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The rain lashes against the tall sash windows of the London townhouse like it wants to claw its way inside. Harry is sprawled on the oversized sofa in the living room, legs dangling over the armrest, an old grey hoodie riding up his torso and faded joggers sitting low on his hips.
The television flickers with some mindless late-night repeat he isn’t really watching. His growing curls are sleep-mussed.
A sharp, erratic knock shatters the quiet.Three heavy thuds, then silence, then another desperate bang that echoes through the marble hallway. Harry’s heart lurches before his brain catches up. No one knocks like that at 2 a.m. unless something is burning. He pads barefoot across the cool floor, tugging the hem of his hoodie down as he goes. When he reaches the front door, another volley of knocks rattles the wood, followed by a slurred, familiar voice.
“Harry… open the fucking door, you prick.”
Louis.
The name hits him like a punch to the sternum. Harry hasn’t heard that voice in the flesh since one of their final screaming matches a while ago, especially the one that ended with slammed doors and months of silence that still felt like shards of glass in his lungs. He twists the lock and pulls the door open.
Louis Tomlinson stands on the doorstep, drenched to the bone. Rainwater streams down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead and soaking the dark hoodie that clings to his smaller, wiry frame. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey dangles precariously from his fingers, the amber liquid sloshing with every unsteady sway. His blue eyes, sharp even when bloodshot, are wild with a storm of alcohol, exhaustion, and something far more dangerous: raw, unfiltered pain.
“Lou…” The nickname slips out before Harry can catch it, soft and instinctive. Louis lets out a bitter, cracked laugh.
“Don’t you fucking ‘Lou’ me.” He pushes past Harry without waiting for permission, stumbling into the hallway.
Water drips from his clothes onto the polished marble, spreading in dark puddles that look too much like accusations. “You put a ring on her finger? On Zoë fucking Kravitz? After everything we were?”
Harry closes the door quietly, the soft click sounding deafening in the sudden tension. His pulse thunders in his ears. “That’s not—”
“Not what?” Louis rounds on him, voice rising, the bottle gesturing wildly so that whiskey splashes onto the floor. “Not real? Not serious? You think I’m stupid, Harry? I’ve seen the pictures. The articles. You were both smiling like you meant it.” His voice cracks on the last words, raw and furious. He steps closer, too close, his breath hot and sharp with whiskey. The familiar scent of him, rain-soaked cotton, cheap liquor, and that same cologne he’s worn for over a decade, floods Harry’s senses and twists something deep in his chest.
“Louis, you’re drunk,” Harry says quietly, reaching out to steady him when Louis sways hard.
“Yeah, I’m fucking drunk!” Louis shoves at Harry’s chest, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make him back up until his shoulders hit the cool wall. “Been drinking since the news broke. Couldn’t stop thinking about it. You… out there playing happy family for the cameras while I’ve been rotting since you left me. Filling the void with people whose names I don’t even remember the next morning. People who mean nothing. Because none of them were you. And now you’re engaged? You put the ring on her? Like you’re happy and ready to settle down with a woman while I’m still here, choking on the fact that I never had the balls to ask you to marry me when I could’ve.” Tears mix with the rainwater on Louis’ cheeks now, or maybe they’re just tears. His chest heaves, fists clenched white at his sides.
The bottle finally slips from his grip and clatters to the marble, rolling away untouched. He doesn’t even glance at it. Harry’s heart aches at the sight. He wants to tell him everything right then, that the engagement is mostly smoke and mirrors, a carefully staged distraction for the press and the public narrative that still needs Harry Styles to be the charming, woman-loving heartthrob. That Zoë knows the game. That the only part that feels true is the quiet longing for a family, for a baby someday. But the words stick thick in his throat. Not while Louis is this broken.
“Lou, come on,” Harry murmurs, voice gentle even as his own chest feels like it’s cracking open. “Let’s get you dry. You’re going to make yourself sick.”
Louis laughs again, bitter and ugly. “Don’t you dare be nice to me. Not now. Not when you’re out here living the life I was too scared to fight for.” His hand comes up, palm pressing hard against Harry’s chest, right over his racing heart. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much for making me still want this. For making me still love—” His knees buckle mid-sentence.
Harry moves instinctively, catching Louis before he hits the floor. He wraps his arms around the man’s frame, holding him close as Louis goes limp against his chest. Wet hair drips onto Harry’s hoodie. Louis feels heavier than he should, all muscle and years of regret made solid.
