Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Buzz. Buzz.

Louis tries to ignore the vibration of his phone in his pocket, letting himself sink into the rhythm of the blaring music and the warm blur of alcohol dulling his senses. The club is a crush of bodies and heat, thick with sweat and perfume, lights slicing through the haze. It’s too loud to think, which is exactly why he agreed to come out tonight.

He throws a flirty smile at the guy dancing in front of him—tall, hair damp with sweat, sharp jaw, low-lidded eyes. Hot. Definitely hot. Louis rolls his hips closer, letting the beat pull him in, trying to lose himself in the high of it all.

When Niall suggested one last night before their final year of Uni started, Louis hadn’t hesitated. London holds too many memories, and he’s tired of carrying them around. Better to drown them in bass and vodka and the mouth of someone who doesn’t know his name.

They left Liam and Zayn at their seats to go on the hunt for a potential guy. He’d danced with Niall for a while, until the Irish blond disappeared into the crowd, probably hunting down shots or a shag. Now it’s just him and the hot guy, and it feels good to be wanted again. Really good.

Buzz. Buzz.

With an annoyed grunt, Louis pulls out the damned device and casts a glance at the contact name. DO NOT ANSWER. Fingers twitching, he shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“You gonna answer that?” the guy shouts over the music, eyebrows raised.

Louis shakes his head, offering a tight-lipped smile. “Nah, it’s fine!”

“Seems pretty important.”

“It’s not.”

The vibration starts again, loud even through the blaring music. Louis ignores it, but the guy in front of him notices. “Seems pretty adamant.”

“Oh, trust me, he is,” Louis mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes.

The guy looks unconvinced, and just like that, the moment fractures. The tension drains from the air. Suddenly, the music feels too loud, the lights too sharp, and the alcohol sitting heavy in his veins. 

Muttering a half-assed excuse about needing a drink, Louis peels away from the guy and pushes through the press of sweaty dancers and spilled drinks. The high he’d been riding is gone, and all that’s left is static in his chest. He weaves toward the back of the club, where he finally spots Liam and Zayn in a booth, halfway through their drinks.

“This night blows,” Louis grumbles, flopping into the seat beside them.

“It’s because you’re not sloshed, mate!” Liam says, tipping his beer toward him in a faux cheers before downing it.

Louis scowls. “Only because I don’t want to make any bad decisions tonight.”

“Like that ever stopped you before,” Zayn mutters.

Louis stiffens. He knows exactly what Zayn means. And clearly, so does Liam, who sighs and leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Look, we’re not trying to get on your ass,” Liam says, “but if you’re thinking about calling him again—don’t. We know you’re thinking about it.”

“I’m not.”

Truth be told, there’s only one bad decision on his mind tonight. And it’s not about calling his ex. It’s about seeing him. Touching him. Letting himself fall into something that isn’t good for him but still feels stupidly familiar.

He wouldn’t be making the decision, per se—more like doing the bad decision.

Or the bad decision doing him.

As if on cue, his phone vibrates in his pocket with another incoming call. He pointedly ignores it, but the screen lights up with new messages.

DO NOT ANSWER
Hey u up?
I can tell you’re seeing this because you keep hanging up yk

He ignores the pang in his chest and the ache crawling up his throat, instead reaching toward Liam’s half-empty beer.

“Get your own drink,” Liam says, snatching it back with a glare.

Louis pouts. “But I’m having a bad night.”

“Louis…” Zayn groans, letting his head fall back against the booth wall with a dull thud. He doesn’t even flinch. “Please don’t make us babysit you through another one of these.”

“It’s nothing,” Louis insists, though the words feel sticky and sour in his mouth. He grabs the beer out of Liam’s hand anyway, ignoring the protests, and downs the rest of it in one go. The burn hits hard, but he welcomes it, hoping it will drown everything else out.

His phone buzzes again.

He yanks it out of his pocket. Same thread. Same stupid thoughts clawing its way up from somewhere deep inside.

“It’s seriously nothing!” Louis snaps, louder than he means to, shoving the phone back in his pocket like it’s hot to the touch. The club lights spin and blur, and he’s glad it’s too dark for either of them to see how red his face is.

“We said nothing,” Liam deadpans.

“Whatever,” Louis mutters, rising to his feet. “Gonna hit the loo.”

