn’s mouth opens and closes. “You shared spit in front of witnesses, mate.”

“I mean…” Harry trails off, looking at Louis. “Love takes different forms.”

“Friendship,” Louis corrects without conviction.

Harry looks at him for a moment, slow and heady. “Sure. Friendship.”

Zayn pulls out his phone. “I’m recording this. No one’s gonna believe me otherwise.”

Niall is still clutching his beer like it betrayed him. “I’m never eating gum again.”

Harry just shrugs and nudges Louis’ foot gently with his thumb.

Louis smiles, gum still between his teeth, and says, “What? You’re all acting like it’s weird.”

Zayn and Niall say, in unison, “IT IS.”

The café smells like vanilla syrup and burnt espresso, and the sunlight makes Louis’ lashes look unfairly long as he stirs his cappuccino. He’s wearing one of Harry’s sweatshirts—completely on accident, he claimed earlier—and Harry hasn’t been able to stop staring since they walked in.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until Louis’ phone buzzes on the table.

He picks it up absently, sipping his coffee. The screen lights up with a name Harry knows far too well.

Luke.

Louis’ fingers still on the glass. His expression shifts—barely, but enough.

Harry notices. Of course he notices.

“What is it?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Louis doesn't look at him right away. “It’s… Luke.”

The name hangs in the air like a curse.

Harry leans back slowly, his jaw already tightening. “What does he want?”

“He wants to talk,” Louis replies, biting the inside of his cheek. “He asked if I’d meet him later. Just to talk.”

Harry’s laugh is humorless, sharp. “Of course he does.”

Louis finally meets his eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Harry repeats, voice low. “The guy ghosted you for weeks and now, suddenly, he wants to talk, and you’re already saying yes?”

“I didn’t say yes,” Louis says, defensive. “I just— I’m thinking about it.”

Harry stares at him like he’s been slapped. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.” Louis’ voice is quiet but steady. “I need to hear him out.”

“You don’t.” Harry’s voice cracks on the word. “You owe him nothing. He left you, Louis. He walked out. You cried for weeks, and now that he snaps his fingers, you’re ready to play nice?”

“It’s not about playing nice,” Louis says tightly. “It’s about closure.”

“Why?” Harry snaps. “So he can twist the knife a little more? Tell you how you broke his heart while conveniently ignoring the way he walked out on you like a coward?”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “He didn’t walk out because he’s a coward, Harry.”

“No?” Harry leans forward, fire rising in his throat. “Then why, Lou? Why the fuck did he leave, huh? Because of me? Because of us?”

“There is no us,” Louis says quietly, but it hits like a punch.

Harry freezes.

Louis softens, immediately hating himself. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Yes, you did,” Harry cuts in, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed tight. “You always mean it when it’s convenient.”

“Harry.”

“No, really.” Harry scoffs. “Go see him. Go listen to his sad little apology. Let him cry and tell you he changed his mind. Let him touch your hands like they’re still his. Just don’t come back and act like I didn’t sit next to you every goddamn night while you mourned him.”

Louis opens his mouth, closes it again.

“I gave you space. I gave you friendship. I gave you everything I had,” Harry goes on, voice trembling now. “And you—you’re still acting like I’m just someone you hang out with when it’s raining outside."

“Harry—”

“No, really. Go.” Harry pushes back from the table, scraping the chair across the floor. “Go have your little chat. Let him tell you he misses you. Let him touch you again. Let him feed you more of guilt-wrapped bullshit while I—”

“While you what?” Louis snaps, standing too. “Sit here and stew in your own jealousy?”

“I’m not jealous,” Harry lies. His eyes are glassy. “I’m just done being the second choice.”

Louis’s lips part, stunned. “You’re not—”

“I am.” Harry grabs his coat. “Because if I wasn’t, you wouldn’t even consider going back to him. But here you are.”

He turns, heart in pieces, voice shaking.

“Enjoy your closure, Louis.”

And just like that—he’s out the door.

Leaving Louis behind, coffee cold, phone still lit with Luke’s name.

And an ache in his chest he doesn’t quite know how to name.