“Shit,” Harry whispers, one hand coming up to card gently through the soaked strands. “You absolute idiot.” He half-carries, half-drags Louis down the hallway to the guest bedroom; the one that still smells of fresh linen and nothing of their shared history. The master bedroom stays off-limits tonight; Harry can’t bring himself to lay him in the bed where they once tangled together like the rest of the world didn’t exist. No. Not tonight.
The guest room will have to do, with its crisp white sheets that smell only of laundry detergent and distance. Harry shoulders the door open and lowers Louis carefully onto the bed. The motion is awkward; Louis is heavier than his compact frame suggests when he’s unconscious like this, all solid muscle and years of pent-up regret made flesh. Harry arranges him as gently as he can, head on the pillow, legs straightened. For a long moment he just stands there, staring down at the man who once knew every secret corner of his heart.
Louis’ face is slack in sleep, lashes dark and spiky against pale cheeks still flushed from alcohol and rain. His lips are slightly parted, breath coming in slow, even pulls. The sight twists something deep inside Harry, equal parts tenderness and grief. This is Louis Tomlinson, stripped bare and vulnerable in his house again after four long years, and all Harry can think is how devastatingly beautiful he still looks, even wrecked.
With careful hands, Harry begins peeling away the soaked clothes. The hoodie comes first, heavy and clinging, revealing the familiar scatter of tattoos across Louis’ chest and arms. Harry’s fingers brush over the inked skin as he works, remembering nights when he would trace those lines with his mouth until Louis shivered beneath him. The jeans are harder, wet denim stubborn against Louis’ thighs, but Harry manages, tugging them down and off along with the socks.
He leaves the damp boxers on out of some lingering sense of decency, though the sight of Louis nearly naked in his bed sends a helpless curl of heat through his stomach that he immediately shoves down.He fetches a soft, warm cloth from the en-suite bathroom, running it under hot water until steam rises. Back at the bedside, Harry wipes Louis down with slow, deliberate strokes; gentle across his face, careful over the curve of his shoulders, down the planes of his chest where rainwater still beads. The cloth comes away dark with street grime and rain.
Louis doesn’t stir, only lets out a small, unconscious sigh when the warmth passes over his skin. Harry sets the cloth aside and retrieves a glass of water and two paracetamol tablets from the kitchen. He sits on the edge of the bed, one hand sliding behind Louis’ neck to tilt his head up. “Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, pressing the pills to Louis’ lips. “Swallow these for me.”
Louis mumbles incoherently, mouth working sluggishly around the tablets and a few forced sips of water. Some of it dribbles down his chin; Harry wipes it away with his thumb without thinking. The casual intimacy of the gesture hits him like a wave, and for a moment he has to close his eyes against the ache blooming behind his ribs. Once Louis is settled under the clean blanket, Harry brushes damp strands of hair off his forehead with trembling fingers.
The touch lingers. “You absolute idiot,” he whispers, so quietly he’s not sure the words even leave his mouth. “Showing up here like this… I never stopped loving you either. God help me, I never did.”
He stays there for another minute, just watching the steady rise and fall of Louis’ chest, the way his brow smooths out in sleep as if the whiskey has finally quieted the storm inside him.
Then Harry moves to the armchair in the corner of the room, sinking into it with a heavy sigh. He pulls his knees up to his chest, arms wrapping around them, and simply watches. The hours stretch. Outside, the rain continues its steady rhythm against the windows, a soft percussion that matches the thud of Harry’s heart. Inside his head, the memories play on loop; every toxic fight that led to the brutal end in 2022. The screaming matches over jealousy and schedules and the suffocating weight of secrecy.
The way Louis would shut down and lash out, the way Harry would retreat behind pretty smiles and passive distance until neither of them could reach the other anymore. The final night when Louis had thrown his hands up and said, “I can’t keep doing this with you,” and Harry had replied, voice cold, “Then don’t.” They had ruined each other so thoroughly. Two proud, stubborn men who loved too hard and hurt even harder.
And yet here Louis is; passed out in Harry’s guest room because the mere thought of Harry belonging to someone else had driven him to the bottle and to this doorstep.
He gets his phone out to see by himself the pictures and the articles. It’s his first time doing so since the news broke. It takes him a minute to get to the images, his gaze immediately drifts to the flashy ring sitting heavy on Zoe’s left hand.
Popstar Harry Styles, finally settling down with a gorgeous woman.
