I'll Wear Your Rainboots

Harry’s world runs on rhythm and routine — until chaos arrives in the form of a dog, its tattooed owner, and something that feels dangerously like connection.

Notes:

This story is a work of fiction and uses the names of real people purely for creative purposes.

“Rainboots” sat in the trenches for a long time before I finally felt the pull to share it. I hope it touches you the way it touched me.

Note: Harry’s traits are intentionally undefined. You’ll notice certain mannerisms or repetitions in his dialogue and behavior. These are deliberate, meant to help you understand how he experiences and processes the world.

My endless thanks to the one person who continues to beta my occasionally ridiculous ideas. What began as a simple prompt — “Louis’ dog attacks Harry’s cat” — somehow became a story about acceptance, love, and the beauty of being understood.

A massive thank you ahead of time. :)

Work Text:

The Button House is alive in the way old homes tend to be. The radiator ticks beneath the window while rain threads a steady rhythm against the glass.

The floors creak when the wind shifts, the pipes sigh after every flush. It’s imperfect, yes—but the kind of imperfect that feels like character. Harry likes that. He likes things that have earned their noise.

Miss M sits on the windowsill, her gaze tracing the patterns on the glass, her pink tail swaying back and forth. The sight draws an involuntary exhale from him. He loves the rain—truly—but the tension between thought and action always interferes with productivity. Sew the platoon pants or yield to the couch for a nap?

Spoiler: productivity rarely wins when it rains.

Each drop taps the window in steady rhythm, the sound settling into the walls. The house hums with it—clock ticking, fabric sighing, Miss M shifting her weight on the sill. The noise folds around him like a low heartbeat, steadying the edges of his thoughts.

For a moment, the world outside blurs into watercolor before fading back to gray. The stillness that follows feels earned—quiet, deliberate, almost kind.

“Miss M,” he calls, sprawled across the couch like her languid counterpart. She turns her head, offering a sharp hiss of disapproval. “My apologies, m’lady. Feeling proper today?” He chuckles, levering himself upright from the couch’s weary embrace.

“Matilda,” he corrects with mock gravity, letting the name fall reverently from his lips as he joins her at the window. His knees bump the cold metal radiator beneath the sill. It clanks once in protest, echoing through the narrow pipes like an old sigh.

“Do you ever wish for more companionship? Someone other than me?”

She flicks her tail, brushing it against his cheek.

“Preposterous,” he agrees softly.

They are a pair—a quiet bond forged against the world’s noise. Niall exists, of course, but it’s Matilda who anchors him. Without her, he suspects he’d drift.

Plus, her unusual coloring suits him; he appreciates her oddities as much as his own. People stare on their walks, but her pink tail feels entirely natural to him. How it came to be that way… well, that’s a funny story.

The cranberry caper began in the kitchen, as it always does. Harry was arranging fruit and vegetables by color and size in ceramic bowls, each one a small exhibit of order.

Experience had taught him that bowls prevent chaos; without them, the counter devolves into rebellion—grapes on the run, apples plotting escape. Once everything’s lined up, the soft cadence of routine calmed him, before the blender roared to life.

Halfway through chopping, nature interrupted. Holding his bladder too long has always been a losing game. Upon his return, Matilda had claimed the counter, her tail luxuriously draped into a bowl of cranberry juice.

He froze.

Then panic—flitting about like a fairy who’s forgotten how to fly, muttering apologies as he dabbed her fur with a towel. She endured it with regal disdain, eyes half-lidded in judgment. Eventually, she was clean—or nearly.

Matilda remained unbothered, her poise unshaken even as he fretted about. The vibrant pink of her tail gleamed against cream-colored fur, accentuating her eccentric charm—much like the tiny heart-shaped patch on her nose. She stretched languidly, tail curling like punctuation to the morning’s chaos.

The next day, the news app flashed a national cranberry juice recall. Harry stared at the headline, then at Matilda, perched elegantly beside the toaster. “You absolute genius,” he murmurs. Her ears twitched, unimpressed.

He marveled at her intuition. She isn’t merely clever—she’s protective in quiet, improbable ways, attuned to threats he hasn’t yet named. A guardian in feline form, saving him from discomfort he never even knew was coming.

Together they conquer the world. An unstoppable pair of soft things wrapped in sharp edges—him with his tangled mind, her with her elegant disdain. They keep chaos at bay, mostly through stubbornness and routine.

He stifles a yawn, fingers absently tracing along her spine. The house settles again into its comfortable rhythm—until Matilda emits an uncharacteristic hiss. Tail puffing, eyes narrowing.

A mud-splattered dog has bounded into the yard, scattering leaves and dignity alike.

“Damn it, Mathis! Look what you’ve done!” a man shouts from somewhere out of sight. The dog, unbothered, relieves itself on Harry’s carefully tended petunias.

“Do you see this?” He shouts from inside the warmth of his home. “Stop it, you mutt!”

His words fall upon deaf ears. The dog continues to paw at the soil with gleeful disregard.

“Who in their right mind would choose a dog over a perfectly civilized and respectable cat?”

It’s then a disheveled figure appears, mud coating his clothes, one shoe missing. Harry braces to scold him for negligence—but pauses. The man’s movement is rigid, unsteady, his bare arms revealing faint, intricate designs, pulling his curiosity.

Pushing stray curls from his face, he watches the lean muscles in the man’s arms as he struggles with the dog. Harry has never seen him before. And that is saying something.

He knows every person on the street—the postman who hums Christmas tunes, Mrs. Langley who trims her roses too short, the newly bonded couple across the way who never bring their bins in on time. The neighborhood is a set of constellations he’s memorized, each routine and face a fixed point in his private map of order.

This man, though—he doesn’t belong to the pattern. New, or visiting. The disruption prickles at him even as curiosity starts to bloom.

Finally, the man manages to tame the dog before glancing toward Harry’s home. He’s too far away for cataloging facial features, but Harry feels defensive. Possible scrutiny pricks at his sense of judgment and invasion.

This house, with its teal door, bright yellow rocking chairs and carefully chosen fixtures, is his sanctuary. Each DIY detail spoke of his soul, his quirks, his creativity. He would not allow someone else’s gaze to diminish his pride.

When they finally disappear from view, Harry decides productivity is the only way to soothe the unease.

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Flat on his belly, he adjusts the miner’s lamp strapped to his forehead.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs to Matilda as her tail brushes against his face, “I’m busy. Can’t you see?”

The rug is an unruly sight. The fraying edges are an eyesore to anyone gazing and he simply cannot have that. Each snip of his tiny scissors requires immense concentration. With an eye closed he snips. Each one deliberate in preserving the vintage piece.

“Harry?”

Focused on tracing a long thread, he doesn’t respond. Even when Niall burst through the door, begging for attention.

“Harry, I was bored and figured we’d—” Niall stops mid-sentence, chuckling. “I shouldn’t be surprised you’re arse-up again.”

Years of laughter had forged an unbreakable bond. The Omega became a steady presence during university, guiding Harry through anxiety and art. Where Harry felt displaced, Niall was warm and spontaneous.

“Is there a reason for your intrusion?” He asks, inspecting the thread’s damage.

“I don’t often worry about you,” the Omega chuckles, “but I think you might’ve finally cracked.”

If he truly understood all aspects of art, Niall would approve. Instead, Harry ignores him, too focused on his rug.

“Alright, I’ll humor you,” Niall offers. “Why are you giving the rug a haircut?”

“She’s delicate, and the vacuum is an overzealous monster. She deserves preservation.”

His best friend settles on the couch, grabbing the remote from the cradle. “My class was dead. Made a mug, left.”

“Mother Nature’s cruel joke,” he mutters. Rain truly can dampen the creative process.

By day he’s a painter, seamstress by night. Which explains his friend’s inability to comprehend the thread delicacy and structural care needed to tend to it. Niall is a potter head, and a good one. His pottery lines local shop shelves. They both create in ways that comfort and express their individuality.

“I’m putting on the telly,” though the screen is already on, displaying an ad for an item nobody could ever need. “Let’s watch the fools on national TV.”

“Absolutely no pornography, Niall.”

“Prude.”

“I am not a prude!” Harry halts, arms folding in frustration. And if he is, that’s strictly between him and God. Surely there are millions—millions—who prefer wholesome affection to whatever medieval torture Niall subjects his retinas to.

Niall snorts, flipping through channels like a man on a mission. “Everyone watches porn, even you, princess.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “Not everyone,” he insists, the words coming out prim and scandalized. “Some of us enjoy narrative structure.”

Niall huffs a laugh but stops flipping channels when a baby koala appears onscreen, climbing clumsily onto its mother’s back. A picture worth a thousand words. He can’t help but coo, eyes wide with delight. Nature is precious, fragile — and should be protected at all costs.

A narrator’s voice filters through the quiet, describing the bond between mammals and their young. The sentiment twists deep within his chest — a quiet, unspoken ache. Will he ever cradle a baby like that koala? Watch small, wobbly legs find their first balance the way an elephant mother does?

The thought startles him, leaving him exposed. He straightens his jumper, more for something to do than out of need. “I would like companionship,” he says finally — quiet, deliberate, and brave, ignoring the warmth that rises to his cheeks.

Past relationships have been fleeting—brief flares of interest that burn out as soon as someone realizes he’s not like everyone else. Labels, diagnoses, ICD pages—none of it captures the ache of wanting to be understood and perpetually being too much or not enough. He doesn’t want to be studied or fixed, like a science experiment seeking perfection. He wants to be seen.

In today’s world, it feels like appearance matters more than intelligence or inner kindness. Most Alphas he’s met don’t want eccentric—they want easy. Predictable. Someone who flutters when they flirt and fits neatly into their expectations. He doesn’t flutter; he analyses. He notices things. He feels everything too loudly. And that, apparently, isn’t appealing.

“I just want someone who doesn’t find me exhausting before I’ve finished a sentence.”

Niall snorts. “I get it, but companionship, H? Who even says that? Sounds like you want a pet. Not an Alpha.”

“Niall!”

“Call it as it is, Harold. You’re looking for a knot.”

Harry gasps, scandalised. “You’re vile!”

“Accurate, though.”

He opens his mouth to protest but can’t quite find the words. The truth is uncomfortable: somewhere beneath the dignity and careful restraint, he does want that connection—the kind that feels steady, certain, safe. Not just a touch for the sake of it, but something real. Something that doesn’t end when his quirks become inconvenient.

Instead of replying, he mutters, “You’re incorrigible,” and stalks off to the kitchen for tea.

Niall’s laughter follows him down the hall. “You love me really.”

Harry pauses at the kettle, though there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

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“Matilda? Miss M,” Harry calls from the bottom of the stairs. “Time for exercise.”

He adjusts his purple bucket hat, the one with zebra print, snugly on his head. It matches his black-and-white joggers—an inventive creation from last summer. The elastic band is buttoned at the ankle, a detail lost on most, but essential. Without it, the wide-leg pants would billow freely, revealing his legs to anyone nearby. His legs were for himself, not the world.

Giving the pleats an extra sharp crisp, he waits. This design is bold, eccentric, and perfectly him.

Matilda trots down the stairs, her pink tutu bouncing around her frame. “Such a good girl,” he coos, clipping her rhinestone leash to her light pink harness. The forecast calls for sun, and he won’t be deterred.

“Blue or green?”

Three pairs of wellies reside beside the door. Easy access for when he may need them. There’s a few more pairs in his closet, but he isn’t ready to trade out his tried and true. He settles on blue, matching a crossbody bag with his wallet and keys. A stylish look without adding bulk.

Under the afternoon sun, he can’t help smiling. The day is perfect, and the world is orderly and kind. Together, he and Matilda walk to his favorite park, just two blocks away, enjoying the rhythm of their shared steps.

Mindlessly humming a tune from Cinderella, he enjoys the soft breeze against his skin, unaware of how quickly peace can turn.

Matilda freezes, stopping him mid-step. Her body stiff, tail puffing like a feather duster, with ears flat against her head.

Barking cuts through the air, tearing at the quiet. It’s too much: the pitch, the proximity, the way it vibrates in his skull. Noise, motion, unpredictability—all of it tangles, confusing him.

Before he can make sense of it, a dog bursts toward them, all mud and motion, the world narrowing to paws, tongue, and sound.

It lunges, the world tilting sideways. Gravel digs into his palms as he hits the ground, his breath knocked out of him. Pain flares along his elbow. Breathe. In for four, out for four.

Matilda bolts. Her claws scrape bark as she scales the nearest tree.

Then there’s breath—hot and damp—and a tongue dragging across his cheek. The smell—wet fur, slobber—clings to him, suffocating. Too much, too much, too much.

“Fuck. Are you alright? Mathis, settle—Jesus.”

The voice comes from somewhere above him: firm, commanding, threaded with panic. A man wrestles with the leash, trying to haul the dog back. The tone alone cuts through the noise enough for Harry to focus.

He sits up, rubbing the grit from his palms in small, rhythmic circles—one, two, three, four—until the world steadies.

The man keeps talking while pulling the dog back by the collar. “He’s overexcited—bloody hell, I’m sorry.”

Harry blinks, looking properly at him now. Strong jaw, mud-splattered shirt, tattoos ghosting across forearms. The scent of dried tobacco and almonds clings to him. His Omega hums uneasily beneath his skin, curiosity tangled with caution.

“Darling, I’m so sorry. Here,” the man says, crouching and offering a hand.

Harry hesitates—eye contact first, always—and then accepts. The hand is steady, the grip warm. The man’s strength both startles and arouses him. His body feels uncooperative, every nerve jangling, but the solid pull helps anchor him back into himself.

As the man crouches to clear bits of gravel from Harry’s scraped palm, Harry studies him with quiet intensity—cataloging the movements, the controlled voice, the faint crease between his brows. He notices everything. He always does.

Then he sees the ink curling up the man’s arm, and the recognition snaps.

“It’s you!” he blurts. “Was yesterday’s adventure not enough that you had to try again?”

The man’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb. Your dog peed on my petunias. I saw you.” Harry gestures pointedly. “Two shoes today. Much better than yesterday.”

The man blinks, clearly lost, but polite enough not to interrupt. Harry knows he’s rambling; sometimes words tumble faster than his filter can catch them. It’s how his mind organizes chaos—by narrating it.

Matilda? Where is she? Panic ensues, till he recalls her running up the tree.

“Louis,” the man offers finally, extending a hand again as if to reset the conversation. “Didn’t realize anyone witnessed that.”

“Please retrieve your canine so I can continue with my day,” Harry says crisply, brushing off his clothes.

The dog trots over, tail wagging, and slobbers a stripe across his rain boot.

“Get away from me, you monstrous mutt,” Harry mutters, nudging it aside. “I would ask you to go to your owner, but it’s clear who’s in charge here.”