Harry paces the floor like a caged animal, his jaw clenched so tightly it’s a miracle he’s not grinding his teeth to dust. Zayn sits on the armrest of the couch, silent. Niall stands by the kitchen island, nursing the coffee he hasn’t sipped in minutes.

“He wants to fucking see him,” he growls, throwing his coat onto the floor. “He said yes. Just like that.”

Zayn raises a brow from the kitchen. “You stormed off, didn’t you?”

“What was I supposed to do? Sit there and hold his hand while he runs back to his ex?”

“You could’ve trusted him.”

Harry laughs bitterly. “That’s rich coming from someone who’s never been this fucked in the head over someone.”

"Mate…” Zayn leans forward. “What are you so afraid of? That he’ll choose Luke?”

Harry doesn’t answer for a long time.

Then, voice rough: “Maybe - I’m afraid he won’t.”

That makes them both pause.

“I’m afraid he won’t choose Luke,” Harry says again, quieter this time. “And then it’ll be me. And I’ll break him in ways Luke never could. Because I can’t give him what he had. I’m too… intense. I think - I think I'm falling in love with him too much.”

Zayn stares. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“It is,” Harry insists, voice cracking. “When you’ve waited for someone for so long that loving them feels like hunger. I don’t want to swallow him whole. I want to deserve him.”

Niall’s eyes soften. “You already do. He just has to see it.”

Luke’s hands are shoved in his pockets. He looks tired, older somehow. He’s barely met Louis’s eyes since they sat down, and now that they’re standing again, it’s even harder.

“I just wanted to see you,” Luke says quietly. “To hear you say it. Whatever it is.”

Louis nods, his throat thick.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice already trembling. “I’m so sorry for how everything went down. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Luke shakes his head. “Don’t apologize unless you mean it.”

“I do.” Louis takes a step closer. “You were… you were everything I thought I needed. For two years, I loved being yours. I really did. But…”

He hesitates.

“But what?”

Louis swallows hard. “But something shifted. And I tried to ignore it, I swear. I tried to convince myself that what I had was enough. That I was just confused or lonely or scared. But when Harry came into my life…”

Luke stiffens at the name.

“…everything felt different. I felt alive. I started laughing like I hadn’t in months. I started feeling like me again. And I fought it, Luke. I fought it so hard because I loved you. But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop him.”

Luke’s eyes are red now. “So what, I was just a placeholder?”

“No!” Louis rushes forward. “No. You were real. What we had was real. But love isn’t always forever, is it?”

Silence falls. Luke nods once, eyes shining.

“I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

Louis’s voice breaks. “I was afraid. I still am.”

Luke nods again, then, after a pause, takes a shaky breath. “Does he make you happy?”

Louis doesn’t hesitate this time. “He makes me feel like - like I’m finally home.”

Luke bites his lip, then gives a broken smile. “Then that’s all I ever wanted for you.”

And just like that, Louis steps forward and wraps his arms around him. Luke holds on tight, like he’s saying goodbye to something he still wants to keep.

But they both know it’s over.

The hallway smells like rain.

Louis stands outside the door for a full minute before knocking. His knuckles are raw, scraped a little from gripping the cold metal railing on the walk up. His chest aches.

He knocks again. Lighter this time. Like he’s asking permission for something he knows he shouldn’t want.

When Harry opens the door, it takes the breath out of him.

He looks wrecked. His hoodie’s twisted at the collar, one sock on, curls damp like he’d just washed his face but didn’t care to dry it. His eyes are rimmed red, and Louis can tell he’s been pacing—Harry always paces when he’s trying not to fall apart.

He doesn’t speak.

Louis swallows. "Can I come in?"

Harry hesitates. Then steps aside.

The flat is quiet, dim. There’s a mug on the table with tea gone cold, and a blanket crumpled at one end of the couch. It smells like lemon cleaner and something else—like Harry. Familiar. Acheful.

Louis walks slowly to the middle of the room and stops. He doesn’t turn around yet.

"I didn’t pick him."

Harry doesn’t move. 

"I told him goodbye."

A pause.

"You ruined me for anything safe."