The perfect distraction. The public narrative that kept the questions at bay. But lying here in the dim lamplight, watching Louis sleep, Harry feels the full weight of every lie. The engagement isn’t real. Not completely. It’s promo, management’s clever game, a bit of “giggles” to keep the machine running smoothly. Zoë knows it’s all smoke and mirrors. The only truth buried inside the story is the quiet, aching want for a family; for a baby, for something real and permanent that feels like home.
And every time Harry lets himself imagine it, the face he sees beside him is still Louis’.
He doesn’t sleep. The armchair grows uncomfortable, his body stiff, but he stays. Because leaving feels impossible. Because after four years of trying to fill the void with other people, other stories, other versions of himself, this broken, drunk man in his guest bed is still the only one who has ever made the emptiness go away. Harry rests his head against the back of the chair, green eyes never leaving Louis’ sleeping form, and waits for morning to come and tear them both open again.The heavy ache of two people who destroyed each other; and still can’t stay away, settles deep in his bones like an old, familiar friend.
🥂💍🥂
The morning light creeps through the half-drawn curtains of the guest bedroom, soft and unforgiving. Louis wakes slowly, head pounding like a drum behind his eyes, mouth dry as sandpaper, and the taste of cheap whiskey still coating his tongue. He groans low in his throat, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead as fragments of the night before slam into him; rain, the bottle, the desperate pounding on Harry’s door, the ugly words that had spilled out of him like poison.
Embarrassment burns hot in his chest, quickly chased by defensive anger. He sits up too fast, the room tilting for a moment, and realizes he’s only in his boxers under the blanket. The faint scent of clean linen and something warmer, coffee? drifts in from down the hall. His stomach twists.
Harry appears in the doorway a minute later, carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered toast. He looks exactly like he remembers: messy hair, wearing the same kind of soft grey hoodie and joggers, bare feet silent on the hardwood. There’s a careful neutrality on his face, but Louis can see the exhaustion etched beneath his eyes, the tension in the set of his shoulders. It feels too familiar. Too dangerous.
“Morning,” Harry says quietly, setting the tray on the nightstand. His voice is steady, but there’s a raw edge underneath. “Figured you’d need this. Eat something before you hurl.”
Louis stares at the toast like it’s personally offended him. “You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, grabbing one of the mugs anyway. The coffee is hot and strong, exactly how he likes it. That small detail stings more than it should.
Harry leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, well. Old habits.” The silence stretches, thick and loaded. Louis takes a sip, then another, steeling himself.
The hangover sharpens everything, the regret, the jealousy, the four years of emptiness he’s been trying to drown out. He sets the mug down harder than necessary. “So,” he starts, voice rough and defensive, “are we going to pretend last night didn’t happen? Or are you going to stand there looking all calm and collected while I made a complete fucking fool of myself?”
Harry’s green eyes flicker with something sharp. “You showed up drunk off your arse at 2 a.m. because the thought of me being engaged sent you spiraling. I’d say we’re past pretending.”
Louis laughs bitterly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stands, ignoring the way the floor feels unsteady, and steps closer to Harry. “Fine. Let’s not pretend, then. Want the truth? I filled the hole you left with anyone who looked at me twice because I’m a coward and a prick. Happy? Girls and boys whose faces I can barely remember, whose names I never bothered learning. Just warm bodies to make me forget how fucking empty everything felt after 2022. After we blew us up so spectacularly.”
His words come out venomous, but there’s pain bleeding through, raw and honest in the sober light of day. He watches Harry’s jaw tighten, watches the way his fingers flex at his sides. Harry pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance until they’re only an arm’s length apart. “And I let the world think I’m marrying Zoë because it’s easier than admitting I still want you to be the one. My only.”
The confession drops like a stone into still water. Louis’ breath catches, eyes widening slightly before narrowing again.
Harry continues, voice low and trembling with years of suppressed truth. “The engagement isn’t real. Not completely. It’s 90% management bullshit for ‘promo and giggles,’ that’s what they called it once in a meeting, like it was all some big joke. A distraction while I figure out solo life, while the press keeps writing stories about Harry Styles finally settling down with a woman. Keeps the narrative clean. Keeps the questions away. Zoë knows the score. I put the ring on her finger because it was easy. Because pretending for the cameras is what I do best.” He takes another step forward, chest nearly brushing Louis’. The air between them crackles. “But the only true part? I do want a family. A baby. Sooner rather than later. I’ve been thinking about it more and more, and every time I picture it, holding that kid, building something real, it’s never been with anyone but you. Even after all the shit we put each other through.”