Louis' expression tightens. “Problem, mate?” His voice drops low—commanding again. “Sit.”

The dog obeys instantly.

Harry stares, surprised by the obedience, by the tone. Competence, authority, control—his mind catalogs them automatically, against his better judgement.

“I— I would like to go,” he stammers. “Your presence… It makes my Omega uneasy.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “No offense, but—”

“Stating ‘no offense’ often precedes offense,” Harry cuts in.

Louis’ mouth quirks, a smile flickering like mischief caught mid-breath. “You’re an odd duck, darling.”

“Sticks and stones,” Harry replies, calling softly for Matilda, who remains perched in the tree like a pink-tailed gargoyle.

The air hums between them. The Alpha’s scent is warm, and it crowds Harry’s thoughts. His voice, the tilt of his grin, the faint arch of a brow—all of it floods Harry’s senses faster than he can translate. Social cues tangle as intent slips through his fingers like water.

Louis leans in slightly, amusement curling in his tone. “That’s such a childish response,” he says, not unkindly—more as if he’s testing the words, watching how they land.

Is he being teased or adored? It doesn’t matter, as his mouth blurts, “It’s an appropriate one to an asinine comment. If you’d prefer something else, offer a more stimulating rebuttal."

Louis laughs, hands raised. “You’re a fiery little pup, aren’t you?”

Harry’s nose flares, jaw tight and waits for the Alpha. Maybe he was being teased.

“Alright,” Louis concedes with a grin. “I apologize. Do you always chastise strangers who try to help—or am I just lucky? Also, your rain boots are on the wrong feet.” He steps back, polite now. “How’s that for stimulating conversation?”

Harry looks down, cheeks flaming. The boots are switched. How did this happen? He hates when details betray him.

“I…”

“I’d help,” Louis says lightly, “but I’m still recovering from being assaulted by a very spirited Omega.”

Harry scoffs, straightening his posture. “This was intentional,” he lies, scooping Matilda into his arms. “And do keep your dog away from my garden.”

He turns on his heel before Louis can reply, retreating with his dignity mostly intact and his thoughts buzzing like bees in a jar.

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The needle pierces the fabric in rhythmic precision, the thread zig-zagging as he guides the shirt through.

“I’m almost done, Miss M.”

Matilda sits on the windowsill, blue bows twitching with every flick of her ears. There’s an overzealous bird darting between the ledge and a nearby tree, its erratic movements hold her rapt attention.

She meows in protest each time it flies by, her tone communicating very clearly that this was unacceptable behavior.

“I know, darling,” he purrs. “Some creatures simply thrive on vexation.”

He lifts the shirt and holds it against his chest. “The concept will be lost on simpletons, but just look at it. Isn’t it magnificent?”

The whale’s tail curves upward from waves of layered cloth, each strip of fabric cut in gradients of grey and white, stitched with almost mathematical intent. The threads catch the light—tidy, deliberate, utterly exact. It’s not decoration so much as devotion made visible.

The act of creation steadies him: measure, cut, stitch, repeat. The quiet hum of the needle, the rhythm of his breath, the symmetry falling into place. It’s not merely art; it’s order, focus—clarity pulled from the noise of the world.

“It will look exquisite with my distressed black denim,” he thinks aloud, already styling it in his mind. “Perfect for class.”

The waves of fabric remind him of the sea—its ordered chaos, its thunderous beauty. There is comfort in that duality. Creation and destruction. Routine and wonder.

Then Matilda’s meow changes—sharper, urgent. He looks up from the shirt, realization dawning. “You’re right. I can’t wear this to class. Paint splatter would be catastrophic.”

The cuckoo clock alerts him to the time. “Shoot, I’m going to be late.”

Again, he’s lost track of time. It happens when his mind finds rhythm; hours could slip through unnoticed when focused on passion projects. Today he cannot be late. He promised Niall and Harry never goes back on his word.

Today, he is substituting for Shawn—Niall’s “it’s-not-like-that” friend—who has fallen ill. According to Niall, the class has been sold out for weeks and in dire need of Harry’s assistance.

Niall pleaded, calling it a “personal favor.” Harry hadn’t asked questions, knowing he was desperate.

Hurrying upstairs, he rifles through his wardrobe—his personal gallery of color and texture. Sequins hang beside corduroy as silk flirts with soft cotton. Each piece hums with its own frequency, ordered not just by hue but by mood, by memory. Between the pink flamingos and the rainbow jumper, there isn’t an immediate choice—only conversation.

To Harry, fashion is storytelling. Every garment has its history: the sleeve that sways like a sigh, the hem that curves like a question mark, the collar that carries the quiet confidence of someone seen. Fabric holds emotion—it drapes, resists, folds under pressure, remembers touch. To wear something is to translate the self into color and shape.

It is a confession. Clothing doesn’t tell who he is, not exactly, but what he’s seeking—what he hopes someone might see. Every cut and drape holds a secret wish stitched into its seams. An off-the-shoulder number gives the eye somewhere to linger; a daring neckline asks, softly, will you look at me and stay?

Tonight, he decides to be bold. The rainbow jumper feels right—every color given permission to shine, and don’t they deserve that? His worn yellow bell-bottoms follow, a burst of sunshine stitched into fabric. They balance him: comfort without apology, brightness without demand.

He pauses at the door, gaze landing on the entryway bench where his rain boots wait like loyal companions. Three pairs, each a different chapter of himself. The short, ankle-cut pair conforms to expectation—acceptable, unremarkable, designed for blending in. The middle pair, a cheerful mint with scuffed soles, speaks of compromise: a nod to whimsy restrained by practicality.

And then there are the boots—his favorites. Knee-high, sunflower yellow, a little ridiculous in their cheer. They squeak when he walks, leaving tiny declarations of joy in their wake. To others, they’re childish. To him, they’re armor.

He slips on the yellow boots, grabs his bag, and leans down to press a kiss to Matilda’s head.

“Guard the fort, m’lady,” he giggles, straightening with a grin.

She blinks at him, unimpressed but loyal, and with that he steps out into the evening, the setting light catching on the rainbow knit making him unmistakably happy.

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The air in the studio hums with chatter and clinking glasses. People filter in with wide eyes and excited grins, the kind of social energy that prickles under Harry’s skin.

He stands at the front, rearranging brushes for the fourth time—sorted by length, bristle type, then color. It isn’t perfectionism; its necessity. The world makes more sense when things line up. The wrong brush in the wrong place sends static under his skin.

He checks the paint jars—labels facing forward, lids tight—and exhales. The hum of fluorescent lighting is high-pitched, almost like a mosquito, but manageable if he focuses on the soft thrum of his own breathing.

Teaching classes isn’t his forte; he prefers solitary creation, not this blend of noise and bodies. But Niall had begged. Just this once, Haz, Shawn’s sick as a dog, he’d said. The phrase still bothers him. Sick people are not dogs.

As if conjured by thought, Niall bursts through the door, grinning, his hair damp from a last minute shower no doubt. “Cheers for this, mate. You’re saving my arse. Shawn’s at home dying.”

Harry stiffens. “You compared him to a dog.”

“What?”

“You said he’s sick as one.”

Niall blinks, then laughs. “It’s a phrase.”

“It’s a bad one.”

“Right,” Niall says, drawing the word out. “Anyway, everyone’s dead keen tonight, so you’ll be grand. Paint, wine, a bit of flirtation—simple.”

“Flirtation isn’t part of the syllabus,” Harry mutters.

Niall claps his shoulder. “You’ll be brilliant. Try not to correct anyone’s brush technique too aggressively.”

“I do not correct aggressively.”

“You do.”

He exhales through his nose, a long measured sound. “I’ll endeavour to restrain myself.”

“Good lad.”

Niall’s phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. “Right, I’ve got to go prepare my own lot.”

Harry had forgotten all about Niall’s beginner friendly class, but then again, he shouldn’t have. It is afterall how he and Shawn met. “Oh, and if you get this fancy lot checking in—good luck. They look like the type who name their wine glasses.”

“People name inanimate objects all the time,” Harry replies seriously. “It provides emotional grounding.”

“Yeah, but you name your blender, Haz. There’s a difference.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but Niall’s already halfway out the door, cackling.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters to himself.

Positioning the microphone headset exactly two fingers from his mouth, he straightens out the imaginary crinkles in his smock. “Hello,” he says, voice carrying through the speakers. “My name is Harry, and I’ll be your instructor for tonight.”

The class quiets; a few offer polite smiles. One older woman raises her hand. “Where’s Shawn, love?”

“Oh—he’s a little under the weather tonight. I’m filling in,” Harry replies with a polite smile.

“Oh, poor doll. You seem lovely, though.”

He inclines his head. “Thank you. Tonight’s project is called ‘Spring You, Emu’.”

The gigglers snort. One, a tall blonde with an impossibly tight ponytail, laughs so hard she wheezes. Harry eyes her critically. Poor circulation to the scalp, he thinks. That can’t be comfortable.

And then a scent hits him.

Warm, sharp, nutty—dried tobacco and almonds.

Louis.

Harry’s back straightens. The Alpha from the park has just walked in, followed by a small entourage of beautiful people who seem far too polished for an art class. His pulse stumbles, watching a brunette with a hightop bun lean into the Alpha.

Don’t breathe through your nose. Breathe through your mouth.

Niall was right. This group looks like pretentious posh royalty.

“Good evening,” Harry manages, focusing resolutely on the bottle of paint and squeezing a dollop on his plate. “We’ll be starting with blue and black paint. Carefully place a dollop on the provided paper plates set at your seat.”

Louis smiles at him from across the room. It’s disarming—infuriatingly so. Blue paint erupts from the bottle he’s holding, trickling down the side and onto his fingers. What a waste. It truly is a beautiful shade of blue.

“Right,” he says briskly, setting down the bottle and wiping his hand on a nearby towel. “Let’s begin. Take your size 18 brush.” He pauses, holding up the largest of their brushes to demonstrate.

“We’ll start with black at the bottom of the canvas,” Harry says, his tone crisp but calm. “Take it up about a quarter of the way. Once you’re happy with that, mix a dollop of blue with your black and drag the color upward to create a gradient. Leave the top three quarters blank for now.”

He demonstrates rather than waits—showing always feels easier than explaining. The brush moves smoothly in his hand, side to side, soft strokes that make sense to his body even when words don’t. “You can’t go wrong here,” he assures them, though he knows many will disagree.

This part always unsettles beginners. The first black strokes are too heavy, too definite, and the blank space above them feels accusatory. He watches them wrestle with the contrast, their uncertainty blooming in uneven streaks. It’s oddly beautiful—people trying to control what can’t be controlled.

He walks the rows, soft-voiced and observant. A few murmurs of encouragement escape him without thought—small “that’s lovely” or “good blend, there.” He doesn’t say more than needed. Words, he’s learned, can sometimes ruin a moment.

The children, as always, are better at this than the adults. Two pups near the back paint with wild confidence, more joy than fear. The red-haired one—no older than five he guesses—has somehow managed to turn half her nose blue. The sight tugs a smile from him.

Kneeling beside her, he dabs her face clean with the corner of a towel. “Perfectly abstract,” he says, tone light.

She giggles, scrunching her nose as if to hide the blush of her freckles. For a moment, the room feels softer— laughter mingling with the scratch of bristles against canvas.

He straightens, eyes drifting across the class, his heart quietly steady now. In this ordered chaos of color, everything makes sense.

Returning to the front, he feels the weight of Louis' gaze. The Alpha sits in the centre of his table, surrounded by his chattering friends, yet somehow still the calmest presence in the room. His scent carries across the air, grounding, but also distracting.

Harry refuses to notice, instead moving the class to the next step.

Thirty minutes in and he’s sweating through his rainbowed thread.

“Now,” Harry says, “mix green and white for a bright tone, and flick outward from the centre like this.”

He demonstrates, confident.

“Harry?”

The sound of his name—his name—from that voice, nearly makes him drop the brush. Louis is waving him over, his hand raised sheepishly.

“Hi,” Louis chirps as Harry approaches. His eyes sparkle, teasingly so.

Why must he be tortured? Niall will surely hear about these inconveniences. Breathe through your mouth, breathe through your mouth.

He bends over the Alpha’s shoulder, inspecting the mess of colors. “You simply start here,” he says, pointing delicately. “Then stroke outward. The length of your feathers is your own creative choice.”

Snickers erupt from Louis' friends. The brunette with the hightop who had been hanging on him when he walked in is the loudest, which isn’t a surprise. He still frowns. “’Stroke’ is a perfectly acceptable term in painting.”

The woman with curls and a headband titters. “Oh, Louis—”

The Alpha glares.

“Precious,” she blurts, covering her mouth like a child. Harry crosses his arms, frown deepening. Social cues are slippery things, but he catches enough to realize he’s being teased.

“I am, in fact, quite precious,” he announces.

That earns him a startled laugh from the group, including Louis himself. “You certainly are.”

He doesn’t know why that makes his chest feel funny, but it tingles.

Walk away, walk away now.

Louis coughs at his first step. “Perhaps you could demonstrate again? For… clarity.”

Harry takes the Alpha’s hand to adjust his grip on the brush. The contact is electric, like static skimming his skin. He guides Louis' hand in steady strokes, their fingers brushing.

“There,” he says, stepping back quickly. “You’re quite capable when you focus.”

The black haired Omega beside him snickers. “Can’t hold your—”

“Shut up, Zayn,” Louis snaps.

Harry blinks, looking between them. “Would you like a child-sized brush instead?”

That breaks the room. Laughter bubbles around them until Harry’s ears burn. “Art is an all-levels activity. How cruel to laugh at someone who’s trying.”

That silences them faster than any glare could.

“No harm done, darling. You’re right.” The Alpha’s smile is soft and warm.

Darling.

The word lands like a hand pressed against his chest. He turns away, throat dry, and walks back to his painting where he dips his brush back into white. Best to keep painting.

“Alright,” he says, projecting calm, “let’s allow everyone some time to catch up with their gradients, their feathers, or the eyes. Remember to blend lightly; let the colors breathe.”

It’s an easy painting—enough to give him a reason to stop talking, to think, to breathe.

Minutes pass—or maybe hours; time folds when he paints. The strokes, the colors, the faint scrape of brushes all weave into something peaceful. Almost peaceful enough to forget that Louis is still somewhere in his peripheral vision, quietly watching.

He’s nearly relaxed when the door bangs open.

Hightop bun woman staggers back from the loo, clutching her wine glass like a trophy. Her perfume hits first—sweet, artificial, headache-inducing.

“Yellow’s not an appropriate color for this time of year,” she announces, voice too loud for the room.

Louis hisses her name under his breath.