He walks toward the small bathroom at the back of the club. It’s cramped—just a single stall and a sink with peeling white paint. Louis shuts the door behind him, locks it, and sets his phone on the corner of the sink.

Leaning over the sink, Louis takes a handful of cold water and splashes it across his face. The chill helps snap him out of the foggy, half-drunk state he’s in, but it does nothing to dull the hunger gnawing at his stomach. The tightness in his chest, the pressure building behind his eyes won’t go away.

He shakes his head, rubbing the cold water into his eyes in a vain attempt to clear the thoughts out of his mind. No, Louis, do not.

He rubs his face roughly with the bottom of his shirt, hoping to scrub away the thoughts as much as the water. But then his eyes catch the phone, still resting there on the sink, and for some stupid reason, he picks it up again.

DO NOT ANSWER
I’m all alone
And I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately

Louis shivers, a mix of dread and unwanted desire crawling up his spine. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought of him. The old pull. It’s been months. He should block the number. He should walk out and pretend he never saw it.

His phone buzzes again, lighting up with the notification, and against every instinct to resist, his eyes drop to the screen.

DO NOT ANSWER
I really want you right now
Do you want my address?

No, Louis does not want his address. It’s past midnight, and he has no reason to go over there. He’s having a decent night out with his friends, and there’s a guy on the dancefloor who’s more than willing to fuck him. And most importantly, this is his ex—the one who tore his heart apart and left him with nothing. Louis has no desire to go back to his place. He does not want to see him, and he definitely does not want to have sex with him.

Louis
Yes

Okay, so maybe Louis isn’t exactly God’s strongest soldier.

The last time he saw him was months ago, just before summer, and Louis had promised his friends that he was a changed man. Sure, their final time together had been intense, and Louis constantly had the image of his ex’s abs rippling beneath him as he rode him in the backseat of a car, but that was the past. That doesn’t mean he has any lingering feelings for his ex. He just needed someone who could get him off. Nothing more, nothing less.

He knows Niall, Liam, and Zayn are going to be annoyed. Not annoyed—furious. They had put up with him sneaking around, knowing exactly who he was sneaking around with, and then eventually staged an intervention before the term ended. They told him the ex thing was toxic. That it had to stop. No more calls. No more texts. And absolutely no sex.

Shit, Louis thinks. There’s no way in hell he can tell them where he’s going. They’d kill him.

But the text is already sent. The address is already sitting in his phone.

Fuck it. It’s fine.

He exhales, swipes his damp palms down his jeans, and pushes out into the noise of the club. Weaving through the crowd, he goes back to where Liam and Zayn were sitting. He slouches slightly, trying to act casual, like he’s not carrying a secret with him.

“Hey, I’m gonna head out,” Louis says, raising his voice above the music, pointing toward the entrance.

Zayn squints, brow furrowing. “So soon?”

“Did you pull?” Liam asks.

“Nah, I’m knackered,” Louis lies easily. “Gonna crash.”

Zayn eyes him, clearly not convinced. “You sure? You seem pretty… twitchy.”

Louis groans, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Why’s it so hard to believe I’m tired?” he huffs, trying to sound exasperated.

Liam snorts. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe your track record of ‘tired’ nights?”

Louis waves it off, ignoring the slight ache in his heart. “I said it’s over. Trust me, I just need some sleep.”

Zayn doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he just nods, still watching Louis carefully. “Alright, man, but I hope you remember—”

Before Zayn can finish, Niall stumbles over, clearly a bit buzzed. “What’s up? You leaving already?” He’s wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes darting between Louis and the others.

Louis forces a grin, doing his best to mask the guilt tugging at his stomach. “Yeah, I’m calling it a night. Just need some rest.”

Niall doesn’t look convinced, but shrugs anyway. “Alright, if you’re sure.” He claps Louis lightly on the back. “See you at the flat, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Louis echoes, tight smile still in place as he quickly slips away.

He can practically feel their worried, questioning stares burning into his back as he pushes through the club doors. Whatever. That’s a problem for future Louis.

He calls an overpriced Uber—he’s not drunk, exactly, but definitely not steady enough to risk walking—and steadies his nerves as he gives the driver the address.