Louis’ hands clench into fists. The words hit too hard, too close. “Motherfucker,” he spits, voice rising. “You hide behind fake fiancées and pretty beards and staged photos while I’ve been destroying myself trying to move on. We both sabotaged us, Harry. You with your passive fucking distance, retreating every time things got too real. Me with my sharp tongue and my need to push everyone away before they could leave first. We are toxic as hell, two scared little boys pretending we were invincible. I ran into meaningless hookups because admitting I still needed you felt like losing. And you? You hid behind every fake story the machine fed the public because god forbid womanizer Harry Styles be fully, messily in love with a man.”
Harry’s eyes flash with equal fire. He steps even closer, noses almost brushing, chests heaving in sync. “And you think that makes you the victim? You walked away too, Louis. You said you couldn’t keep doing this with me, like I was the only one making it impossible. I let the world see what they wanted because the truth was too fucking terrifying but only for YOU! Because you just couldn’t publicly admit that I’ve only ever belonged to you. That every time I was seen with someone else, I was thinking about your hands on me, your voice in my ear, the way you used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.”
His voice has grown loud, bouncing off the walls of the quiet townhouse. Louis can feel the heat radiating off Harry’s body, can smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with sleep and coffee. The rage is still there, sharp and vicious, but it’s shifting now; morphing into something heavier, something electric and hungry.
Their breaths mingle, hot and fast. Louis’ gaze drops involuntarily to Harry’s mouth, then back up to those green eyes darkened with years of unresolved want.
“You’re still the only one who can make me this fucking angry,” Louis growls, voice dropping lower, rougher. His hand twitches at his side, inches from reaching out.
Harry’s lips part slightly, pulse visible in his throat. “And you’re still the only one I’d allow to fuck me being this angry.”
The space between them shrinks to nothing. The air is thick with everything unsaid; anger, pain, four years of aching longing. The fight hasn’t ended. It’s simply transformed into something far more dangerous. Something that feels inevitable.
Louis moves first, crashing into Harry like a car wreck; violent, unstoppable, glass-shattering. His hand shoots up and wraps around Harry’s throat, not choking, but firm enough to pin him back against the bedroom door with a solid thud. The wood rattles in its frame. Louis’ blue eyes are blown black with fury and lust, breath hot against Harry’s parted lips.
“You want this?” Louis growls, voice wrecked and low, thumb pressing just under Harry’s jaw so his pulse flutters wildly against it. “Then fucking take it from me.”
Harry doesn’t answer with words. He surges forward, mouth slamming into Louis’ in a kiss that tastes like coffee and four years of starvation. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate, and Louis bites down hard on his lower lip until Harry moans into it, hips jerking forward on instinct.
Louis yanks Harry’s joggers down in one rough motion, barely giving him time to kick them off before he’s spinning him around, chest pressed to the door, cheek smashed against cool wood. Harry’s cock is already aching, trapped against the hard surface, leaking steadily. Louis spits into his palm; filthy, impatient, then two slick fingers are pushing inside him without warning, scissoring roughly, stretching him open like he’s owed it.
“Fuck—Lou—” Harry gasps, pushing back onto the intrusion, desperate for more.
“Shut up,” Louis snarls against the nape of his neck, teeth scraping skin. “You don’t get to talk pretty right now. Not after you let the whole world think you belong to someone else.” He crooks his fingers viciously, hitting that spot that makes Harry’s knees buckle. “This is mine. Still fucking mine.”
Harry cries out, loud and broken, nails scratching at the door. “Harder, Louis—Fuck, mark me, I don’t care who sees tomorrow.” The words tumble out raw, slutty, every inch the desperate bottom he becomes only for Louis. “Bite me. Bruise me. Make it hurt.”
Louis doesn’t need telling twice. He replaces his fingers with his cock in one brutal thrust, no more prep, no mercy; bare and thick and perfect, splitting Harry open so fast and deep that stars burst behind his eyelids. The burn is exquisite. Harry keens, high and filthy, pushing back to take every inch until Louis is buried to the hilt, hips flush against his ass.
“Jesus Christ,” Louis groans, voice shredded. One hand stays wrapped around Harry’s throat from behind, the other gripping his hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. He sets a punishing rhythm immediately; fast, shallow snaps that turn into deep, grinding thrusts, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet morning room. “Look at you. Taking it like a fucking whore against the door. Bet she never made you sound like this.”
Harry sobs, pushing back harder, ass clenching around Louis’ cock on every pull-out. “No one—fuck—no one but you. Please, Lou, harder—”
Louis obliges, pounding into him until the door creaks in protest, until Harry’s legs shake and his cock smears precome across the wood. It’s quick and ugly and perfect, Louis biting down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, sucking a dark mark that will bloom purple by afternoon.