Ah. Melissa. Information catalogued.

“It’s not, sweetie,” she insists, planting a hand on Louis’ shoulder as she flashes Harry a syrupy smile.

Harry smiles back—polite with all teeth. “If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty.”

The words hang in the air like a dropped glass. For a beat, the room holds its breath—then laughter spills out, too loud for the silence. Even Louis snorts, disguising it badly behind a cough.

How dare she. She knows nothing about him—or art, if her blotchy attempt at an emu is any measure.

Harry inhales slowly, smoothing the tension from his shoulders. He turns back to his easel with unbothered grace, the brush steady in his hand. “Right,” he says, dipping into a pool of white. “Let’s move on to the mouth.”

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Two and a half hours later, class is over. The air smells of acrylics and wine. Niall has told him it is rude to rush people out of the studio. So he waits, though his social battery is beyond depleted.

Students linger, comparing masterpieces and cleaning brushes. Overall a complete success.

A small tug on his sleeve draws his attention. The little red-haired girl holds up her painting proudly. “Mr. Harry! Look!”

The emu’s eyes are crooked, its beak enormous—but it’s perfect.

“You made this yourself?”

She nods, grinning.

He bends to her level, voice soft. “You’ve got a remarkable eye for composition. I’d love to attend your class one day.”

The girl beams and promptly throws her arms around his neck. The sudden affection startles him, but Harry’s heart warms all the same. He’s always loved pups—their honesty, their unfiltered enthusiasm. They say exactly what they mean, and he finds comfort in that.

He hugs her back gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. No, he will not volunteer for another paint day anytime soon, but moments like this make the chaos worthwhile.

“Lily, sweetheart, let’s let Mr. Harry go,” her mother exclaims as she runs over.

He smiles. “I eagerly anticipate our next meeting.”

When they’ve gone, he realizes Louis is still there, lingering near his easel.

“You’re good with children,” the Alpha says. There’s something unreadable in his tone—admiration, maybe, or jealousy.

Harry shrugs. “They make sense.”

Louis steps closer, the distance no longer safe. “You were charming tonight.”

“Thank you,” Harry replies, genuinely unsure what to do with the compliment.

“Perhaps I’m the problem?”

“If you’re referring to your painting technique, yes. Your feathers are appalling.”

That draws another laugh from the Alpha.

That reaction catches him off guard. Unsure what to do, he turns to the sink, rinsing his brushes. The paint swirls down the drain like a little galaxy, the colors twist and fade amusingly. There’s too much silence, leaving him exposed.

“Your friend was unbearable,” he says quietly.

Louis follows his gaze to where Melissa is hanging off the other woman, giggling loudly. “You’re not wrong. I apologize for her.”

“Less cruel if you’d have sent her home.”

“How so?” He asks, tilting his head.

“She was disruptive. And your duty as a companion was to minimize distraction.”

That earns him a small, surprised smile. “You’re very direct.”

“No,” Harry says truthfully. “Just honest.”

Before Louis can reply, another Alpha appears at his side—broad, kind-eyed. “You ready, Lou? Zayn’s pulled up front.”

Louis nods, then glances back at Harry. “Maybe I could take you for a drink sometime?”

“No, thank you,” he says automatically, gathering trash.

“Right. Another time, maybe.”

“No, thank you,” Harry repeats.

Louis leaves. His shoulders forward, scent wavering—something off-kilter, faintly musty beneath the almonds.

Odd. What does it mean?

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The pungent scent of Niall’s wet clay mingles with the tang of Harry’s paints. It’s grounding, this place — color and texture stitched together like a quilt. Harry smiles faintly, grateful for the peace.

“So he asked you out for a drink and you turned him down?” Niall’s voice drifts through the quiet, thick with disbelief. His hands glide over the clay on the wheel, shaping it with the easy confidence of someone who doesn’t overthink every movement.

“I don’t partake in alcohol. You know this,” Harry replies, mixing Caribbean blue on his palette. His brush moves with methodical precision, each stroke deliberate. The bright hue breathes life into the once-stale fabric beneath his hands.

“Harry, I’m pretty sure he just wanted to take you out. You could’ve suggested something else, anything else. You probably bruised his Alpha ego.”

“But I just answered his question, Niall. I can’t read minds.” Why is it always so complicated — people, words, tone?

He leans back, brush resting across his fingers, replaying the encounter. Louis had asked him for a drink, so logically, Harry declined. He doesn’t drink. He thought it was polite. Yet now Niall makes it sound like he’s committed a social sin. Perhaps he should have explained, or offered an alternative. But in the moment, his brain went rigid — everything narrowed into absolutes. A question. An answer. End of conversation.

He bites his lip, irritation prickling under his skin. Another chance to practice social grace, squandered. Around Louis, his façade seems to slip; the filters that help him blend with the world disappear. Something about the Alpha short-circuits him.

“You should probably apologize,” Niall suggests, taking his foot off the wheel’s pedal. “Do you like the guy?”

“He peed on my plants.”

“Louis?”

“Of course not, Niall. He uses the toilet, like you and I.” He pauses. “Well, I assume you do. You seem civilized enough.”

Niall’s laughter bursts through the studio, echoing off the walls causing Harry to grimace. “That was meant to be a joke,” he clarifies. Sometimes Niall’s daft.

“You sit down, princess.”

“When I’m tired,” he says defensively. “Besides, the people with him were atrocious.”

“Why?”

Harry shrugs, thinking of the group. “The two men were very pretty.”

“And Louis?”

Harry hesitates, dabbing a streak of brown into his piece. “He flusters me.”

“Flusters?”

“Yes,” he whines softly. “My Omega turns to slime, and I feel weird.”

Niall’s brow furrows. “Slime?”

Harry wiggles his fingers in front of his stomach, begging his friend to understand. “Everything inside goes soft.”

“Ah,” Niall nods, grinning. “You mean goo? He turns you into goo?”

“Yes!” Harry exclaims, relief flooding his face. “That’s exactly what I said. Slime.”

Niall chuckles, pressing the pedal again. The wheel spins, clay and water merging. “You’re one of a kind, H. Don’t ever change.”

Harry hums, unsure if that’s meant kindly or not. He lets the thought go, knowing Niall would never intentionally hurt him.

“It sounds like your Omega might actually have feelings for him.”

Harry freezes mid-stroke, brush hovering. Could that be true? His Omega has always been reckless — sentimental and soft. He stopped listening to it years ago, when its yearning led only to disappointment.

“Why don’t you give it a go?” Niall says gently. “Say yes to things that might make you happy, even if they scare you.”

Harry’s throat tightens. Niall has seen the pattern — the endless attempts, the quiet heartbreaks. The way people look at him as though he is almost right, but never quite. Too odd. Too literal. Too much.

He spent years trying to be the ideal Omega — pliant, soft-spoken, easily digestible. It never worked. They always found fault, and he always blamed himself. Eventually he stopped trying. It was easier to be alone than to be a project.

“He’s rude,” Harry mutters, though he knows Louis isn’t. Louis was kind, and that frightens him most of all.

“Is he really,” Niall asks, “or are you just looking for a reason not to try?”

Art depicts what we ask it to. Much like Harry himself, his art follows paths in unconventional ways. “I won’t see him again.”

He brings his brush to the fabric, his hand trembling slightly. With a deep breath, he draws a circle, swirling bold, clashing colors. The paint bleeds together chaotically, his emotions spilling through the bristles. A streak of red in the centre — raw, human, alive. It drips and splatters, messy and honest, like the parts of himself he keeps hidden.

Niall watches quietly as Harry paints. “The fates have a way of conjuring up what we want, young Harold. Say yes to happiness.”

The final piece gleams — imperfect, vibrant, utterly him. A reflection of love, fear, and the strange hope curling quietly in his chest. Maybe fate knows what it’s doing after all.

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The pungent chill of the supermarket deli prickles his skin. Slouched over the array of sliced cheeses, Harry huffs. They’ve been out of his favorite mature cheddar for weeks now. The soft cheeses, though tempting in appearance, never sit right with his stomach — too much pasteurization, too much fuss.

He glances into his basket: salmon, crackers, grapes, olives. Everything for a simple charcuterie board. Everything but the most vital piece. Cheese is needed to round it out. It is an accessory to the entire ensemble.Perhaps he could forgo it and choose a—

“Hi.”

The word startles him, scattering thoughts like marbles on a tiled floor. He straightens at once, schooling his expression the moment he recognizes the voice.

“I’m sorry, love. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

The Alpha stands a few feet away, a pack of sliced turkey dangling from one hand. “I saw you while I was picking out some lunch meat,” he explains, waving the packet as evidence, “and thought I’d come say hello.”

“Hello,” Harry replies carefully.

Immediately, Niall’s voice flits through his mind: Seize the moment, pitch another idea, say yes to happiness. He debates it — now or later? His previous attempts at initiative had been… less than successful. Men didn’t like when he was direct; they called it awkward, or worse, desperate.

Louis fidgets with his basket, eyes down, thumb tracing the handle. “I’m glad we ran into each other,” he says, voice soft but steady.

“Oh?”

Awareness prickling beneath his skin. His scent — lemon and honeysuckle — lingers in the air. It curls with Louis’ smoke and almonds. Together they form something dangerously pleasant, settling into the creases of his very being. The Omega in him hums at the mixture, just a quiet purr under his ribs.

“I wanted to apologize,” Louis says finally. “For being forward after the class. You were working, and I shouldn’t have interrupted.” He scratches at his neck, Harry’s eyes scanning the faint red marks left by his nails.

“You fascinate me, Harry,” he continues. “I just wanted to get to know you. But I was out of line.”

A flush of embarrassment blooms across his cheeks before his brain can stop his mouth he’s speaking. “I don’t drink,” he blurts out, taking a chance.

Louis blinks. “Pardon?”

“I don’t drink,” he repeats. “That’s why I declined your invitation.”

There’s a pause — Louis processing, eyes softening. Harry waits, heart hammering, trying to predict which way this conversation will turn. He hates this uncertainty — the waiting, the potential rejection.

Louis hums, thoughtful. “Ah. Got it. Maybe something else then? Perhaps a museum is better suited. I know a—”

“Yes!”

The Alpha’s grin blooms, full and unguarded. It’s a beautiful smile — crooked teeth and all. Something about it makes Harry’s chest tighten pleasantly. “I’d like to see the exhibit on upcycling textiles. It’s meant to be brilliant.”

He’s hoping his suggestion lands well; social engagement isn’t his strong suit, and so far Louis hasn’t run. A small part of him is chuffed by that.

The idea of attending with Louis brings a giddy warmth to his belly. So far, Harry has been unapologetically himself and Louis is still here. “Do museums make you happy?” he asks, curious and sincere.

“I mean… I like them. It was just the first thing that came to mind. Is there something else you’d rather do?” He asks softly, rubbing the back of his neck. A nervous tick?

“No.” Harry’s brow creases. Why would Louis retract such a lovely suggestion? Doesn’t he see Harry’s excitement?

“Alright, then,” Louis confirms, smiling. “Museum it is.”

“Weekends work best. Matilda can’t be left too long on her own. She can, technically, but I’d rather not. She’s mischievous.”

“Matilda?” Louis tilts his head.

Harry stares, incredulous. “My captivating fur companion,” he says sharply. “Surely you remember her? You nearly witnessed her murder at the paws of your beast.”

“Ah, right—yes, of course.” Louis winces. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you meant your cat.”

“Too focused on your monster, were you?”

“My dog?” Louis laughs. “He’s a good lad, just a bit overexcited. I’m not sure why you dislike him so much.”

“He peed on my flowers. They’re dead now.”

Louis groans, scrubbing his face. “Really? Shit.”

“Yes. I tried fertilizer. It was futile.”

They stand there, the hum of refrigerators filling the space between them. Conversation has reached that awkward crossroads — one Harry never knows how to navigate. His energy dips; the edges of the world start to feel too loud, too bright.

“I should go,” he says at last, voice soft but decisive.

He tosses a wedge of gouda into his basket — not his preferred choice, but it will do — and wheels towards the tills.

“Wait—what about this weekend?” Louis calls, quickening his pace to keep up.

“We’ve discussed our excursion,” Harry says matter-of-factly. “I’ll meet you on the museum steps at noon, Sunday. The weather should be agreeable.”

Before Louis can reply, Harry weaves neatly between two carts and disappears down the next aisle, leaving the Alpha in the fluorescent glow of the crisps section.

By the time the cashier hands him his receipt, he feels the first proper breath of relief in his lungs. It’s been a long day — and he is, quite simply, pooped.

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“What is wrong with this fabric?” he whines, exhausted with his latest project.

Annoyed, he re-threads the bobbin, double-checking it’s secured correctly. His trousers are halfway done, and he needs to finish before the rain starts—otherwise they’ll be abandoned in favor of the television.

Niall’s been wandering the house for ten minutes calling for Matilda. She’s made herself scarce this afternoon, which likely means she’s upstairs, spread across his duvet like a queen. She enjoys the luxury of the king-sized bed, especially since Harry has a tendency to kick in his sleep.

“Harry!” Niall shouts from the front window. “When did you hire a gardener?”

A gardener?

Preposterous. He’d never!

Gardening is a personal pleasure, a ritual. Abandoning his project, he rushes to the front window, carefully sidestepping Niall’s shoes in the middle of the floor.

There’s no time to think—he simply opens the front door and flings himself outside. “Louis! Louis, what are you doing?”

In seventeen long strides, he’s hovering over the Alpha. Louis looks up, a dead bloom pinched delicately between his fingers. “I’m replacing them,” he says simply.

Beside him sits an assortment of petunias in every imaginable color, waiting to be planted. It appears he’s been here for some time—half the dead plants have already been cleared away, their brittle remains resting in a bin bag nearby.

Louis kneels, gently massaging the roots of a new bloom before lowering it into the earth. His movements are slow, deliberate, reverent. One hand at a time, he pushes soil around the base, tapping it firm.

“It’s supposed to rain today,” Harry murmurs.

“Yes. A good day for new flowers.”

It’s only then that Harry realizes his own state of dress—striped pajamas, no shoes, curls unbrushed. And Louis is looking at him, eyes creasing at the corners.

“No shoes, darling? You’ll be bone chilled soon.”

Normally, that sort of observation would have him sprinting inside to correct the social offense. But today he doesn’t care. Not when Louis looks so at ease in his garden, sleeves rolled, a streak of soil across his cheek.

Without warning, a fizzing energy takes hold. He bends, throwing his arms around the Alpha, and topples them both into the grass. The impact knocks a surprised laugh from Louis and a mortified squeak from Harry.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, face buried against the Alpha’s chest.

From the doorway, Niall lets out a piercing wolf whistle. “Get it, H!” he cackles before slamming the door shut for dramatic effect.