There’s a crack in Harry’s facade, barely visible, but Louis hears the hitch in his breath.

Louis turns now, slow, meeting Harry’s gaze like it hurts to do it. "Even when I hated you, I wanted you. I’ve never been able to look at you without feeling like I’m drowning."

Harry shakes his head, disbelieving, eyes locked. 

"I was so scared," Louis says. His voice is thin, breaking. "Because you don’t just want people, Harry. You consume them. You pull them into your gravity and don’t let go."

Harry’s voice drops low. "And yet you’re back."

Louis steps closer. "Because I realised I didn’t want to be let go."

A long, still moment passes between them.

Harry swallows. His fingers twitch. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying," Louis begins, then falters. He looks down, breath hitching again. "Fuck. I’m saying I told him the truth. That you changed everything. That the second you entered my life I haven’t been able to breathe the same. That every second with you has torn me open, and it still feels better than every safe moment I had with him."

Harry’s whole body tenses like he’s holding himself back. "And now what?"

Louis steps so close they’re nearly touching. "Now I need to know if you still want me."

“Want you?” he breathes, eyes burning. “Louis, I’ve been obsessed with you since the first fucking time I saw you.”

Louis blinks, stunned.

Harry takes a step forward, voice rising, raw and shaking. “You think I could choose this? You think I wanted to fall asleep every night thinking about your stupid smirk, or the way your voice drops when you’re tired, or how your laugh sounds when you think no one’s listening? I didn’t want this, Louis. But I did. I do. I’ve wanted you in ways that make me feel unwell.”

He laughs again, sharp and joyless. “You’re in my bloodstream. You’re in my fucking lungs. You ruined every quiet part of me and I still—still—wake up every morning hoping you’ll always be there.”

Louis’s breath catches. He doesn’t even realise he’s trembling until Harry reaches up, thumb brushing beneath his eye.

“I didn’t just want you,” Harry says, softer now, barely holding himself together. “I would built entire universes around the hope of you.”

Louis stares at him, completely shattered by the weight of those words. Then he crashes into Harry’s chest with a sob, arms wrapping around his waist like it’s the only place he belongs.

Harry holds him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear.

And in that moment, Louis knows—really, knows—that no one’s ever looked at him like this. Like he’s the beginning and end of someone’s entire goddamn world.

"He was my safety," Louis whispers. "But you... You’re the reason I feel alive."

Harry closes his eyes like the words physically hit him.

Then Louis folds. Right there, right into him, his head buried in Harry’s chest, a sob breaking from his throat so loud it startles both of them.

Harry clutches him tight, wrapping around him like he was made for it. One hand in Louis’ hair, the other splayed across his back, grounding them both.

"I thought I lost you," Harry murmurs into his hair.

"I thought I lost myself," Louis whispers back.

They stay there like that until the storm outside fades.

Eventually, Louis pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are red, but his expression is clearer than it’s been in weeks.

"Can I stay tonight?" he asks. "Not for anything else. Just to sleep. Just to breathe next to you."

Harry cups his cheek, brushing a tear away with his thumb. "You can stay as long as you want."

Louis nods.

And this time, when Harry pulls him in, it isn’t about desperation.

It’s about home.

From that moment on, they become insatiable.

It’s almost comical how quickly everything shifts—how months of restraint, of near touches and swallowed words, explode into something neither of them can contain anymore.

Harry is lying on the bed, legs spread lazily, head resting on one arm. His white boxers do nothing to hide the heat simmering under his skin, and he’s well aware of how Louis is looking at him—like he’s already ruined.

Across the room, Louis leans against the doorway, wearing nothing but one of Harry’s old shirts. It slips off one shoulder, hanging loose on his frame, skin warm and flushed from the shower. His hair is still damp, clinging to his forehead. And his eyes—they burn through Harry like a warning.

"You just gonna stare?" Harry drawls, tongue pushing his gum to the side, jaw tense.

Louis tilts his head, arms crossed over his chest. “Trying to decide if I want to wreck you now or make you beg first.”

Harry chuckles darkly, pushing himself up on his elbows. “You think you’re the one in charge?”