The drive blurs by. Louis stares out the window, zoning out. He tries not to think about where he’s going. What he’s about to do. What his friends are probably saying right now.

The Uber pulls up outside a flat complex that’s clearly seen better days: overflowing trash bins, a broken gate left hanging on one hinge, graffiti half-scrubbed off the wall. It’s not like the place they used to live in together, not even close. Louis steps out, passes through the entrance with no resistance, and walks down a narrow hallway with faded carpet and chipped paint. The building smells faintly of mildew and something burnt.

By the time he reaches the top of the single flight of stairs, whatever buzz he had left is gone.

Louis knocks once, twice, before just banging on the door. He’s sexually frustrated and a bit pissed off, alright? He’s not in the mood to stand around in some sketchy hallway waiting to be let in.

The door swings open almost immediately, like he had been standing right there, waiting.

Harry doesn’t look much different than last time. Maybe his hair’s a little shorter, less in his face than when they were still together. There’s a smug smile tugging at his lips, dimples deep in his cheeks, and those lazy green eyes sweep over Louis.

Louis knows he looks good: jeans that hug him perfectly, a sheer black shirt clinging to his skin and showing off the tattoos across his chest. He dressed for the club. Dressed to go home with someone.

“Hey,” Harry says casually, like he hadn’t been texting Louis all night, begging him to come over out of boredom and horniness. It’s infuriating. But Harry’s standing there looking like that, and Louis’ retort dies in his throat.

“Hey,” Louis replies in the same tone, but it comes out a little breathless. From the alcohol and the flight of stairs, he convinces himself. That’s it.

They just stare at each other for a beat too long. Then Harry asks, “You want to come in?”

“No, actually, I thought I’d stand out here and awkwardly stare at you all night.”

Harry rolls his eyes and opens the door wider, making a dramatic flourish with one arm. It’s good to know that his personality didn’t change in the three months that they didn’t see each other.

Louis steps in and glances around. The inside of the flat is nicer than the building led him to expect—soft lighting, a clean couch, shelves lined with books and familiar bits of Harry’s old life. His camera collection is lined up neatly. A few succulents sit on the sill, still alive somehow. On the wall, the same poster from the band they both loved hangs in a mismatched frame.

It’s not the same as their old place. But it’s not far off either. 

“Nice place,” Louis says.

“Thanks.”

“Nice building, too,” Louis adds, turning around just in time to catch the way Harry is watching him, lips slightly parted, eyes dark and unreadable. “I especially liked the stained carpet and the way they apparently just let anyone in—”

Louis doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Harry has him against the wall. Louis barely has time to register the movement before Harry’s mouth crashes into his. It’s like a collision—hard and hot and dizzying. Harry kisses like he’s proving a point, and Louis lets himself get swept under, moaning low in his throat as his cock stirs to life.

He tries to grind up against Harry, desperate for friction, but Harry holds him still.

“You’re especially compliant tonight,” Harry murmurs, lips ghosting along Louis’ jaw. His hands drift down Louis’ sides, fingers leaving fire in their wake. “You that desperate?”

“I’m so drunk right now,” Louis says, squirming under Harry’s gaze. Harry doesn’t loosen his grip; he never had to try hard to manhandle him. Louis represses a shiver at how easy it is to surrender.

Harry tilts his head, eyes scanning him. “That’s funny. I barely smell alcohol on your breath. A little, yeah, but not enough to get you that fucked up.”

“You’re so annoying,” Louis huffs, leaning in to kiss him again, but Harry moves just out of reach. Louis glares, absolutely not pouting.

“And you’re still as desperate as ever,” Harry says smugly, one hand tilting Louis’ chin up. Then he kisses him, slow and deep. His tongue pushes past Louis’ lips like he owns him, and when he bites sharply at his bottom lip, Louis lets out a quiet whimper. Harry soothes it with a slow lick, like he’s savoring it.

That’s the thing with Harry: he’s insufferable, but he kisses like sin. And he fucks even better.

Louis’ patience is wearing thin, and clearly, Harry’s is too. His fists are clenched in Louis’ clothes, grinding him against the wall, his erection pressing hard against Louis’ thigh. The impact draws out soft, involuntary sounds from Louis. Harry pushes off his jacket and toys with the hem of his shirt, until Louis’ eyes widen in alarm.