Harry’s face burns. “That’s Niall,” he mumbles.

“Niall?”

“My best friend. Don’t worry, I’ll appropriately punish him for this embarrassment.”

Louis' hands come up, firm around Harry’s waist, steadying him as he tries to retreat. His gaze is unwavering—steady, warm, impossibly open. “I’m not embarrassed,” Louis says quietly. “In fact, I think it’s obvious I’m quite fond of you.”

The words ripple through him like a current. The air between them feels charged, alive. He can feel every heartbeat, every breath, the soft press of Louis' palms against his hips.

And it’s too much.

He scrambles to his feet, retreating towards the door, pausing only when Louis calls his name.

“We’re still on for our date tomorrow, right?”

Harry turns, trying not to look as flustered as he feels. Louis stands awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot, a petunia still clutched in his hand.

“Yes!” he blurts, and darts back inside, shutting the door with more force than intended.

A shower is definitely in order. His poor grass-stained feet streaked with chlorophyll is an unsightly view. “So that’s the fella, then?” Niall asks, leaning in the doorway with a mug in hand, grin wide.

It had only been a matter of time before Niall pried every detail from him. Ever since the supermarket encounter, Harry had gushed about Louis—though he tried to frame it as mere “social progress.”

“And how do we feel about him?” Niall prompts.

“He’s obnoxious.”

The answer earns a knowing hum. “And?”

Harry sighs, glancing out the window where Louis crouches in the newly raining sky, still tending the last flowers. “And he looks at me. In my eyes, every time we talk.”

“And?”

“And… and he’s absolutely perfect,” Harry admits, voice small. “He’s planting me flowers, Niall! Do you see?”

“I see,” Niall says softly, smile spreading.

Harry presses a hand to the glass, watching the rain bead across the windowpane. “And he smells delightful.”

“Imagine that,” Niall teases. “Sounds like you’re ready to be Harry the Homemaker.”

“Yes. I’d gladly have all his pups,” he sighs dreamy and dazed.

“And there it is.” Niall’s laughter fills the kitchen, bright and shameless. He bumps Harry’s shoulder. “Knew you fancied him.”

Harry can’t even argue. He does fancy Louis—and it terrifies him.

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“Crap, crap, shit!”

Curled deep in his nest, the idea of leaving the house churns uneasily in his stomach. The anxious twist comes whenever his brain and heart disagree. He doesn’t usually curse, but it feels necessary to release some of the tension coiling inside him. Pulling the soft cotton blanket over his head, he huffs, watching it puff up with each breath.

He’s torn. Leaving means facing the world and possibly making a fool of himself; staying means abandoning Louis on the museum steps. That would be unforgivable—and besides, he does want to see the exhibits.

Peeking over the sheet, he glares at his wardrobe. It taunts him silently—rows of color and fabric laughing at his indecision. “I can’t possibly muster the strength,” he mutters to no one in particular. His body aches, his head throbs. If only the dread would ease long enough for him to move.

Matilda curls against his shin, shimmying deeper into the folds of his pajama pants. He loves these pants—the alternating dark and light stripes lend him an illusion of elegance, even in bed. The worn T-shirt, however, offers no such dignity.

“I can’t,” he whines, smacking a hand to the pillow.

Still, an hour later, the world has managed to coax him out. The walk helps—cool air, a shifting breeze, the steady rhythm of his boots grounding him. The tightness in his chest begins to loosen, replaced by that reluctant flicker of anticipation and likely rejection.

By the time he arrives, Louis is already waiting—leaning casually against a lamppost, eyes closed, a daisy twirling between his fingers. He looks maddeningly composed.

Harry, on the other hand, feels like a walking catastrophe. He’s wearing the same blue striped pajama pants and an oversized jumper, with his ankle rain boots. His hair, chaotic as ever, refuses to be tamed. He resembles a bear roused too early from hibernation.

Harry swallows, easing up the last step. “Hi.”

Louis opens his eyes and smiles. “Hi. This is for you.” The Alpha offers the daisy, its petals a little crushed but no less charming.

Harry stares at it, touched and flustered in equal measure. “Oh.” He twirls the stem between his fingers, unsure what to do with it.

“Here,” he says softly, snapping the stem shorter. Tucking the flower behind Harry’s ear, brushing his curls aside with careful fingers. “Beautiful.”

The word sends a tremor through him. Maybe—just maybe—the day isn’t doomed after all.

“Shall we?” Louis gestures towards the museum doors, his voice warm and steady.

Inside, the world is a sensory onslaught. Voices bounce off the marble floors, lights glint off glass, and the air hums with motion. He’d chosen Sunday assuming it would be quiet. It isn’t.

Louis notices. His hand finds the small of Harry’s back, a light, grounding touch. “This way,” he replies, steering them gently through the crowd until they stop before a display of woven fibres forming a muted rainbow.

Harry focuses on the pattern—the looping threads, the imperfect order—and slowly his breathing steadies. The scent of almond drifts in from beside him, anchoring him further.

“Are you alright, love?” Louis asks softly.

“I didn’t want to come today,” Harry admits, eyes fixed on the artwork.

“Oh.” There’s hesitation in the Alpha’s reply.

“I wanted to see you,” Harry admits, voice small. “But my brain… it’s different.” The words tumble out before he can stop them. Louis has been kind—too kind—and Harry can’t bear the thought of mistaking warmth for affection. “I’m different,” he repeats, tugging at the hem of his jumper. “People don’t usually like that.”

Louis turns to face him fully. The shift is quiet but deliberate; he’s close enough now that Harry can see the faint curve of amusement on his lips. “Harry.” His tone drops, soft but edged with something undeniably warm. “You think I haven’t noticed?” A slow grin tugs at his mouth. “That’s exactly what I like about you.”

Harry blinks, unsure whether to breathe or blush. Louis’ gaze lingers, teasing but sincere—an invitation wrapped in reassurance.

“You say exactly what you mean. Plus, you wear rain boots everywhere.”

“You never know when you may step in a puddle,” he replies automatically, utterly serious.

“Can’t argue with that,” the Alpha grins.

“The weather here is unpredictable,” Harry continues, frowning slightly. “And wet socks are vile. They produce odours no one should endure.” He glances down at Louis’ bare ankles pointedly.

Louis bursts into laughter, clutching Harry’s elbows for balance. “Alright, message received. I’ll wear socks.”

Harry stares, confusion mingling with relief. “You’re not… upset?”

“Upset? No. You’re brilliant,” Louis says. “Honestly, it’s refreshing.” He hesitates, gaze softening. “I’m not perfect, either. I’ll get things wrong sometimes. But if we talk about it, I think we’ll be alright.”

The sincerity in his tone undoes him. Harry folds into Louis’ arms, burying his face against his chest. It’s instinctive—a wordless surrender. The Alpha’s scent and warmth calm his mind.

“If you want to go home,” Louis murmurs, “we can. Just say the word.”

“I want to stay,” Harry whispers. “I just… my battery’s low.”

Louis nods, immediately understanding. “Then let’s go slow. Stay near the edges. I’ll handle the rest, yeah?”

He nods, grateful. When Louis’ hand finds his waist again, it’s a quiet promise of protection as they drift toward the quieter exhibits.

They pause by a tapestry depicting a forest at dawn. Louis leans in to admire the weave. “I couldn’t do this in a million years,” he admits. “It’s beautiful though.”

“It is,” Harry says, watching the soft light play across the threads. “I was nervous you’d find this inadequate,” he confesses, smiling sheepishly.

“I don’t.”

“Thank you.” He means it.

Museums, in his view, demand patience—devotion, even. People often rush through them, eyes flicking over the masterpieces without truly seeing. But each brushstroke, thread, sparkle holds a story, a moment, an imperfection that gives it soul. That deserves time and respect.

To Harry, art is a mirror of people. No two pieces are the same, no matter how many times one tries to replicate them. Each carries a fingerprint—a smudge, a tremor, a whisper of the creator’s hand. Perfection, he thinks, is the absence of humanity. Imperfection is what makes something real.

If society could look at people the way they do art, maybe there’d be fewer labels and less quiet cruelty hiding in politeness. Maybe differences would be admired instead of categorized. Maybe people “like him” wouldn’t need to apologize for existing the way they do.

Louis stands beside him, silent but near. The brush of their shoulders sends a spark through him, loosening the tightness in his chest. The panic is still there—always there—but softened now, like paint thinned with water.

He chances a glance at the Alpha, who’s still studying the piece, and something about the Alpha’s expression—the concentration, the reverence—makes warmth bloom low in his stomach. Perhaps Louis sees people that way too.

They stand quietly beside each other, close enough that their sleeves brush. The contact is accepted, his body adjusting to the Alpha’s pheromones.

“I find people and art to be symmetrical."

“How do you mean?” he asks, humming.

“Well… they both deserve patience. And understanding. You wouldn’t scold a painting for being abstract.”

Louis chuckles, eyes warm. “No, I suppose not. But you’d still have a favorite one.”

Harry smiles faintly. “Pink.”

“Pink?”

“My favorite color.” He tilts his head, as though weighing the word. “It’s gentle, but it can be bold too. It makes people underestimate it, which is rather clever. Pink paintings, fabric…it’s superior.”

Louis' grin grows. “A clever color.”

“And soup,” Harry adds earnestly. “People underestimate soup.”

Louis laughs outright, the sound echoing softly off the museum walls. “Soup? You’re full of surprises, love.”

“I find it comforting,” he shrugs. “Predictable in the best way. Warm, but never overwhelming. A bit like art, really—you start with a base and keep layering until it tastes like home.”

Louis' laughter softens into something fond. “You make everything sound poetic.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.” He leans closer, his voice low. “Even soup.”

They stare into each other's eyes. A moment no movie could have prepared him for. Louis sees him. Truly sees him. The expectation of being too much is still there, but softened.

“Thank you for sharing. I enjoy learning about you,” Louis whispers for only him to hear.

A smile blooms, dimples deepening. There isn’t a part of him that doubts Louis' sincerity, and the realization sits warm in his chest.

“Shall we keep exploring?” Louis asks, gesturing to the next exhibit.

Harry nods, brushing his fingers against the Alpha’s hand until Louis takes it properly, their palms fitting together with easy familiarity. They wander through the archway into a brighter hall lined with sculptures—stone figures draped in frozen motion.

The light is sharper here, the sound of voices echoing more than downstairs. Harry’s shoulders tense. His sense of surroundings have always been superior. It’s how he’s able to escape situations before they heighten. However he isn’t able to escape, his hand glued to Louis’. The feeling of being watched slides down his back like sweat.

A tall Alpha across the room is staring—his gaze flicking from Harry’s rain boots to his oversized jumper and back down his body. The judgement is subtle but sharp, the kind that’s meant to wound quietly. Harry’s throat tightens, his palms slick with heat. His body curls in on itself before he even thinks to move.

Louis notices immediately. Without a word, he shifts closer, his scent deepening, protective. He places a steady hand on Harry’s back, guiding him forward so his body forms a barrier between Harry and the stranger’s gaze.

“Don’t mind him,” Louis murmurs, low and calm. “Some people only see the frame, never the art inside it.”

How is Louis able to do that? To calm the fires before they catch full flame? Those words, Louis’ words, hit something deep and tender within him. All these times he’s felt misplaced in his own skin vanishing by the minute.

The tension drains, bit by bit, replaced by that same gentler warmth that’s been building all afternoon.

They move on together, Louis quietly steering them around clusters of people. The overstimulation ebbs again, replaced by something softer. Trust, maybe.

Harry finds himself stealing glances — not at the art, but at the man beside him. Louis seems to navigate spaces the way Harry wishes he could: with unbothered ease, reading a room without letting it swallow him. It’s magnetic. Comforting. And exactly what the Omega needs.

The crowds thin as they wander toward the final gallery, where an enormous tapestry hangs like a sunrise frozen in thread. It glows under the low lighting, every stitch deliberate. Harry slows to study it, his hand twitching with the urge to trace the woven ridges.

Louis leans close, murmuring, “You know, I think you’re right. Art and people — they’re not that different. You look at both long enough, and you start to see what others miss.”

The words settle between them, quiet and heavy in the best way. Harry doesn’t respond — he doesn’t need to. Instead, he lets them soak in the moment, filling the cracks where the day’s anxiety had lived.

When they finally leave, the sun has dipped low, the world painted gold. The shift from the museum’s hush to the city’s hum feels less jarring this time. Louis' hand finds his again, thumb brushing over his knuckles in lazy reassurance.

“Thank you for today,” Harry says softly.

Louis smiles, eyes crinkling. “Thank you for saying yes.”

A breeze sweeps past, tugging at Harry’s curls. He shivers before he realizes it, and Louis immediately shrugs off his jacket, draping it around his shoulders. The fabric smells like heaven — something that’s becoming unmistakably Louis.

The alpha’s watching him, eyes bright in the lamplight, gaze steady enough to make his stomach twist. Something in the air tilts—charged, uncertain. The warmth in his chest begins to crawl upward, into his throat, his cheeks.

He wants to kiss Louis. To press gratitude into skin, to translate thought into touch. Does he dare?

The moment stretches, thin as thread. Then—heartbeat, breath—he leans forward. Their lips meet softly, uncertainly, like a secret being tested. Louis exhales, a sound caught halfway between surprise and want, before his hand rises—slow, sure—to cradle the back of Harry’s neck.

The world narrows to lamplight and the faint taste of rain on Louis’ lips.

They part, foreheads resting against each other. “I take it this means I’m not completely terrible company?”

Harry shakes his head, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You’ll do.”

Louis' laugh echoes down the street, rich and unguarded. “Did you walk?”

This moment is too precious for words, so he nods.

“May I drive you home? Make sure you’re safe and sound?”

He nods again.

Louis threads their fingers together as they start walking, leading him to the carpark.

For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Instead, he takes in the colors of the sky, the city softening into twilight.

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“Harry, I know you don’t care for him, but he’s my family.”

“Preposterous.”

“Love,” Louis says, voice doing that careful, patient thing Harry hates because it means Louis is already frustrated. “I understand—no, I don’t understand, but I’m trying.”

The barbaric creature in question—Mathis—sits proudly beside Louis’ leg, tongue lolling from his mouth like some decrepit alien. The leash does little to disguise his chaos.

Whoever decided dogs were man’s best friend clearly never met this one. Harry would very much like to draft a strongly worded letter to the committee responsible for such lies.

“Haz, darling. Come on,” Louis coaxes.

He is trying, Harry reminds himself. Trying to be normal. But Mathis pants like an engine and smells like he ate roadkill for breakfast.

Louis gestures toward the park path. “Let’s just walk and see how it goes, yeah?”