Louis walks forward slowly, each step louder than the last on the wooden floor. “I don’t think, baby. I know.”

He climbs on the bed like he owns it—like he owns him. Harry watches the way his thighs spread, shirt riding up to reveal everything and nothing. When Louis settles on top of him, knees on either side of Harry’s hips, the air crackles between them.

Harry’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Come here.”

But Louis doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he leans down, mouth hovering over Harry’s. He licks his own lips, slow and deliberate, then spits.

Harry’s eyes roll back as the slick lands on his tongue—he catches it without flinching, swallows it like a fucking gift, hands flying up to grip Louis’s ass. “Jesus fuck, Lou.”

Louis finally smirks. “Good boy.”

“Don’t push me,” Harry growls, flipping them without warning, pinning Louis down with a hand on his chest. “I will ruin you.”

Louis grins beneath him, chest rising fast, eyes wild. “You can try.”

That’s all it takes.

Harry crashes their mouths together, biting Louis’s bottom lip until he groans. One hand wraps around Louis’s throat, thumb pressing just under his jaw, firm but controlled. Louis arches into it, moaning low and filthy.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, grinding down. “You like that, huh?”

Louis can’t speak, not with Harry’s hand closing in, but he nods, eyes rolling back slightly.

Harry loosens his grip for a second, just enough to let him breathe.

“Say it.”

“I love when you choke me,” Louis rasps, voice broken and hoarse. “Love when you lose it for me.”

Harry lifts his head. “You wanna take charge?” he challenges.

Louis props himself up on his elbows, hair messy, lips red. “I want you to try to take it from me.”

Right. Insatiable.

“Oh fuck—yes, yes, right there—”

Louis is already trembling, fingers clawing into Harry’s shoulders as he fucks himself down hard, faster, messier. Sweat clings to his flushed skin, the shirt long gone, his voice wrecked and hoarse. His head tips back as Harry buries his cock deeper, again and again, relentless and starving.

Harry groans like he’s in pain, forehead pressed to Louis’s throat, lips brushing his collarbone as he pants, “Say it. Say you’re mine. Again.”

Louis moans, spine arching. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“Again.” A bite to the skin, sharp and possessive.

“I’m yours, Harry—shit—I’m fucking yours—”

Harry’s hand wraps around his throat, tilting his head up, forcing him to look at him as he pounds up into him. “You’re gonna keep saying it until your voice breaks.”

Louis laughs, the sound completely ruined. “Then break me.”

And Harry snaps.

He pulls out so fast Louis gasps from the loss—but only for a second, because Harry grabs him by the hips and throws him against the wardrobe, the wooden doors rattling with the impact. Louis’s leg wraps around his waist instinctively as Harry presses in, teeth bared.

“You think Luke ever made you scream like this?” he growls, lining himself up and slamming in without warning.

Louis screams, body jerking violently, head hitting the wood.

“Harry—Jesus—fuck—”

Harry’s mouth is at his ear, hot and wild. “You know what I did when you were with him? Huh? When I heard you moaning through the walls?”

Louis can barely breathe, cock leaking between them, fingers digging into Harry’s arms.

“I jerked off every single time,” Harry growls, each thrust deeper, crueler. “Thinking about how much louder I could make you scream. Thinking about this—this tight fucking cunt around my cock, begging for more.”

Louis’s eyes roll back. “Fuck—fuck—”

“You’re mine,” Harry snarls, grabbing Louis by the throat as he pounds into him. “Mine. You hear me?”

Louis tries to speak—he wants to—but all that comes out is a broken cry. So he nods, desperate, mouth open and gasping.

Harry spits into it—right into it—and Louis moans, swallowing it without hesitation.

“Fucking filthy,” Harry groans, yanking out again and dragging Louis to the wall this time.

He shoves him up, one hand under his thigh to hold him up, the other still on his throat. He enters him again in one long, devastating thrust, and Louis cries out, hands slamming against the wall to keep balance.

“Say my name,” Harry demands.

“Harry—”

“Louder.”

“Harry!”