“You are not fucking me against the wall, you arsehole,” Louis hisses, shoving Harry off him.

Harry rolls his eyes. “That’s funny, considering how eager you were in the backseat last time. Or when you bent over my desk. Or the kitchen counter—”

Louis resists the urge to scream into his hands, covering his quickly reddening face. “What if your flatmate comes home?” 

“I thought the fear of getting caught turns you on? That’s why you’re here, after all.”

“You’re so annoying,” Louis groans. It’s not the first time he said that tonight, and he’s certain it won’t be the last.

Harry trails behind him as Louis storms off, opening doors until he finds the bedroom. The moment they’re inside, they’re all over each other—kissing, panting, clothes thrown off in a frenzy. They tumble onto the bed. Harry reaches for a condom and lube from the drawer, and something tightens in Louis’ stomach at the sight, an emotion he’s not ready to name.

Harry lubes up his fingers, then nudges Louis’ thighs open and starts teasing around his rim. Louis groans, head thudding back against the pillows.

“Get on with it,” he bites out.

Harry eases a finger in, slow and deliberate. Louis inhales sharply; it’s a familiar burn, not painful, but intimate in a way that makes him clench his jaw.

“You’re so tight,” Harry says, transfixed by the sight of his fingers sliding in and out. “Can tell how badly you need it, baby.”

Louis bites his lip to suppress his groan as a second finger slips in, shuddering at the intrusion and the pet name. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Okay, slut.”

Louis rolls his eyes just as Harry slides in a second finger, then a third, stretching him with infuriating patience. Every time Louis tries to push back, Harry’s other hand holds him down by the hip.

“That’s enough,” Louis growls, bearing down on his fingers.

Harry doesn’t budge. He keeps rubbing slow, maddening circles, brushing Louis’ prostate with agonizing precision. Louis looks down at Harry, who has an infuriating grin on his face, knowing exactly what he’s doing to him.

“I said I’m ready.”

“Ask for it.”

“Now, arsehole.”

Harry clicks his tongue. “Ask politely, baby.”

Louis is ready to snap, but then Harry curls his fingers just right, and Louis chokes on a gasp.

“Please, Harry,” he says through clenched teeth. “Please. I want you in me.”

Harry hums, clearly pleased, but doesn’t stop his torturous rhythm until Louis is trembling. Only then does he pull his fingers out. Louis makes a small sound at the loss, then sees Harry’s cock and goes still, throat drying.

“Condom,” Louis says, reaching to throw a foil packet in Harry’s direction, hitting him in the face. “I don’t want any of the diseases the rest of your fuckbuddies carry.”

Harry rolls his eyes but doesn’t complain as he slides on the layer of protection. Louis notices how his hands are slightly shaking as he lubes up his length. It’s good to know that he’s equally as twitchy about this as Louis is.

Louis wraps his legs around him, pulling him in. As the head of Harry’s cock presses against his entrance, Louis tips his head back, staring at the ceiling—anything to avoid looking at the man about to fuck him. His ex. The one he swore he’d never go back to.

It’s been months, and Harry’s definitely not small. The stretch knocks the breath out of him as Harry pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated.

“So tight, baby,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ neck, lips dragging over skin as he sucks a mark deep enough to bloom into a bruise by morning.

Louis clenches around him in response, heels digging into Harry’s back to drag him closer. Harry grinds forward with a testing roll of his hips, then pulls back until only the tip remains inside, before slamming back in with no warning. The headboard rattles against the wall as Louis arches off the mattress with a cry.

“More,” he hisses, uncaring of how it sounds like he is begging. “Come on, more.”

His fingers twist in the sheets like a lifeline, trying to anchor himself as Harry drives into him again and again, relentless. Every thrust forces Louis deeper into the bed, ragged noises tearing from his throat despite his best effort to keep quiet. He bites down on his lip, hard, trying to trap the moans before they slip out.

Harry shifts, hooking Louis’ legs over his shoulders until he’s practically folded in half. The new angle wrecks him—he feels split open, every nerve lit up and thrumming. Louis feels stretched open, completely at Harry’s mercy, their bodies impossibly close. The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, underscored by Harry’s low, guttural grunts and the soft, stifled whimpers Louis can no longer contain.