He agrees with a pout, keeping a cautious distance. Mathis insists on marching ahead, paws thudding like war drums.

“Why is he not trained?” He asks, voice strangled.

Louis gives a helpless shrug. “He listens—most of the time.”

“Most of the time,” Harry repeats, incredulous. “That’s not obedience, that’s luck.”

Mathis stops to shake himself, sending fur across Harry’s trousers. The Omega freezes, staring at the strands like it’s a personal betrayal.

“Can we donate him to a nice family?” he asks tightly. “Somewhere rural. Preferably far away. Possibly on another continent.”

Louis halts, hand on hip. The stance alone prickles Harry’s nerves. “Harry, I’m really trying, but you’ve got to meet me halfway. If you want to be in my life, you have to accept him. Period.”

Harry blinks. The bluntness hits like cold water. He wants to argue—wants to say dogs aren’t family, not when they slobber on furniture and chew through serenity—but Louis looks genuinely upset, and that’s worse.

He swallows, throat tight. “He’s unpredictable,” he manages, quieter now. “Loud. And I don’t… do well with loudness.”

Louis exhales—Harry can feel the sigh rather than see it—and the sharp edges soften just enough to breathe again. “Then start there,” Louis says gently. “Try. For me.”

Harry looks at Mathis, then at Louis, and sighs. “I still don’t understand. He drools, he sheds, he barks at inanimate objects. There isn’t a purpose.”

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s a dog, Harry. That’s sort of the deal.”

“But that’s exactly the problem. He disrupts things.” Harry gestures vaguely, as if the air might explain it better than words can. “The unpredictability—it’s all noise.”

Louis breathes out through his nose, steady but strained. “He’s not trying to ruin your order. He just exists in it.”

Harry tilts his head, genuinely perplexed. “Existing wrongly, though.”

Louis’ laugh comes out sharp. “You can’t keep dissecting everything until it fits your rules, Harry.”

“I’m not dissecting,” he says, defensive now. “I’m explaining. There are patterns. If something doesn’t follow the pattern, it’s—uncomfortable.”

Louis looks at him, really looks, jaw tight and eyes soft at the same time. “You don’t have to understand everything to live with it.”

Harry’s mouth opens, but the logic stutters. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s not supposed to!” Louis’ voice rises, raw from frustration. “That’s the point.”

“Well, I don’t care for it,” Harry huffs, crossing his arms.

Louis turns on him, sharp but not unkind. Even Mathis falls silent. “And I don’t care for your attitude. All I’m asking is for you to try. I get it—things need to line up, or your world tilts. But sometimes they just don’t. What do you do then, Harry? Huh? What happens when they don’t?”

“They must go.” The words sound reasonable in his head.

The alpha blinks. His eyes darting between objects clearly thinking. “I see.”

A long pause stretches between them, taut and trembling. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Are you predicting our future, then? When I don’t fit into your pattern, do I have to go too?”

The question lodges in Harry’s chest, heavy and shapeless. His instinct is to defend himself, to explain that Louis isn’t chaos, that this is different, but his mouth won’t move fast enough. By the time he looks up, Louis has already started walking away, the leash pulling taut as Mathis scrambles to follow.

For a moment, Harry stays frozen, heart racing. The urge to correct—to fix—buzzes through his veins. He hates when things break without warning.

“Louis, wait.”

Louis stops but doesn’t turn, allowing Harry to close the distance. He takes a hesitant step forward. “I don’t want you to go,” he says quietly. “Or him. I just… I don't know how to make it feel okay yet.”

Louis turns then, eyes soft but guarded. “You don’t have to make it okay. Just don’t run from it.”

Harry nods, something loosening in his chest. “Then I’ll try. I’m—trying now.”

A beat passes, and Louis’ mouth twitches into the smallest, most exhausted smile. “That’s all I ever wanted, love.”

Mathis trots over, tail wagging like an olive branch. He presses his wet nose against Harry’s knee. Harry flinches—but doesn’t move away.

It’s a start.

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The days fold into weeks. Weeks blur into months. Time, Harry realizes, no longer feels like something to endure — it feels lived in, like a jumper that’s been worn enough times to fit perfectly.

Louis and Mathis become part of the rhythm without forcing themselves into it. Louis doesn’t burst into Harry’s life the way people often do; he settles there, like sunlight through the curtains — steady, patient, impossible to ignore.

They fall into a pattern of small rituals.

Thursday dinners (Louis insists on cooking, though his “spaghetti experiment” nearly burns his flat down). Mathis’ presence becomes a constant, even an attribute Matilda begins to welcome.

Sunday mornings spent at the local market — Harry selecting fabrics while Louis discusses vinyls with the vendor, ever the charmer. Evening walks where Matilda and Mathis trot between them, pausing only to sniff every tree in existence.

Harry learns Louis hums when he’s concentrating — low, tuneless, but somehow comforting. He also learns the Alpha reads every sign aloud when they’re walking, as though the world were one long sentence needing narration. At first, it irritates him; then he finds he misses it when Louis isn’t there.

For his part, Louis learns Harry’s tells — the way his fingers twitch when he’s overstimulated, the way his speech quickens when he’s masking, the quiet hum he uses to self-soothe when crowds grow too loud.

Louis never calls it out. He just… adjusts. Slows down, shifts closer, a hand hovering but never assuming.

One evening, they’re sprawled on Harry’s sofa. The rain taps lightly against the window; Matilda curls into the crook of Louis’ arm, a traitor through and through.

He watches the scene, cheeks aching from smiling. “She’s supposed to like me best,” he mutters, mock-sulky.

“She does,” Louis replies without missing a beat, scratching behind Matilda’s ear. “She just knows quality cuddling when she sees it.”

Harry rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He’s learned that Louis’ confidence is never cruel — it’s warm, like laughter shared between sips of tea.

The telly plays softly in the background — a nature documentary, though neither of them is really paying attention. Louis’ arm stretches along the back of the sofa, his fingers close enough to brush Harry’s shoulder. The casual contact sends a fizz of warmth through him.

He tries not to overthink it, fails, and instead shifts slightly closer. The movement earns him a quiet smile from Louis — that same, patient one that says I see you. All of you.

There are difficult days too. There always are.

Days when Harry cancels plans without warning, overwhelmed by noise or light or simply the weight of existing.

Days when Louis can’t quite reach him, no matter how gently he tries. On those days, the Alpha doesn’t push. He sends a message — Take your time, love. I’m not going anywhere.

And true to his word, he never does.

Late summer, they visit a small coastal town, meeting Louis’ friends for an afternoon out at sea. The air is sharp and clean, gulls wheeling overhead like floating punctuation marks.

He keeps to Louis' side as they walk along the pier. The sound of waves against the wooden beams sounds like heaven.

Louis stops at a stall selling hand-carved figurines. Picking up a small whale, its body polished smooth.

Harry rolls his eyes but can’t help smiling.

They leave the vendor behind, walking toward the dock where two figures wait by the boat. Liam’s broad shoulders are easy to spot even from a distance, his easy stance betraying the confidence of someone who has spent half his life on the water. Beside him, Zayn lounges against the railing, cigarette unlit between his fingers, the picture of calculated ease.

Harry slows as they approach, uncertainty nibbling at him. Meeting Louis’ friends feels… intimate — like stepping into a room where the walls already know your name. For all his progress, the risk of judgment still prickles under his skin, an old reflex that refuses to fade.

He’d asked Louis to keep their outings quiet at first, not out of shame but self-preservation. Being observed meant being measured, and Harry’s never done well under the weight of expectations. One wrong word, one odd look, and the comfort he’s worked so hard to build could vanish.

Louis has spoken novels about his friends — their shared history, the mischief, the loyalty — and Harry’s listened closely enough to almost believe he already knows them. Yet that doesn’t quiet the doubt gathering in his chest, or the quiet voice that whispers, what if they don’t like you?

The gulls wheel overhead, their cries sharp against the sound of waves. Salt air clings to his curls. Louis gives his hand a small squeeze — not enough to draw attention, just enough to anchor him.

And then Zayn spots them. The man straightens, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Harry! Finally, the mysterious muse,” he calls, placing the cigarette into his pocket as they close the distance. “Louis talks about you constantly. Thought maybe he’d hallucinated your relationship."

“Ignore him. He thrives on embarrassment,” the Alpha groans.

“I thrive on truth,” Zayn counters, eyes twinkling before turning to Harry with a gentler warmth. “It’s good to finally meet you, babe. Officially, I should say.”

Harry returns the greeting softly, pleasantly surprised by Zayn’s kindness. There’s a relaxed, artistic quality to him that immediately puts him at ease. Liam offers a handshake next — firm, reassuring, and sincere.

“Pleasure,” Liam says with a grin that could probably calm a storm. “You’ve got a good hand with paint. Zayn’s been dying to return to paint class.”

Harry chuckles, already feeling the edges of his nerves smoothing out. There’s something lovely about this group — chaotic, perhaps, but balanced. He watches the way Liam steadies Zayn’s elbow as they step onto the deck, the subtle familiarity between them. It feels… healthy. Equal.

For a fleeting moment, Harry wonders if this is what relationships are supposed to look like — comfortable, trusting, stitched together with small gestures instead of grand declarations.

Louis helps him aboard, his hand steady at the small of Harry’s back. “They’re harmless, promise.”

“I quite like them,” Harry admits once his feet touch the deck.

Louis' grin widens. “Told you they’d adore you.”

The sun glints off the water, scattering a thousand tiny diamonds across the waves. Out beyond the docks, Liam’s at the wheel, guiding the boat through the swell. Zayn sits beside him, sleeves rolled, pretending not to notice when their hands brush. The pretense fools no one.

He can’t imagine that—doing something that frightens you simply because someone else asked. But then he glances at Louis, head thrown back in laughter at something he’s missed, and the thought shifts.

He would. He already has.

He’s done dozens of things that make no sense on paper—let someone touch him first, shared his favorite mug, given up quiet evenings for nights filled with unpredictable laughter and barking.

Each small thing, he’d told himself, was nothing. But together they’ve become something—somewhere between choice and instinct, between comfort and chaos.

Is this what love feels like?

He’s always thought love was a word, a declaration. Something measurable in action or logic. But standing here, wind pushing at his curls, laughter carrying across the deck, he thinks maybe it’s not about words at all. Maybe love is found in the in-between—the pause before a touch, the courage to stay even when life is too loud.

He remembers Louis kissing his forehead after one of his bad days, no questions asked. Louis sat on the floor sewing buttons with him because the repetition soothed his nerves. Louis added his own rain boots by the door because Harry liked how they lined up.

Little things. Ordinary things. But perhaps that’s where love hides—inside the ordinary, soft and unspoken, waiting to be noticed.

He doesn’t know if he can name it yet, but he feels it—steady as the tide and as vast as the sky.

When they hit open seas, the hum of the engine melts into the roar of the waves. Harry lies back on the deck, the boards warm beneath him. The air tastes of salt and sky.

The boat rocks gently, a lullaby of wood and water. Sunlight dances across his closed eyelids. He leans back against the cushion, listening—not out of nosiness, but out of peace. The voices around him blend with the soft hiss of the sea.

Liam’s voice breaks through first, low and amused. “You know, mate, I’ve never seen you this calm on a boat before. Must be love.”

Zayn snorts. “It’s the company, not the boat. Look at him.”

“Oi,” Louis says, laughing. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent sailor.”

“Sure,” Liam teases. “An excellent sailor who spent the first twenty minutes threatening to throttle the motor.”

Their laughter ripples out, soft and familiar. Harry smiles faintly, eyes still closed. He can picture it perfectly—their legs stretched out, Louis gesturing with his hands, the glint of sunlight off Zayn’s necklace.

Then Louis' tone shifts, quieter, the sound of waves filling the pause. “You ever think about how lucky we are?” he asks. “All of us. Took us bloody long enough, didn’t it?”

Zayn hums in agreement. “Didn’t think I’d get here, to be honest.”

“None of us did,” Liam says softly.

Louis exhales, the sound threading through the breeze. “Harry’s different,” he says finally. “He sees the world differently, you know? Finds beauty in things most people overlook. He makes everything feel… steady.”

Something in Harry’s chest tugs tight. He keeps his eyes shut, afraid the moment will shatter if he moves.

“Don’t go getting sappy on us,” Zayn murmurs, though there’s no real bite to it.

Louis laughs under his breath. “Can’t help it. I really, really like him.”

“Holy shit, Louis. That says something.”

“Zayn,” Liam chimes in, calm and amused. “Don’t give him shit.”

“I’m not,” the Omega insists, tone softening. “It’s just—nobody’s ever been good enough for you, you know, Lou? It’s nice to see you happy. Harry seems great. I’m happy for you.”

“Me too,” Liam adds. “He fits. You two fit. He brings out the best in you, I think.”

Louis hums thoughtfully. “He does. He… slows everything down. The world, I mean. He makes it quieter, somehow. I didn’t even know I needed that until him.”

Zayn exhales, the sound half laugh, half sigh. “God, you’re turning into one of those soft Alphas. Domestic. Next thing we know, you’ll be knitting jumpers and talking about scented candles.”

“Already do,” Louis fires back easily. “Harry’s got me hooked on alpaca yarn. Started knitting a scarf.”

They all laugh, the kind of laughter that comes from years of shared messes and mended pieces.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it? You, Harry, me, Z. After everything.”

Zayn’s reply is low, fond. “Yeah. We all wanted this once, didn’t we? Something simple. Someone who stays.”

Louis hums again. “Exactly that.” He pauses. “Harry doesn’t just stay. He notices. You ever had someone look at you and actually see you? It’s terrifying. Like he maps out all the messy parts and accepts the challenge.”

No one speaks for a while after that. The waves lap at the hull, the ropes creak. The lull feels sacred, a pocket of quiet purposefully carved out.

Then Louis hums. “You’re both quiet. That’s worrying.”

Liam chuckles, the sound low and fond.

“We’ve been thinking,” Zayn replies.

“Yeah. Z and I have… contemplated our next step.”

Harry’s breath stills. He knows they’re bonded, but something in Zayn’s tone makes it different.

“Finally making me an uncle?” Louis teases, a tiny laugh following.

“Yeah,” Zayn whispers. “I think we’re ready.”

The words land softly, like a pebble breaking the surface of still water. For a moment, even the sea seems to hold its breath.

Louis lets out an exasperated sigh. “Bloody hell. You two are doing it?”

“Yeah.” It’s in that one word Harry can tell the smile in Liam’s voice.

Harry’s eyes stay closed, but his heart flutters. This—this talk of futures and family, of readiness and love—wraps around him like sunlight. It’s the sound of people he’s come to care for building lives they once thought they’d never have.