“You pray for me, don’t you?” Harry pants, fucking into him so hard the wall shakes. “That’s what you’re doing when you beg—when you moan. You’re praying to me.”

Louis sobs through a laugh, legs wrapping tighter around him. “Yes—yes—fuck,—just don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

Harry growls, seizing both of Louis’s legs and pulling him away from the wall mid-thrust.

He carries him—fucks him across the room—before tossing him onto the bed face-up. Louis’s body bounces once and Harry’s on him in a second, hiking his thighs up and throwing them over his shoulders.

Louis’s back arches instantly. “Harry—please—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Harry fucks him like he’s possessed. Hard. Unhinged. Like every second without Louis wrapped around him has built up into a lifetime of need.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he hisses. “The only one who gets to make you fucking cry from how good it feels.”

Louis nods furiously, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream.

“No one’s ever gonna fuck you like I do,” Harry snarls. “No one. Say it.”

Louis chokes on a sob. “No one—fuck—no one ever—only you, only you—”

Harry leans down without pulling out, their bodies folding as he fucks him deeper, harder, until Louis’s toes curl and his fists claw at the sheets.

“Beg.” Harry bites his ear. “Beg me to keep ruining you.”

Louis gasps, writhing beneath him. “Please, Harry—don’t stop, fuck, never stop—wreck me, please, I need it—”

“Louder,” Harry grunts.

“FUCKING PLEASE—”

Harry slaps his cheek, hard, just once, and Louis whimpers, eyes full of tears and ecstasy.

“Such a good little slut,” Harry growls. “My treasure. My baby. Mine, mine, mine—”

Louis comes first. He shakes, back arching like a bow, cum spilling between them, screaming Harry’s name like a prayer that’ll save him.

Harry follows with a guttural groan, holding Louis down as he spills inside him, cock pulsing, breath ragged and broken.

They don’t move for a long time. Their bodies are slick, trembling, completely destroyed.

Harry collapses on top of him, burying his face in Louis’s neck, still whispering, “Mine, mine, mine.”

Louis’s fingers curl in his damp curls.

It becomes a game of supremacy.

The sheets are a mess, the room stinks of sex and sweat, and Louis is on top of him—fucking himself open on Harry’s cock like he was made for it.

His thighs are trembling, skin flushed to the chest, eyes glassy with tears of overwhelming pleasure. His fingers are buried in Harry’s hair, pulling hard, dragging his head back just enough to make it sting.

“Look at me,” Louis demands, breathless, voice wrecked. “Fucking look at me, Harry.”

Harry does. Oh, he does.

He looks like Louis is the only thing he’s ever wanted to see. Mouth parted, chest heaving, curls sticking to his forehead, completely undone under him—but not weak. Never weak. His hands stay on Louis’s hips, fingers digging in just hard enough to bruise, letting Louis ride him exactly how he wants.

Because fuck, when Louis is like this—wild, possessive, shaking from how good it feels—it’s the hottest fucking thing Harry’s ever seen.

“Say it,” Louis growls, bouncing harder now, the slap of skin loud and vulgar. “Tell me I’m everything. Tell me you fucking live for me.”

Harry’s mouth drops further open, eyes locked on Louis like he’s worshipping a god.

“You are,” he gasps, voice low and thick with awe. “You’re everything. I live for you—fuck—”

Louis moans, high and desperate, a sound that rips out of him like it’s painful. His hips stutter, thighs burning from the effort, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He’s too far gone.

“Tell me I’m the only one,” he chokes out, tears slipping from his lashes now, face flushed and furious. “Tell me I’m the only one who gets to have you like this—who gets to ride you—make you feel like this—say it, Harry—fucking say it—”

Harry’s head thuds back against the pillows, but his eyes never leave Louis.

“You’re the only one,” he groans. “Only one who gets me. Only one I want to be inside, over me—you own me.”

Louis sobs out a breath, grinding down in circles now, body shaking with every drag of Harry’s cock inside him.

“God—fuck—you’re so deep—so fucking deep—Harry—oh my God—”

Harry tightens his grip, thrusting up once—hard—meeting Louis’s rhythm. Louis screams, literally, the sound bouncing off the walls as he leans forward, nearly collapsing onto Harry’s chest.