Desperate, Louis stuffs his fingers into his mouth, biting down as he struggles not to scream. The angle is overwhelming, every thrust punching the breath from his lungs. He’s shaking, barely holding on, lost in the sensation of being taken apart.

Harry notices. He leans down, his chest pressed flush to Louis’, and without pause, grabs both of Louis’ wrists, pinning them above his head in one smooth movement. Louis gasps, his eyes wide, stomach flipping violently at the control.

“Come on, let me hear you,” Harry pants, his thrusts picking up speed, growing rougher with each pass.

“Fuck you,” Louis snaps, but the words come out breathless, wrecked.

Harry just smirks. “Pretty sure that’s exactly what I’m doing, baby.” He shifts his hips, angling just right, and when the head of his cock brushes Louis’ prostate, Louis cries out, raw and loud.

“There we go, darling,” Harry says, voice low. “I want to hear every sound. They’re only meant for me, anyway.”

Louis wants to throw something back, something biting, but there’s nothing left in him. His brain blanks out the second Harry folds him even tighter, pressing him further into the mattress like he’s trying to claim every inch of him. Each thrust slams into that same devastating spot, over and over, and Louis is gone. It only takes a few more hits before he’s crying out, hips jerking as he comes across his stomach, body going slack with release.

Harry chuckles—quiet but smug—and if Louis had any energy left, he might’ve punched the smirk right off his face. Instead, all he can do is twitch while Harry keeps going, chasing his own high now. He closes his eyes, ignoring Louis’ gasps of overstimulation, and thrusts through it, rough and relentless. He finally comes with a low groan, buried deep, hips stuttering as he rides it out.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Louis is half-numb, legs aching from how long they’ve been pinned up, skin slick with sweat and come. Harry stays draped over him, face pressed to the side of Louis’ neck, breathing hard. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Not until Louis pushes at his shoulder, wincing as Harry pulls out with a drag that feels anything but gentle.

And just like that, the spell is broken.

Louis doesn’t look back as he walks into the ensuite. He grabs a flannel and wipes the come from his stomach with detached movements. The ache in his chest is worse than the one between his legs, something heavy and familiar that settles behind his ribs. He doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see how wrecked he looks.

When he comes back, the lights are off. The ruined sheets are piled on the floor; Harry must’ve changed them while Louis was in the bathroom. He’s under the duvet now, turned away, his breaths heavy like he’s asleep. Not looking at Louis, like he’s just some regrettable drunken hook-up.

Well, he kind of is, he guesses.

Louis bends down to grab his clothes, hand brushing along the floor, and nearly slips on a sock. A wave of dizziness hits him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. He felt sober during sex, but the buzz comes back all at once, making everything feel hazy. He’s grateful Harry isn’t looking at him—if he saw Louis stumbling around right after getting his brains fucked out, he’d never let it go.

“You can stay, if you want,” Harry says suddenly, voice muffled by the duvet. So, not asleep after all.

Louis pauses. That offer sounds too familiar. Too much like how things used to be. But the bed looks warm, and he’s not exactly eager to do the walk of shame back to his flat. He climbs in.

He settles on the far edge of the mattress, keeping a deliberate distance between them. They’re both still naked, skin sticky and bodies sore, and Louis tries to ignore the twist in his gut.

“I heard you, by the way,” Harry says after a beat, smug. Louis doesn’t have to open his eyes to know he’s smirking. “Good to know I can still fuck you stupid.”

“You’re so annoying,” Louis mutters, rolling onto his other side.

Still, he falls asleep within seconds. It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

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Louis slowly comes to when bright rays of sunlight hit his face. He groans and buries his face deeper into the soft pillow. His body aches, especially his lower half, and his head throbs from a slight hangover. The blinding morning light definitely isn’t helping. He shifts, trying to escape the brightness, but strong arms pull him back, locking him in place against a broad, solid chest.

For a second, he lets himself melt into the hold, humming contentedly. It’s nice. Maybe if he just stays here a bit longer, he can get some actual rest.

Then the memories hit him like a freight train.

The club. His phone lighting up with texts. Harry’s hands everywhere. His own moans echoing through a dimly lit bedroom.

Shit.

His eyes snap open, heart racing. He glances down at the tattooed arms wrapped around his bare chest, clutching him like a vice. Yeah, definitely Harry.