He breathes in, long and slow, letting the moment expand inside him.

Fall will come soon, bringing cold rain and shorter days. But for now, the sun paints his skin gold, and the sea holds him steady. Even his mind—so often darting like a frightened bird—rests.

“Louis, just stay here. Leave Harry be,” Zayn calls, his tone dry but fond.

The air hums with quiet laughter. Being here—just the four of them—feels natural, almost easy. Harry can imagine it, somehow: the start of something lasting. A small circle of friendship. He can see Niall here too, talking too loud, waving his arms about. The thought makes him smile.

“Harry wants me around, don’t you, darling?” Louis teases, standing over him, his shadow blotting out the sun.

A smirk tugs at Harry’s lips. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Louis squawks in mock offense, one hand pressed to his chest.

“Most of the time,” Harry amends, though the glint in his eye betrays his amusement.

Louis leans closer, the teasing edge softening. His shadow stretches over Harry until all Harry can see is blue sky framed by the outline of Louis' shoulders. The space between them hums—alive, heavy with possibility.

“All the time,” he murmurs, barely a whisper, as if saying it too loud might break the spell.

“That’s better.” Louis' lips find his, a fleeting kiss—chapped, sun-warm, and achingly gentle.

From the other side of the deck, Zayn snorts. “Hopeless romantics, the both of you.”

“Jealous,” Louis tosses back without looking, though his grin gives him away.

Later, the four of them fall into easy conversation. Harry listens as Louis recounts how he’d once played matchmaker between Zayn and Liam.

Zayn ended up leaving his marketing job to work with Liam at the animal shelter he owns. The rest, as Louis puts it, is “domestic history.”

Harry can’t help but be charmed by the story — and by Louis himself. There’s a depth to him, a gentleness hidden behind all that swagger. As an environmentalist, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Louis’ love for animals and the fight for their welfare became too endearing for Harry’s peace of mind.

He adjusts the hem of his yellow swim trunks, smiling faintly. Yellow was an appropriate choice, he thinks, regardless of what that snotty Omega Melissa said. Louis had complimented his craftsmanship, and that was enough to make his heart flutter. (If he’d gone home and made a second pair in blue, that’s his business.)

“You look like you could fall asleep,” Louis mumbles, settling beside him.

Harry hums. “The sun’s warm. The company’s tolerable.”

Louis chuckles. “High praise.”

“I’m always enjoying myself when I’m with you,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from Louis' eye.

He leans closer, their lips barely brushing. “I’m glad to hear that.”

The boat lurches suddenly as Liam swings the wheel, turning them back toward shore. Louis tumbles across the deck, swearing as Harry bursts into laughter.

“Fuck off, you shits!” he yells, crawling toward the helm. Zayn’s howling beside him. In one swift motion, Louis grabs Liam’s shorts and yanks — laughter explodes across the deck as Liam’s indignant shout echoes out to sea.

Harry clamps his hands over his eyes, cheeks aching with laughter.

Later, when the sun hangs low and their laughter has quieted, Louis offers him the carved whale from the market.

“You remember that shirt?” Harry asks, turning it over in his hands.

“Of course. The one with the whale’s tail stitched on. You said it represented freedom and movement.”

Harry smiles faintly. “You listen too much.”

They end the day eating chips out of paper on a bench. The horizon fades from gold to lilac. Louis complains about the vinegar. Harry teases him for using too much salt. It’s beautifully, wonderfully mundane.

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By the time the trees turn amber, their closeness feels less like something new and more like something inevitable.

Niall makes a joke about it — something about Louis being “the plant-resurrecting Alpha who finally tamed the untamable Styles.”

Harry throws a cushion at him, but doesn’t deny it. The truth is, Louis hasn’t tamed him. He’s just… made room for him. All of him.

One night, when the city’s asleep and they’re lying side by side, Harry traces the lines of Louis’ palm with one finger.

“You make me feel,” he says quietly, “like I’m not too much.”

Louis’ thumb brushes his knuckles. “You’re exactly enough.”

Harry swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. For someone who has spent his whole life trying to fit, those words are a kind of miracle.

Louis doesn’t stay over every night. Sometimes they part ways after a date, each retreating to their own carefully curated solitude. Louis has never once taken offence. Instead, he kisses Harry’s temple, calls him “love,” and says, “Go rest that beautiful mind of yours.”

Other times, though, when the world feels less sharp, Harry lets him stay. Those nights, like tonight are soft ones—shared tea and slow murmured conversation until they drift off, Louis’ arm a comfortable weight around his middle. It’s not about sex or expectation. It’s about existing side by side, the silence between them humming with something tender and patient.

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The skies darken, signaling another incoming rainstorm. The weather has been dreadful since the arrival of fall. The leaves are long gone, taking their beauty with them. It elicits an involuntary sigh as he hunches over his sewing machine.

Gaze fixed on the needle and thread, he focuses, mind tracing back to why he’s doing this.

As September drew to a close, Louis approached him with an invitation—a Halloween fundraiser for Liam’s animal shelter. Without hesitation, Harry accepted, eager to show off his creative skills by making their costumes himself.

October rolled in with sketches and fabric samples scattered across every surface. Each new design sparked a flicker of excitement. He’s chosen to keep Louis’ costume a surprise.

Now, as he adds sequins to his mermaid tail, that spark dims. Louis lies sprawled across the couch, scrolling on his phone, one foot dangling lazily and swinging just enough to catch Harry’s eye. It’s distracting. That—and the heavy, rhythmic sound of his and Mathis’ breathing.

“Louis, stop it!”

The Alpha jolts upright, phone slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the floor. “Jesus—what?”

“Stop breathing so loud. I’m trying to work.”

Louis blinks, confused. “And how exactly would you like me to do that?”

“Be quieter,” Harry snaps. He yanks the fabric from the machine, cutting the thread a little too sharply. Now the overlay is messed up and he’ll have to start again.

“Any quieter and I’d be dead,” the Alpha snorts. It’s clear he’s upset and trying to contain the frustration. It’s a shame Harry is also upset and becoming prickly.

“I’m trying to focus and you’re here, and being loud, and I— I have to finish.” He huffs, blowing his curls from his face. “Are you ill? You sound like a wheezing hyena. It’s incredibly unsettling.”

Louis tucks the phone into his pocket and crosses the room, pressing a soft kiss to Harry’s forehead. “I’m sorry my breathing annoys you,” he murmurs. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

The front door closes a moment later, and silence rushes in to fill the space he leaves behind.

Harry freezes, needle hovering above fabric. Wait, what? Were his words that harsh? Was Louis hurt? Or just being polite? The uncertainty curls in his chest, heavy and hot.

“Was I wrong?” he asks quietly. Matilda, curled in her bed, flicks one ear before laying her head back down.

The uneasiness burrows between his ribs. The party’s tomorrow and everything will be fine. Louis’ costume is complete—hanging neatly in the closet—and Harry’s nearly finished with his own. Just a few sequins to reposition. A few shells to attach.

Still, guilt gnaws at him. The quiet doesn’t feel peaceful anymore; it feels like punishment. He picks up his phone before he can overthink it, thumb trembling as he dials.

Louis answers after a few rings, his tone tentative.

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts, voice small and raw. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

There’s a pause, and then Louis’ voice comes through. “It’s okay, love. I shouldn’t have distracted you.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. “Am I still invited?”

“Of course you are,” he chuckles, the warmth returning to his voice. “You’ve worked too hard on our costumes. A little disagreement won’t change that. I’ll pick you up tomorrow?”

Harry exhales, tension unspooling slightly. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Harry. Get some rest, yeah?”

He nods, though Louis can’t see him. When the line goes quiet, the guilt still lingers—soft, stubborn.

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True to his word, Louis arrives the next evening, a smile plastered across his face.

He steps through the door, one hand hidden behind his back. “I brought an accessory for my costume,” he announces, eyes sparkling like a child on Christmas morning. “Look.”

From behind his back, he reveals a thin black patch resting on his palm.

“Aargh,” he snarls, curling his lip.

Oh, no.

Harry watches, horrified, as Louis places the patch over one eye. “What do you need a patch for?”

“For my costume,” Louis says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He pushes the patch up into his hairline, fringe standing on end like a startled bird. “You’re a mermaid, I’m a pirate. Caught you in my net.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“You’re not a pirate, Louis.”

Harry crosses to the couch and lifts the costume from where it’s draped. Louis squints at the glittering fabric.

“A fish, Harry? I’m a fucking fish?”

Harry frowns, scanning for faults. “Yes. Ariel and Flounder.”

“You made me a guppy?” Louis drops back onto the couch, arms flopping wide. “A fucking fish. Louis the Fish? Sounds ridiculous.”

In Harry’s mind, it makes perfect sense. Would he rather have been a crab?

“They’re a duo, Louis. I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“Why couldn’t I just be Prince Eric? That’s a duo. It’s emasculating, Harry. A fucking fish.”

“They’re best friends!”

How does Louis not understand? This costume is brilliant in fabric form.

Neither speaks. The air crackling between them.

Harry passes the costume over when Louis reaches for it, heart sinking. He’d wanted this to be fun—to impress him. Instead, he’s somehow ruined everything.

“I thought it was cute,” he notes softly. “Should I have asked?” Guilt holds vice like around his lungs. How had he messed up? He doesn’t understand. “I can make something else—a vest, maybe. I don’t know.”

Louis exhales sharply, then stands. Without a word, he unzips his jacket and shimmies into the bright fish costume. His arms flail, the tail wriggling absurdly as he wiggles into place.

Harry bites his lip, trying not to laugh.

Louis looks up, face settling somewhere between defeat and amusement. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

Rather than impede deeper into despair, he says nothing. Even if Louis is perfect.

In moments like this, the tone is confusing. Is Louis really mad, though he’s wearing the costume?

Then—Louis sighs. “Thank you, Harry. I’m sorry for being a dick. It’s brilliant. We’re adorable.” His mouth quirks. “And I appreciate you gluing these shells onto a shirt instead of directly onto your chest.”

He flicks one shell playfully, and Harry giggles. It breaks the tension like glass shattering.

Falling into Louis’ chest becomes his go to. Being wrapped in warmth like a blanket offers comfort. “I mean it, love. It’s perfect.”

They melt into the embrace, the earlier sting easing. Louis’ scent grounds him—warm, steady, safe.

When they part, Louis keeps hold of his hand. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s special. You’re special.”

The words burn sweetly in Harry’s chest. He squeezes Louis’ fingers and presses a brief kiss to his lips.

Everything feels right again.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

The fundraiser is already in full swing when they arrive. Laughter drifts out into the crisp night, carried by music and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from the vendor near the gate. The venue—a refurbished barn on the edge of town—is transformed for Halloween: fairy lights loop across exposed beams, paper bats dangle from the rafters, and carved pumpkins line the path like glowing sentinels. Inside, the hum of chatter and clinking glasses mixes with the tinny echo of an old swing tune.

Harry lingers at the threshold, one hand gripping the hem of his shirt. There’s too much—too many voices, too many colors, too many unfamiliar scents bleeding into one another. The air itself feels heavy, saturated with perfume and laughter and the sharp sweetness of caramel apples.

“We’ll stay by the wall for a bit, yeah? Find our footing.” His thumb moves in slow, grounding circles against Harry’s palm.

They weave through the crowd, and every bump of an elbow or burst of laughter makes Harry flinch. The overlapping conversations blur together into a single, droning hum. His heartbeat picks up, matching the rhythm of the bassline pulsing through the floorboards. He tries to focus on Louis—the dried tobacco dissipating with each step.

“Haz?” Louis asks softly.

Harry shakes his head, pulling free. “I can’t,” he breathes, barely audible. “It’s too much.”

Without another word, Louis guides him back outside. The chill night air rushes in, cool and merciful. They stop just beyond the entrance, fairy lights casting gold halos in the damp mist. Harry leans against the railing, taking deep, measured breaths. His chest feels tight, like the air won’t sit right inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I thought I could do this.”

Louis rests a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I want to go home.”

Louis leans beside him, close but not crowding. “Okay,” he says, gently. “But let’s try something first. Close your eyes for a sec.”

Harry hesitates, then obeys.

“Breathe in. Smell that?” Louis’ voice is a low hum. “Someone’s making popcorn. And there’s that cedar smoke from the fire pit. The song switches to something softer. It’s not the whole crowd, just us. We can stay out here. Or we can leave. But this is for Liam and I’d like to at least let him know we’re here.”

Harry opens his eyes. The lights blur slightly from the damp in the air, the noise from inside fading into something almost manageable. Louis is watching him, patient, unwavering.

“I want to try,” Harry whispers. “For Liam.”

Louis’ smile is warm, proud. “That’s my brave boy.” He holds out a hand. “We’ll take it slow, yeah?”

Harry nods, slipping his fingers into Louis’. Together, they step back into the glow of orange light and laughter, the noise still there but softened somehow—made bearable by the hand anchoring his own.

Niall’s beside the bar, half man, half horse. His costume’s fake hind legs keep bumping into unsuspecting guests. Shawn, beside him, has gone as a giant paintbrush. Of course he has.

“A mermaid and her loyal fish sidekick!” Niall crows, stomping towards them.

“Ariel and Flounder,” Louis corrects.

“Right, that’s what I said.” Niall grins. “You killed it, H. Love the nipple shells. Might get some myself.”

Before Harry can respond, Liam and Zayn join them—Scooby-Doo and Shaggy to perfection. Zayn’s oversized green shirt hangs off a shoulder, his hair artfully messy.

It still amazes him how easily Louis’ friends folded into his world—and he into theirs. What could have been awkward introductions turned into something natural. Dinners stretched long into the night, the six of them talking over half-finished plates and empty bottles, laughter rising and falling in rhythm like the tide.

Niall’s boundless energy balances Shawn’s quiet steadiness, their bickering strangely melodic. Liam’s dry humor grounds them when things teeter toward chaos, while Zayn—gentle and observant—becomes Harry’s quiet anchor in the room. Zayn has become just as well versed in Harry’s ‘isms as Louis.

It’s odd, feeling like he belongs. It’s a foreign concept, so out of reach that it still surprises him from time to time. Through all his new experiences, he’s learning to navigate the world.

A flicker of his shell catches his attention. Niall’s eyeing his chest. “You’ve got four shells. Give me one.”

Louis swats his hand away. “Hands to yourself, Horan.”

Zayn smirks. “Harry, this is the best thing you could’ve done. Louis the Fish. I’m immortalizing this.” He snatches Liam’s phone. “Smile!”

“No,” Louis groans, waving his arms in front of the camera. .

“Yes!” Niall yells, dragging a random cowboy over to take a photo.

Crowding in, Harry’s cheeks ache from smiling. For once, he feels completely, utterly part of something.