Harry lets out a strangled cry as he swears he can feel Louis in his belly. Louis keeps burying himself deep and growling “Mine” through gritted teeth as he fills him up with his girthy cock.
Then he suddenly pulls out; slow and deliberate, letting Harry feel every inch leave him, and spins him around again. His eyes are feral, possessive, mouth swollen. “Bed,” he orders, voice hoarse. “Now.”
Harry’s legs barely work, but he stumbles across the room on shaky limbs and lets Louis shove him onto the mattress. Louis climbs up after him, back against the headboard, and yanks Harry into his lap facing away, reverse, exposed, completely on display. Harry sinks down onto Louis’ cock again with a broken moan, taking him in one smooth slide, ass flush against Louis’ hips.
“Fuck, yes,” Louis breathes, hands spreading Harry’s cheeks so he can watch his own cock disappear inside that tight, pink hole. “Ride me, baby. Let me see how greedy you are for it.”
Harry does. He plants his hands on Louis’ thighs and starts moving; slow at first, then faster, rolling his hips in filthy circles, rising up until only the tip catches at his rim before slamming back down. The angle is devastating; Louis’ cock drags over his prostate on every thrust, making Harry’s own cock bounce heavy and hard again between his legs. Louis’ hands roam; gripping his waist, sliding up to pinch his nipples, one sneaking around to stroke him lazily.
“God, look at you,” Louis murmurs, voice mean and reverent all at once. “Fucking yourself on my cock like you were made for it. Still the sluttiest bottom I’ve ever had. Bet you’ve been empty these four years waiting for this.”
Harry nods frantically, hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. “Yes—God, Lou—yours, only yours—”
They stay like that until Harry’s thighs burn and his moans turn into constant, wrecked whimpers. Louis suddenly flips them, manhandling Harry before dragging him toward the en-suite, cock still buried deep. The shower turns on with a twist of Louis’ wrist, hot water cascading over them in seconds, steam filling the glass enclosure.
Louis presses Harry face-first against the cool tiles, one hand braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip. He fucks him slow now, deep and deliberate, hips rolling in long, punishing strokes that make Harry feel every thick inch dragging along his walls.
The water runs down their bodies, slicking the way, turning every sound wetter, filthier.
“Gonna fill you up until it takes, baby,” Louis whispers hot against his ear, voice dark with every dirty promise they’ve ever shared in the dark. He bites the shell of Harry’s ear, then soothes it with his tongue. “Gonna give you that family you’re so fucking desperate for. Pump you full of me until you’re dripping, until your belly swells with it. My baby. Our baby. No one else’s.”
Harry sobs, the breeding kink words hitting somewhere deep and primal, making his cock throb untouched against the tiles. “Please—Lou, please—want it, want you to breed me, fuck—”
Louis keeps the pace torturously slow, grinding deep on every thrust, whispering filth until Harry is shaking apart; promises of swollen bellies and nursery rooms and forever wrapped in the same breath as the most obscene claims. When Harry comes it’s with a shattered cry, untouched as he used to, body clamping down so hard Louis curses and follows him over the edge, flooding him completely.
They barely rinse off before Louis is towing him back to the bed, still hard, still insatiable. He lays Harry out on his back this time; face-to-face, legs spread wide, and slides back inside in one smooth thrust. The pace is slower now, punishing in its intensity, eyes locked the entire time. Green on blue. No hiding.
Louis braces on his elbows, forehead pressed to Harry’s, hips snapping deep and deliberate. “Mine,” he growls with every thrust. “Still fucking mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” Harry gasps, tears slipping down his temples now, nails raking bloody lines down Louis’ back. “Always yours—Lou, I’m yours—” Harry comes untouched for the second time, sobbing Louis’ name like a prayer, body arching clean off the mattress as pleasure whites out his vision. Louis fucks him through it, slow and perfect, until he spills one more time with a broken groan of Harry’s name, collapsing on top of him, buried to the hilt.
They stay like that; joined, panting, sweat and water and come cooling on their skin. Louis’ hand finds Harry’s left one, fingers tangling together.Harry laughs; soft and wrecked, and pulls Louis down into a slow, lazy kiss.The storm has broken. But they’re still tangled in the wreckage, hearts pounding in sync, and for the first time in four years it feels like home.
The room is quiet now, save for the ragged sound of their breathing and their heartbeats.