Even through the fog of last night’s drinking, he knows he wasn’t that drunk. Tipsy, sure. But he made the decision. It might not have been a smart decision, but it was his. 

He scans the room, now fully visible in daylight. It’s smaller than the bedroom they used to share, but still so Harry. Clothes strewn across the floor, rings on the nightstand, tangled sheets around their legs. Louis deliberately avoids turning around to face him, not quite ready to confront the shame brewing in his gut.

A faint buzzing pulls his attention to the nightstand. His phone is plugged into the charger—odd, since he’s pretty sure he left it in his jeans when they were both too busy tearing each other’s clothes off to care. Apparently, Harry was courteous enough to fish it out and plug it in. Infuriatingly typical. Louis carefully reaches over, trying not to wake the sleeping ex wrapped around him, and winces the moment he sees the flood of texts lighting up the screen.

Zayn
So which bed did Louis sleep in last night?
Because I checked his room and he wasn’t there…

Liam
Hopefully he’s not in you-know-who’s bed
Again.

Niall
What if he’s dead in an alley somewhere?

Zayn
I think that’s slightly better than shagging your ex

Louis
I’m not dead, thanks for caring!

Liam
You’re so right Zayn!
The last time Louis hooked up with Harry he told us that it would never EVER happen again
So surely he wouldn’t lie to us, right?

Zayn
No, our Louis is so much more responsible than that!

Louis
Oh fuck off
Stop ignoring me

Zayn
But I fear our dear Louis may be a liar

Niall
How much do you want to bet he’ll be limping on his way home?

Liam
That’s not even a fair bet
Of course he’s going to be limping
The real question is how long he’s going to be limping for

Zayn
No no no you’re all wrong
We should make a bet on the next time he’s going to shag Harry again, even though he claims it’s going to be the last time!

Louis
Are you done attacking me?

Zayn
No we’re not
We’re just waiting for you to get back home so we can yell at you then

For a second, he considers ghosting all of them and spending the entire day hiding out. Maybe find a café. Maybe wake Harry up and use him for what all he’s good for—his cock. But even though a second round sounds incredibly tempting, Louis isn’t sure his feelings, or what’s left of his dignity, can survive that.

Louis wiggles himself out of Harry’s arms, careful not to stir him. As he sits up, the room spins slightly and he blinks fast, trying to blink away the throb pulsing in his skull. His throat is dry, his mouth tastes like regret and alcohol, and he desperately needs water. But more than anything, he needs to get the fuck out of here.

He rises to his feet, ignoring the sharp ache in his lower back, and pads across the room to gather his clothes. They’re crumpled, reeking of sweat, alcohol, and bad decisions. Not ideal, but the alternative is leaving in Harry’s clothes, which… absolutely not.

“Leaving so soon?” Harry’s groggy voice comes from the bed.

Louis doesn’t look at him as he yanks his jeans up. “Should’ve left earlier, honestly.”

Harry makes a small, pitiful noise. Louis doesn’t need to look to know he’s pouting. “Was hoping for another round.”

So was Louis, but he’s not about to admit it. He suppresses the shiver that crawls up his spine and jerks on his shirt with a little too much force.

He turns around to look at Harry, who is half-hanging out of the bed, sheets twisted around his body, eyes tracing Louis’ figure. It sends a pulse to his groin and a sharper sting to his pride.

“This,” Louis says, gesturing between them, “is not happening again.”

“Whatever you say, baby,” Harry replies, cheek smushed into the pillow, eyes shamelessly fixed on Louis’ arse.

“Stop calling me that,” Louis hisses.

Harry only grins, dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. He looks sinfully good—hair tousled, eyes still hazy with sleep, like he’s starring in the aftermath of a porno. And worst of all, he knows it.

Louis refuses to engage. He heads straight for the bedroom door, ready to flee the scene before the walk of shame becomes a full-on parade. But just as he reaches for the handle, he freezes.

There’s a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Then whistling.

He spins around, wide-eyed. “Who the hell is that?” he whisper-shouts.

Harry yawns and stretches. “Mitch.”

“Mitch?”

“My flatmate.”

Louis slaps a hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face. “You said you were alone.”

“I was. Didn’t say for how long.”