His fingers yank at Harry’s curls again, forcing him to look up, their foreheads nearly touching now.

“Say it again,” Louis whispers, tears on his cheeks, mouth trembling. “Tell me only I can have your cock. Say it while I’m riding it—say it while I fucking own it—”

Harry whimpers, lips brushing his, so soft compared to the filthy words spilling from their mouths. “It’s yours, baby. It’s all yours.”

Louis slams down again, broken and frantic. “Say it louder.”

“Fucking yours, Lou,” Harry cries out, finally losing the calm in his voice. “Yours, yours—no one else, no one fucking else—”

Louis kisses him then, violent, biting at his lips, tongue licking into his mouth like he’s starving. And Harry lets him, hands still grounded on his hips, letting Louis ride the orgasm out of him.

Because that’s what it is. That’s what’s building—this insane, unbearable high Louis is chasing, grinding and bouncing and sobbing through it.

“Harry,” Louis breathes, wrecked, tears dripping off his chin. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Harry whispers, eyes wide with adoration. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you. You’re so beautiful like this—fuck—”

Louis breaks.

He comes with a scream, body collapsing forward, clenching down around Harry so hard that Harry sees stars. Harry cries out with him, coming seconds later, thrusting up wildly into the heat, holding Louis close as they both shake and fall apart.

Louis is still on top of him, twitching, forehead pressed to Harry’s collarbone, his whole body hot and slick.

Harry cradles him with one hand, the other still resting possessively on his thigh.

“You’re mine,” Louis whispers hoarsely, more fragile now.

Harry kisses the side of his face, lips brushing a tear. “Always.”

The room is quiet now.

That kind of quiet that only comes after being completely wrecked. Skin still buzzing, lungs barely recovered, limbs heavy and loose against the sheets. It smells like sex and sweat and cigarette smoke, faint and warm.

They’re both on the bed, lying opposite each other.

Harry has his head tilted back against the iron headboard, curls damp, eyes half-lidded as he slowly exhales smoke through his nose. His chest is bare, scattered with fading red marks, and his hand hangs lazily off the side of the bed, holding the cigarette between two fingers.

Louis is at the foot, sprawled sideways, half under the sheet. His cheeks are still pink, his lips bitten and swollen, and his legs are long and bare—his feet tucked between Harry’s thighs like it’s the most natural place in the world.

Harry glances down at them, smoke curling from his lips.

“You have really fucking pretty feet,” he mutters, like it’s a genuine concern.

Louis blinks slowly. “That’s the first thing you say after fucking me unconscious?”

Harry shrugs, passing the cigarette across the space between them.

Louis takes it, inhaling with a smirk. “You’re insane.”

“I mean it,” Harry replies, not even smiling, voice soft and sleepy. He wraps both hands around Louis’s ankles, thumbs brushing the arch of one foot gently. “I wanna paint your nails so bad.”

Louis snorts. “What color?”

Harry grins, finally. “Red. Cherry. With little stars on the big toes.”

Louis laughs into the cigarette. “You’re fucking weird.”

“You let me do it?” Harry asks, eyes twinkling.

Louis exhales smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah, alright. But only if you promise not to get all weird about it.”

Harry hums, stroking along the top of his foot. Then, after a beat—completely serious:

“I wanna eat them.”

Louis chokes, bursting into laughter so loud the cigarette almost falls out of his hand. “You what?!”

Harry shrugs again, face innocent. “Just a nibble. Like a little bite. You ever seen a foot that looked more edible?”

“You’re deranged,” Louis wheezes, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Truly unwell.”

Harry leans down, presses a kiss to his ankle. “Say what you want. They're fucking pretty.”

The sun is dipping low, casting the backyard in that golden-hour haze that softens everything. The grass is warm beneath their feet, laughter floats like music in the air, and there’s a gentle breeze that smells like grilled food and summer.

Zayn is hovering near the grill, arms crossed, brow arched. “You gonna flip that, or are we just slow-roasting it for three more hours?”