Their laughter bright as the flash goes off.

Later, under spinning lights, Harry leans into Louis. “Can we dance?”

The bass thrums underfoot, the air thick with desire. Harry’s tail gleams as he sways, hands lifting above his head. Being lost in the beat is cathartic. It gives him focus, allowing his brain rest. Louis joins not long after, moving in close, his hands warm on Harry’s hips.

For a moment, the crowd disappears.

Louis leans in, voice rough against Harry’s ear. “Are you doing okay?”

Harry laughs breathlessly. “Yes.”

They move together until the song fades. When Louis goes to fetch drinks, Harry watches him disappear into the crowd—fish tail gleaming, an easy smile flashing—and his chest tightens with affection.

Liam stands at the microphone near the front, one hand raised for quiet. The crowd hushes his voice caring easily through the barn.

“First off, thank you all for coming,” Liam begins. “Every bid, every donation goes toward the shelter. We’ve had a record number of rescues this year, and it’s all thanks to the people in this room—and the incredible volunteers who make sure every tail keeps wagging.”

The room hums with polite applause, and Harry claps along, though his mind drifts. He watches the way fairy lights glint off the sequins of his mermaid tail.

Liam keeps speaking, something about the silent auction and the generosity of local sponsors, but Harry’s focus slides toward the refreshment table, where Louis has gone to fetch drinks. The Alpha stands out even among the other guests. He’s confident, sure, charming in that unintentional way that draws eyes without trying.

He’s halfway back when Melissa appears—long legs, glossy hair, and a peacock ensemble extenuating her feminine features. She touches Louis’ arm, leaning in to say something over the music.

For a moment, the crowd disappears, centering them in Harry’s mind. He hates it. Hates how his chest tightens, a quiet, familiar ache unfurling beneath his ribs. It’s irrational—he knows that—but the sight still burns. The faint echo of every time he’s felt not quite enough.

Louis turns, eyes finding him instantly across the room, and something softens in his expression. He says something to Melissa, polite but brief, then makes his way back through the crowd, balancing two drinks in hand.

Melissa’s gaze lingers, her smile sharp with curiosity, feeding into the soft hum of Harry’s insecurities. Thoughts begin to build—layer by layer, logic folding in on itself until reason starts to hurt.

He and Louis haven’t been intimate. Not really. There’s the occasional wandering of hands, the slow, heady kisses that leave him dazed and aching—but nothing beyond that. Each time he’s felt ready, something pulls him back. A noise too loud. A touch too sudden. A thought that tangles and refuses to unknot.

Sex is supposed to be simple, isn’t it? A function, a pattern. Bodies fitting together to fulfill purpose. And yet, when he thinks of it with Louis, the purpose changes shape. It stops being about instinct and becomes something far more complicated—an act of giving, of proving.

Maybe that’s what he’s missing. Maybe it’s not about reproduction or timing or readiness. Maybe it’s about deserving to be loved. About keeping someone who could so easily choose to leave.

The idea hooks itself deep inside him, tugging. Before he can stop it, words tumble out, too loud, too unfiltered.

“I want to have sex.”

Louis sputters, nearly choking on his drink. “Harry—”

“You’re attractive,” Harry says quickly, as if explaining a fact. “I’m hard. I want to.”

Louis blinks, processing, the corners of his mouth softening into something caught between fondness and restraint. “Not now,” he says gently, setting the glasses down. His hand finds Harry’s arm. “Let’s enjoy the night first, yeah?”

The words twist in Harry’s chest. Not now. But instead he hears not ever.

Across the room, Melissa laughs at something someone says. It’s nothing, it’s polite—but the sound of her laughter cuts through the noise like glass.

Something in him cracks.

Louis turns at the sound of his name and hugs the women.

The air closes in, thick and humming. Chatter turns to static, lights to shards that splinter behind his eyes. Each breath feels shallow, wrong. The room warps around him—too many sounds, too many bodies, too much of everything.

He moves without deciding to, slipping through the crowd as though through a dream. Every step is a plea for quiet, for space, for air that isn’t sweet with perfume and misunderstanding.

The coat room offers half a reprieve—dim, cluttered, heavy with the mingled scent of others. His fingers brush along the hanging fabrics until they find one that feels familiar: soft wool, faintly worn. Louis’ jacket.

He pulls it close, the scent enveloping him—warm, nutty, grounding. It steadies and suffocates all at once, like an embrace he isn’t sure he’s earned.

Outside, the night greets him cold and sharp. The air bites at his cheeks, each breath slicing clean through the haze. Behind him, the party becomes a distant hum—music, laughter, voices fading into the dark.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

Comfortably at home, Harry curls on the sofa in his softest pajamas and fuzzy socks, the rain hammering against the windows like an impatient guest.

Only hours before, he and Louis had left hand in hand, matching smiles adorning their faces. Now he sits, alone, in the button house. The space feels too big.

Lightning flashes, spilling white light across the walls. He’s grateful the storm waited until he was safely inside. Still, his chest aches.

“Matilda,” he murmurs, voice small. “I feel terrible.”

She blinks from her perch, tail flicking in faint annoyance. Harry sighs into his mug of tea. “My stomach’s in knots and—”

There aren’t words for the strange cocktail of shame and longing twisting through him. Tonight he looked past the should’s, have too’s, and Omega duties of it all. He wanted Louis. Truly wanted him, and yet somehow he’d managed to ruin everything.

The doorbell rings.

The clock ticks once, twice, before he moves. Resigning himself to whatever nonsense the neighborhood teens are up to.

Louis stands in the rain—drenched, trembling, his hair plastered to his forehead. The streetlight behind him throws a halo across his shoulders. His eyes are blazing, and voice hoarse when he speaks.

“What the hell were you thinking? How could you just leave me like that?”

The words crack between them, jagged and loud against the rain. Harry shrinks a little in the doorway, the weight of the accusation pressing down.

Louis’ jaw tightens. “As I turned to introduce you to my mum, you were gone.”

His mum? He hadn’t realized—

“The weather’s awful,” Louis mutters, shivering. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” Harry steps aside quickly. “Please.”

The Alpha enters, peeling off soaked shoes. With each exaggerated huff, his clothes come off, making a wet slap against the floor.

Without a word, Harry bolts upstairs, his need to fix kicking in.

Louis needs Harry’s most comfortable pair of pajamas. A set he’d sewn the previous winter, their flannel edges frayed from overuse.

When he returns, Louis looks wrecked—hair dripping, lips pale, eyes still dark with frustration.

“Here,” Harry says quietly, holding out the pajamas. “Warm up. I’ll make tea while you shower.”

Louis nods, eyes soft but unreadable, and disappears upstairs.

The house holds its breath. Every creak of the old floorboards feels deliberate, as if even the wood has learned to tread carefully around tension. Rain still lashes against the windows, thunder rumbling like an argument still waiting to happen.

Harry sinks into the couch, sleeve hem caught between restless fingers. The silence presses in around him, thick and heavy. Each minute stretches, his thoughts circling the same uneasy orbit—what he said, how Louis looked, whether an apology could possibly be enough.

When Louis finally returns, he’s dry and wrapped in soft blue flannel, smelling faintly of Harry’s soap. He sits on the far end of the couch, eyes tired but steady, searching.

“What happened?” His voice is quiet, but the strain sits beneath it. Matilda decides to choose her side, hopping up into Louis’ lap with a decisive flick of her tail. “No goodbye, no message—nothing. I thought something had happened to you.”

Harry opens his mouth, but no sound comes.

“You do this thing,” Louis says, voice rough around the edges. “You vanish when things get too hard. You did it when Mathis knocked you over. When I was in the garden. When you feel too much or think I’m upset. And now tonight.” His tone wavers, somewhere between anger and heartache. “You make me feel like I don’t matter.”

The words land like shards, each one sharp enough to cut.

Harry’s Omega whines, fearful of the truth. “You rejected me.”

Louis blinks, caught off guard. “Harry… is that really what you thought?”

He nods, tears pricking his lashes. “You said you wanted to take things slow, and we have. But Omegas are supposed to care for their Alphas. I wanted to take care of you. You didn’t want me.”

The silence that follows feels alive—tense and humming.

Louis finally leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I do want you. Desperately.” His voice drops, soft but certain. “But I want us to mean something more than that.”

Matilda pushes against his hand, demanding a pet, and Louis obliges absently. “Harry, your only job is to be you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He holds up a hand before he can argue. “You please me just by being here. We don’t need sex for that.”

Harry studies him carefully. “Do you hate sex?”

Louis huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand over his face. “No, darling. I like it very much.”

“Why?” Harry’s tone is small but earnest—he needs to understand.

“Because it feels good,” he says simply. “Because it can be tender or messy or joyful. But that’s not what tonight was about. I wasn’t rejecting you. I was trying to protect what this means.”

“What ‘we’ mean?”

He nods. “Yes. You’re not a transaction, Harry. This isn’t about what you can give me. It’s about the fact that you’re already enough.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The rain against the windows is the only sound, soft and steady.

Then Harry moves closer, slow and unsure, until their knees touch. Louis doesn’t move away.

“I don’t always understand things the way I should,” he says quietly. “But I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” Louis replies. “And so am I.”

“I don’t want it to be meaningless either,” Harry whispers. “I want you. I want… companionship.”

Louis lets out a soft laugh, shaky at the edges. “Companionship?”

“Don’t mock me,” he snaps, though the corners of his mouth give him away.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

They’re close now—chest to chest, smiles mirrored like reflections in still water.

“Louis?”

“Yes, love?”

“Scent me.”

The request hangs between them, fragile as spun thread. He’s never asked before. There have been kisses, light marks, shared breaths of comfort—but never this. Not the kind of scenting that means something deeper.

Louis’ gaze flickers, surprise giving way to tenderness. Then he leans in, nuzzling into the warm curve of Harry’s neck. His tongue drags in slow, reverent stripes along his skin, the rhythm measured and intimate. Each pass ends with a kiss beneath Harry’s ear, sometimes a soft nip. Each one a declaration in its own right.

The energy shifts—heat blooming low, his body yielding before his mind can catch up. Slick gathers at his thighs, unbidden and alive with need. His Omega hums beneath his skin, pliant and preening as Louis maps his devotion with his mouth.

“Alpha,” he breathes, voice trembling somewhere between plea and praise.

Louis’ teeth graze his bonding spot—careful, possessive. “You’re not just special, Harry,” he murmurs against his skin. “You’re mine. Can you be patient?”

Harry tilts his head, heart full to bursting. “Always.”

Louis kisses him then—soft, deliberate, unhurried. It tastes like tobacco and warmth and something dangerously close to forever.

They stay like that for a long time, breathing in sync, the world narrowing to the quiet pulse between them. It isn’t about sex. Not tonight. It’s about trust. About being seen—fully, frighteningly, and still being chosen.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

Startled awake by the sound of movement, Harry blinks through the fuzz of sleep. Louis sits at the edge of the bed, tissues scattered like snowflakes around him.

“Are you sick?”

Their eyes meet over Louis’ shoulder. His voice is thick, hoarse. “Sorry, love. Think I’ve caught a cold. I’ll head home—just need a moment.”

He sneezes, loud enough to rattle the lamp, then collapses back against the pillows with a groan.

“You daft Alpha,” Harry mutters, throwing back the covers. “It’s my job—well, not my job, but my honor—to take care of you, and you’re denying me and my Omega the privilege.”

Louis sniffles pitifully. “I’d hate to annoy you. My breathing will be loud.” The rasp of his voice carries a buried laugh before dissolving into a cough.

A flicker of satisfaction warms Harry’s chest. Serves him right for that joke, he thinks.

The bed is a disaster zone—tissues strewn across the sheets like some post-apocalyptic sight. He refuses to think about the bacterial count currently populating the comforter.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” he says primly, “you snore. An insufferable sound, truly. But one I’ve grown rather fond of. I’d like it to put me to sleep every night.” He fluffs a pillow, nudging Louis down. “Stay in bed and rest.”

Louis obeys, smiling faintly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes closing even before the words finish.

By the time Harry finishes his shower, Louis is asleep, breath rattling softly. The sound makes Harry’s chest ache in the way only love can. He adds another blanket, fussing with the corners until everything looks right, then moves off to feed Matilda. He’ll need to leave soon and pick Mathis up, bringing him over.

Hours later, the thermometer beeps softly. “Still high,” Harry mutters, setting it aside. He debates waking Louis or leaving a note, but before he can decide, a warm hand catches his wrist.

“What time is it?” Louis mumbles. Mathis and Matilda have joined him on the bed, each warming a side of Louis’ leg.

“The afternoon. I’m headed to the store. Please stay in bed.”

“No,” Louis groans, tugging him back down. “Don’t go. Just stay here with me.”

“I can’t,” Harry insists gently. “I’m making you soup.”

Louis cracks open one eye. “Soup?”

“Chicken,” Harry murmurs, already listing ingredients in his head. “Stock, carrots, onions, potatoes, maybe bread—something rustic.”

“Harry,” Louis whines, dragging out the syllables like a child denied dessert.

Harry’s lips twitch. “Are you always this whiny?”

“Only when I’m dying.”

“You have a cold.”

“A terrible cold.”

Harry sighs, though fondness sneaks through his exasperation. “I’ll be back soon—with ingredients. And nasal strips.”

He’s halfway down the hall when Louis calls his name again. It’s about the sixth time he’s stopped him from leaving.

Exasperated, Harry re-enters the bedroom. “What now?”

Louis grins, voice rough but steady. “I love you, darling. Be safe.”

What.

Reckless or not, Harry crosses the room and launches himself onto the bed. Louis catches him easily, laughter rumbling in his chest.

“Darling,” Louis teases softly, brushing curls from Harry’s face, “I thought you were off to cook soup for your annoying Alpha. Isn’t that what one does for a mate?”

MATE. MATE. MATE.

Harry’s head shoots up, eyes wide. “A mate? You want to mate with me?”

Louis laughs, low and tender, pressing a kiss into his hair. “One day. Maybe consider buying a few boxes of breathing strips first.”

Harry’s laugh bursts out, bright and unguarded. “I love you, too.”

The soup can wait. Instead, he curls closer, tucked into the curve of Louis’ chest, breathing in Vapo rub and germs.

For once, the world feels utterly still, his mind calm and relaxed as he lays with his family.

🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾🐾

Epilogue: Louis’ POV — Two Years Later

It’s been a difficult few days. Louis has been in the metaphorical doghouse for reasons he can’t decipher, and his patience is wearing thin.

Nearly three years together and he thought he’d mastered the Omega’s rhythms. They’d made it work. At least, Louis thought they had.