Harry lies boneless on his back in the middle of the wrecked bed, chest heaving, thighs trembling, every inch of his body marked and used and gloriously spent. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, tears still drying on his temples, and his hole aches in the most delicious, used-up way.
Louis’ come is slowly leaking out of him, warm and sticky against his skin. Louis stays buried inside him, forehead pressed to Harry’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
Then he shifts carefully, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that makes Harry whimper at the sudden emptiness. Louis’ eyes soften instantly, the feral edge melting away into something gentler, something that has always belonged only to Harry.
“Easy, love,” Louis murmurs, voice hoarse but impossibly tender. He presses a lingering kiss to Harry’s damp forehead, then another to the corner of his eye where a tear had slipped free. “I’ve got you.”
He slides off the bed and disappears into the en-suite for only a minute, returning with a warm, damp cloth and a bottle of water. Harry tries to sit up, but his arms give out; he’s shaking too hard, the intensity of everything they just did still crashing through his system in aftershocks. Louis climbs back onto the mattress immediately, settling between Harry’s spread thighs.
“Stay still for me,” he says softly, one hand gently parting Harry’s legs wider. The cloth is warm and careful as Louis cleans him—wiping away the mess from his inner thighs, his spent cock, the sensitive, puffy rim still fluttering from being so thoroughly fucked. Every stroke is reverent, almost worshipful.
Louis leans down and kisses the dark bite mark blooming on Harry’s neck, then the fingerprint bruises on his hips, then the red lines his own nails left across Harry’s ribs.“You’re still shaking, baby,” Louis whispers against the hollow of Harry’s throat, kissing the spot where his pulse still races. “Did I go too hard?”
Harry shakes his head, a weak, watery laugh escaping him. “No. It was perfect. Just… intense. Missed you so fucking much.”
Louis hums, pleased and soft, and continues his gentle work; kissing every bruise, every bite, every place his mouth and hands had been rough only minutes ago. When he’s satisfied that Harry is clean and cared for, he tosses the cloth aside, grabs the water bottle, and helps Harry sit up enough to take slow, careful sips. Then he pulls Harry into his arms, maneuvering them until Harry is curled against his chest, head tucked under Louis’ chin, long legs tangled with shorter ones. Louis’ arms wrap around him tightly, one hand stroking slow, soothing circles up and down Harry’s spine.
They lie like that for a long time, the silence comfortable for the first time in years. Harry’s trembling gradually eases, replaced by the heavy, sated warmth of being held by the only person who has ever made him feel truly safe.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Louis says eventually, voice quiet against Harry’s hair. No yelling this time. Just honesty, raw and stripped bare. “I was a coward back then. Still am, a bit. I ran into those girls because facing how much I needed you; how much I still love you, felt like admitting I’d fucked everything up beyond repair. I pushed you away every time things got too real because I was terrified you’d leave first.”
Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ waist, pressing a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart. “I know. I did the same thing. I hid. Behind the media, behind the stories, behind everything. It was easier to let the world see what they wanted than to admit I was still completely gone for you.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “The engagement… I don’t think it can continue any longer. I’ll… make some calls, and deny the rumors. It was never more than promo anyway. And I’ve only ever loved you, Louis. Only you.”
Louis’ hand stills on Harry’s back for a moment, then resumes its gentle stroking. He presses a kiss to the top of Harry’s head, lingering there. “Then we do it right this time. No more sabotage. I told you, didn’t I? We’re both toxic motherfuckers and we always end up doing some crazy shit, but this time maybe… maybe we can be better together. I’m not scared anymore. Not of us. Not of giving you everything you want.”
Harry lifts his head, green eyes meeting blue, searching. “You mean that?”
Louis smiles, small, crooked, the one that has always made Harry’s heart flip. “Yeah. I do. Ask me properly next time, you prick. I’ll say yes. I’ll give you the baby, the family, the whole messy forever. But only if we do it together. Together. No more running. No more fake rings.”
Harry laughs softly, the sound wet with emotion, and leans up to kiss him, slow, deep and full of promise. When they pull apart, Louis rolls them gently so Harry is half-draped over him, safe and warm in his arms. “We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow. Management, the press, all of it. Today… today you’re just mine again.”
“My man,” Harry hums, already drifting, the exhaustion and release pulling him under.
Louis holds him tighter, one hand protectively splayed over Harry’s stomach.
Sunlight peeks through the clouds outside, soft and golden. And for the first time in four years, the townhouse doesn’t feel too big or too quiet.
It feels like home again.