“I have flipped it,” Niall snaps, spatula in hand. “Just ‘cause you’re wearing linen doesn’t mean you suddenly know anything about barbecuing.”

Zayn raises his sunglasses. “I know your chicken’s drier than my love life.”

“Liar,” Niall mutters, smirking. “You had a date two nights ago.”

“Which ended in me getting a long speech about ‘emotional maturity’ and no head. So yes. Dry.”

Louis snorts from his place on the blanket laid out under the lemon tree, stretched out on his side, elbow bent, cheeks flushed from the sun. His shirt’s unbuttoned and slipping off one shoulder, hair a mess of sweat and salt. His legs are tanned, one foot brushing lazily against Harry’s thigh.

Harry sits across from him, cross-legged, shirtless, licking barbecue sauce off his thumb like he was made to ruin lives.

He’s not even pretending to look anywhere else. His eyes are glued to Louis.

“Y’alright there, lover boy?” Niall calls, grinning. “Or are you gonna start moaning in public again?”

Harry doesn’t even blink. “Depends. Is Louis gonna take another bite?”

Louis kicks him lightly. “Don’t encourage him.”

Zayn groans dramatically, tossing a paper napkin toward them. “You two make me ill.”

They all laugh.

Then someone calls from the gate.

They turn.

Luke.

He walks in quietly, hand loosely linked with a guy none of them know. He’s tall, easy smile, calm energy. Luke’s wearing navy, his hair shorter than before, his whole vibe... lighter. Softer. The anger’s gone. He looks good.

Zayn glances toward Louis instinctively. But Louis?

Louis just smiles.

Harry rises slowly and walks toward Luke. They meet halfway.

There’s a beat. A pause.

Then Harry offers his hand.

Luke takes it.

They shake. Then they nod.

It’s not performative. It’s not for show. It’s two people saying: we survived it. And we’re okay.

Luke looks past Harry, toward Louis—who’s still sprawled out in the grass with the sun on his face—and smiles gently.

Louis sits up a little, shielding his eyes from the light, and smiles back. Genuinely. “Hey.”

Luke nods. “Hey.”

That’s it. But it’s enough.

The tension dissolves. Niall shouts something about "get them a beer!", and soon the two newcomers blend into the warmth like they’ve always belonged.

Harry drops back onto the blanket beside Louis, who immediately slides his foot back between Harry’s thighs, possessive and soft. Harry wraps his hand around Louis’s ankle, thumb rubbing slow circles.

“You good?” Louis murmurs, voice low.

Harry turns toward him, smile crooked. “More than good.”

He picks up a piece of grilled chicken with his fingers and brings it to Louis’s mouth.

Louis doesn’t even look. He opens his mouth instinctively, gaze still on something Zayn’s saying about spice rubs being “a metaphor for modern masculinity.”

And Harry watches.

God, he watches.

Louis chews slowly, swallows, laughs at something across the yard—and that’s when it hits Harry.

The way his skin glows from the sun, the way his lashes catch the light, the way his nose crinkles when he smiles like that.

Like he doesn’t even realize how loved he is.

Harry leans forward, kisses the side of his foot, and murmurs, “You’re fucking everything.”

Louis looks at him, startled for just a second, cheeks burning. He blinks once, then twice—like he wasn’t expecting it now, here, in the middle of the sun and the smoke and the music.

But then he smiles.

Soft. Disarmed. Real.

And quietly, without a trace of hesitation, he says,

“I love you.”

Harry swallows. His fingers tighten on Louis’s ankle. And he says back, like it’s been burning on his tongue since forever:

“I love you.”

Niall, dramatically: “OH MY GOD.”

Zayn: “I’m gonna walk into traffic.”

Harry: “Do it quietly.”

Louis: “Let me know if you want help pushing.”

They all laugh again.

And the scene pulls wide—sun hanging low, light catching on their faces, music playing, smoke drifting lazily in the air, and two boys tangled up on a blanket like the world finally decided to be kind.

This is how it ends.

With love, and meat, and sunshine.
With laughter, and peace.
With them.
Finally. Them.