Now, tension hums between them like a live wire. Every word feels measured, every touch anticipated but withheld. Harry doesn’t shout or sulk; he simply goes quiet in that way that’s worse than either.

It’s been a trying morning.

Ever since he woke up to the sound of chopping in the kitchen, he knew Harry’s pissed.

When Louis wanders in, the kitchen looks like a battlefield. The counter is a crime scene of crusts, cucumber ends, and carefully stacked triangles of bread. Finger sandwiches. Dozens of them. Enough to feed an army—or one furious Omega with too much precision and not enough patience.

“Love?” Louis tries, voice soft.

Harry doesn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

Louis glances around. “I can see that.”

“I wasn’t asking for feedback.”

Right. That tone. The one that means it’s safer to talk to the cat.

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re still cross.”

Harry snorts. “Astounding deduction, Sherlock.”

Louis sighs, leaning against the counter. “Are you going to tell me why?”

“I’d think it obvious.”

“It isn’t.”

Harry turns, arms crossed, chin lifting in defiance. “You say you love me, but you won’t bond with me.”

There it is. What he was afraid of.

Harry sees the world differently and Louis’ fearful he’s pushing the Omega too much when he thinks about their future. Granted Harry has always been free with his thoughts, that doesn't negate him pushing past redemption.

“Harry,” he says softly, careful not to break the fragile air between them, “it’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is,” Harry insists. “Everyone else has done it—Zayn and Liam, Niall and Shawn. And we—what? Just pretend?”

Louis shakes his head. “We’re not pretending. We’re just—”

“What?” Harry interrupts, the knife in his hand wavering. “Waiting until you decide I’m worth it?”

The accusation hits deeper than it should. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.” His voice cracks. “You won’t say it, but it’s there. You think I’m too much.”

Louis pushes his chair back and stands. “That’s not it, and you know it.”

“Then what is it?” Harry laughs bitterly. It’s there in his eyes. The glassy sheen signaling he is seconds away from frustrated tears.

There are too many answers and none that fit in a single sentence. “Because it’s forever,” he finally says. “And I want to do it right.”

Harry shakes his head, curls bouncing with the movement. “Forever’s already here, Louis. You live here. You leave your socks everywhere. You use my bloody hairdryer. We cuddle, kiss. Have sex. What are we waiting for?”

“Harry,” Louis murmurs, crossing the kitchen and reaching for him. “I’m not afraid of forever. I just want to make sure we both know what it means.”

“You’re right. I clearly have no idea.” With that, the cutting board and knife are thrown into the sink.

“Harry.”

This is quickly becoming a slippery slope. As they dig deeper into conversation, he becomes more and more confused.

He reaches out again, but Harry sidesteps him. “We’ll be late for Niall’s,” he says flatly.

“Harry—”

“I’m not in the mood, Louis.”

The words linger in the air like fog. Rather than follow, Louis stays where he is, lowering himself into one of the two kitchen chairs.

The quiet hum of the refrigerator fills the space between his heartbeat and the tick of the clock. He’s been sitting here for the better part of an hour, stewing—half in guilt, half in exasperation.

He’s tried to give Harry space, but now the silence feels like punishment. His foot taps against the tile, the rhythm short and sharp. Niall’s pool party has been the one bright thing he’s looked forward to all week.

When Niall and Shawn finally admitted their feelings and bonded, it had ended everyone’s collective torment. Louis had nearly ordered a cake that read Finally.

He wants that too—a bond, a mate, the certainty that comes with it. He’s thought about it often, planned for it even, waiting for the right time. Their next combined rut and heat, maybe. But Harry’s sensory overloads during heat are brutal, leaving him trembling and raw. The last thing Louis wants is to cause more distress in the name of love. He’s trying—God, he is trying—to do right by his Omega. Yet lately, every attempt to protect Harry feels like another way of hurting him.

It’s like their trip to the Swiss Alps all over again. Harry had insisted on skiing and “romantic mountain air,” only to spend three days wrapped in blankets, overwhelmed by the cold and noise, barely speaking. Louis had spent the entire time making cocoa and trying not to take it personally.

He rubs a hand over his jaw now, eyes drifting toward the empty doorway. Bonding isn’t reversible. Once that bite sinks in, it’s forever. What if Harry realizes afterward he isn’t sure? What if Louis ruins the best thing he’s ever had by rushing what Harry can’t fully process?

The thought makes his chest ache. He wants to bond; he wants it more than he’s wanted anything. But what if doing it out of fear, out of obligation, means losing Harry in another way?

He stares at the kitchen clock again. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Still no sound from upstairs.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Brilliant,” he mutters, pushing away from the table. “Bloody brilliant.”

By now, they should already be halfway to Niall’s. Instead, Harry’s been stomping around the house in that quiet, deliberate way of his—the kind of silence that irritates him.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he searches. Every room he passes is neat, maddeningly so. It’s like Harry’s rage manifests in domestic perfection.

“Unbelievable,” Louis grumbles. “Man’s furious so he starts a one-man cleaning crusade.”

He checks the time again, then calls out, “Harry? We’re going to be late!”

No response.

“Haz?”

Still nothing.

He makes another lap through the house, irritation curdling into unease. When he pushes open the bedroom door, the bed’s made—too perfectly. The kind of perfect Harry only manages when he’s trying to prove a point. The bathroom light’s off. The toothbrushes gleam in their holder. Everything is still.

“Fuck,” Louis mutters, heart skipping. He jogs downstairs, nearly tripping over Mathis, who bounds out of the way with a startled yip.

The front door’s unlocked. The drive is empty.

“Fuck!”

He stands on the porch, chest rising and falling fast. The quiet street feels like an insult. Harry’s car is gone, and with it, the last shred of Louis’ calm.

When his phone rings, hope flashes hot—maybe Harry’s calling, ready to yell at him properly, and he’ll take it gladly if it means hearing his voice. But the name on the screen isn’t Harry. It’s Niall.

Louis stares at it, thumb hovering over the answer button. He’s not in the mood for meddling, not now. He lets it ring out.

The phone buzzes again. Persistent bastard.

“What?” Louis snaps, finally answering.

“Good afternoon to you too, sunshine,” Niall says dryly. “What did you do this time?”

“I don’t know,” Louis admits, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knows, but he’s not involving Niall. “Apparently existing was enough.”

“Well,” Niall replies, “your other half just stormed into my house looking like a kicked puppy.”

Louis stills. “He’s there?”

“Well technically upstairs. Crying. You might wanna sort your shit before I do.”

The line goes dead before Louis can reply.

He stares at the phone for a long moment, guilt sliding cold into his stomach. Then he grabs his sunglasses, keys, and the left behind finger sandwiches. “If Liam’s on my unicorn float,” he mutters darkly, “it’s over for him.”

The drive to Niall’s feels longer than it should. Louis drums his fingers against the steering wheel the whole way, mind spinning between anger and dread. By the time he pulls into the drive, his pulse is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the music spilling from the backyard.

Niall meets him at the door, hair damp, towel slung over one shoulder, expression equal parts irritation and worry. “Upstairs,” he says, without preamble. “Guest room. Go fix it.”

Louis barely has time to kick off his shoes before he’s being herded toward the room.

When he reaches the room, his chest tightens. Harry’s there—curled up on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to his chest, face blotchy and tear-streaked. He looks small, fragile in a way that makes Louis’ heart squeeze painfully.

“Love?” he says softly, stepping closer.

Harry looks up, eyes wide and wet. “Why?”

It was fruitless hoping this topic had died.

“Have your feelings changed?” Harry asks, his voice trembling. “Because if they have, I’d rather know now than keep hoping.”

Louis’ stomach drops. He crosses the room in two strides and kneels in front of him. “Harry, no. God, no. That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it?”

Louis opens his mouth, but Harry barrels on, words tumbling fast, desperate. “You say you love me. You tell me I’m special. You make me feel—” his voice breaks, “—like I belong. But then you stop. You always stop. You pull away every time I reach for more. What am I supposed to think?”

Louis swallows hard before pulling in Harry’s face, thumbs brushing over damp skin. “You think I don’t want to? You think I haven’t dreamt of you wearing my scent every night?”

Harry blinks, tears spilling fresh. “Then why haven’t you done it?”

Louis exhales, forehead pressing against his. “Because I wanted to wait until it wasn’t out of fear. Until you weren’t just afraid I’d leave.”

“And if I still am?” Harry asks, body shaking.

“Then I’ll just keep proving you wrong.”

For a long moment, neither moves. The air between them hums, thick with emotion and everything left unsaid. From outside, faint laughter filters up—normal life carrying on while their world tilts quietly on its axis.

Harry’s voice drops to a whisper. “I choose you. Isn’t that enough?”

Louis closes his eyes, the words sinking deep. He means it. Every jagged edge of Harry’s confusion, every moment of overthinking—it’s all just his way of loving too much, too hard, too carefully.

“It’s more than enough,” he murmurs, brushing a tear from Harry’s cheek. “It always has been.”

But Harry doesn’t relax. His eyes search Louis’ face, still on the edge of disbelief.

“I need you to show me,” he whispers. “Not just tell me.”

Louis’ throat tightens. “Harry…”

“Bond me,” he says, voice breaking like a prayer.

For a heartbeat, all he can hear is his own pulse. Then he breathes out, and presses his lips to Harry’s temple, then to his jaw.

“You’re asking because you’re scared,” he murmurs. “I can feel it.”

“I’m always scared.”

Louis lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Me too.”

This beautiful, impossible man who can turn a single question into a chasm is cracked open, spilling honesty over Louis’ entire being. “Harry,” he begins carefully, “you know what happens to you during heat. It’s—intense.”

Harry’s jaw tenses. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I know you know,” Louis says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I also know what it does to you. How much noise, how much light, how much touch becomes too much. You shake, you flinch, you get lost inside your own head. And I—” He swallows hard. “I’m terrified I’ll make it worse. That I’ll hurt you.”

Harry’s expression softens, but he doesn’t look away. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.” Louis laughs once, rough and bitter. “I’ve seen you go under, Haz. When the world is too much—you disappear. What if you disappear in my arms? What if I can’t bring you back?”

Silence stretches between them, thick with the ache of truth.

Then Harry moves — slow, deliberate — until he’s kneeling in front of Louis, eyes red but steady.

“Being with me,” he says quietly, “means accepting what may or may not happen. I can’t promise I won’t panic. I can’t promise I’ll always understand. But I can promise I’ll try. Every single time.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not porcelain, Louis. I break sometimes, yes, but I put myself back together too.” He takes Louis’ hand and presses it to his chest. “I love you. All of you. Even the part that’s scared.” His voice wavers but doesn’t falter. “So tell me now. Not later, not when it feels safer. Right now. Do you want me?”

Louis’ throat closes. He feels it then — not just the words, but the sincerity, the vulnerability trembling beneath them. Harry isn’t trying to guilt him. He’s trusting him.

He nods, slow and certain. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Harry exhales, relief and longing tangling in the sound. “Then bond me.”

For only a moment, he freezes before instinct sets in. He cups Harry’s jaw, thumbs brushing tears that won’t stop falling.

“You’re sure?” he whispers.

“I’m sure.”

Louis leans in, closing the distance inch by inch. When their lips meet, it’s not desperate this time — it’s reverent, weighted with everything they’ve held back. His scent unfurls, rich and grounding, wrapping Harry in warmth.

His Omega, his mate, tilts his head, exposing the curve of his neck — that fragile, sacred place. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

Louis presses a kiss there first, soft and trembling. “I love you,” he murmurs against his skin. Then his teeth find purchase, a sharp sting followed by heat that blooms like light through stained glass.

Harry gasps, clutching at him, his Omega singing in relief and recognition. Their pheromones spiral together, sweet and fierce, until there’s no beginning and no end — just them.

When it’s done, they stay tangled in the quiet, foreheads pressed together. The world could fall away, and neither would notice.

Louis whispers, voice raw, “I was never afraid of bonding you, Haz. I was afraid of losing you.”

Harry smiles faintly, thumb tracing the new mark at his neck. “You won’t. You’re stuck with me now.”

Louis laughs softly, that sound threaded with disbelief and devotion. “Good. Because I don’t ever want to be free.”

For a long time, neither of them moves. The air feels softer now, like the house itself is exhaling. Louis keeps his forehead pressed to Harry’s, tracing slow circles against his back until their breathing steadies into something shared.

Harry’s fingers curl weakly in his shirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For being… difficult.”

Louis smiles faintly. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. You’re my difficult.”

That earns a small laugh — watery, real. “Still,” Harry says, voice hitching, “I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t trust you.”

“You didn’t,” Louis murmurs. “I just didn’t want to rush what should be perfect.”

Harry lifts his head, eyes glimmering. “It is perfect. Now that we’re mated, everything will be perfect.”

“Love—”

“No, no,” Harry insists, sitting up straighter. “The proper kind of perfect. Pups,” he says, rubbing his belly with seriousness. “Vacations in warm places—no snow, ever again. And you’ll need to expand the garden. With more family, we’ll need more plants. Oh, and lots and lots of kissing.”

Louis’ grin spreads slowly and reverent. “That all sounds terribly demanding.”

“Good,” Harry murmurs, lips twitching. “I demand a lot.”

Louis leans in, brushing their noses together. “Then I’ll give you it all—and more.”

Bang, bang, bang.

“Are you done fucking in my house, Tomlinson?” Niall’s voice cuts through the door, high with indignation.

Louis groans, dropping his head against Harry’s shoulder. “Oi, you absolute menace!”

Harry laughs softly, wiping at his face. “He sounds angry.”

“He’ll live,” Louis mutters, kissing his neck one more time before pulling back. “Come on, darling. Let’s not give him a stroke.”

By the time they emerge, hand in hand, the afternoon sun glints off the pool outside. Shawn’s sprawled on a deck chair, Niall’s pacing with a drink in hand, and Liam’s floating lazily on Louis’ prized unicorn float.

He stops at the edge of the deck, squinting. “Payno,” he calls. “Get off my unicorn.”

When Liam doesn’t move fast enough, Louis tips the float with one swift shove. The resulting splash earns a round of laughter.

Harry giggles, still flushed and soft-eyed, the mark on his neck catching the light. Louis rights the float and gestures grandly. “Your throne, my love.”

Harry climbs on, settling against him as Louis joins him. They float together on the water, the world shrinking to sunlight and gentle ripples.

Watching Harry unconsciously caress his new bond mark, his Alpha chuffs. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Harry purrs, wrapping an ankle around Louis’.

Around them, laughter echoes — Zayn teasing Liam, Niall muttering about needing new sheets — but it all fades to a comforting hum.

Louis hadn’t seen it then, but Harry was right.

Life is like art—messy, unpredictable, stitched together by love and color. With imperfect edges worn like a badge of honor. And what an honor it has been.

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