A flare of annoyance sparks in his chest. “Usually when someone says they’re alone, it means for the whole night.”

Harry shrugs. “You didn’t seem to care that much last night.”

“You’re impossible,” Louis growls, crossing to the window. It’s small, but he is too. He unlatches it and pushes the screen up.

“Louis, no,” Harry says, finally sounding concerned as he sits up, brows furrowing. “You don’t have to do that. Mitch is harmless.”

“I don’t need to be judged by your flatmate like one of your random hook-ups,” Louis snaps, trying and failing to ignore the sting of jealousy in his voice.

Harry lives on the second floor, which means no balcony—not that Louis could gracefully escape through one, but it’d be nice to have the option. Luckily, Harry’s window sits just above the overhang of the back exit. It’s narrow, sure, but it’ll do.

“Baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Harry says, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for him but knows better.

Louis swings a leg over the sill. “Then maybe don’t invite me over next time.”

He shimmies down until his feet find the narrow strip of metal, which groans beneath the sudden weight. It wobbles slightly but holds. When he shifts his full weight onto the ledge, it stays steady, just barely. Good enough.

“Close the window behind you!” 

Louis reaches back in, sticks up his middle finger, and leaves it wide open.

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It wasn’t always like this. They made sense once. 

They met on move-in day—Louis with his guitar, Harry with his vintage camera—and nearly collided. A stupid rom-com moment. From there, it was easy. Best friends, late-night talks, a world built around each other. Dating by the middle of first term. Sharing a flat by second year.

They thought they would work out.

They didn’t.

The breakup came in spring. It was a bad one. Louis moved in with Liam and Zayn, who promptly revoked Harry’s name from their vocabulary. Niall tried to keep the peace, bless him, which mostly meant sending separate invites and playing mediator.

They agreed on no contact. That lasted until a party two weeks later. One look turned into one argument, which turned into Louis being pushed against the wall, which turned into Harry’s tongue being shoved down his throat, which turned into them fucking in the bathroom. And then it happened again. And again. Every time, Louis swore it was the last.

Each time, it wasn’t.

By the time he reaches the flat he shares with Liam and Zayn, his legs ache, and his head feels heavier than before. The familiar brick building looms in front of him, almost as if it knows what he’s done. He swallows hard, the weight of the situation settling in. Each step up the stairs feels like a drag, the inevitable waiting just beyond the door.

His flat is warm and dimly lit. Zayn is curled on one end of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, nursing a mug. Liam is perched at the kitchen counter, thumbing through something on his phone. Niall is sprawled on the carpet, surrounded by half-eaten snacks.

The moment Louis steps through the door, all three sets of eyes snap to him.

“Morning,” Zayn says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Nice of you to come home.”

Louis rolls his eyes and ignores the slight guilt that stirs. “Morning,” he replies. “Got breakfast? I’m starving.”

Liam looks up, unimpressed. “So the guy didn’t even offer you food after fucking the sense out of you?”

Louis huffs a tired laugh, busying himself with the kettle. “Left before that was even an option,” he says. “And who said he fucked the sense out of me?”

“Yeah, clearly you lost it before you slept with him,” Zayn mutters, shooting him a pointed look over the rim of his mug. “Because what guy with actual sense keeps hooking up with their ex?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Liam groans. “We are not doing this again, not after you promised us before the summer—”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about it,” Louis says coolly, voice flat as he prepares his tea.

“We already called you out for sleeping with Harry in the groupchat, Lou,” Niall says exasperated. “Which you ignored.”

Louis hums softly, pretending not to hear. Pretending the sound of Harry’s name doesn’t make his chest twist painfully.

Zayn sighs. “Are we really playing this game again? Honestly?”

With a heavy sigh, Louis drops the spoon into the sink and mutters, “For fuck’s sake, it’s not like I committed murder.”

“No,” Zayn says, “just murder of your own dignity.”

Louis drags a shaky hand through his hair, the exhaustion seeping into his bones. “It was just a one-time thing.”

Liam snorts. “You say that every time.”

“I mean it this time,” Louis insists, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “We—” He hesitates, throat bobbing. “We needed to get it out of our systems. One last time before term starts. It’s done now. I’m done.”

But even as he says it, the words taste like ash on his tongue. The ache in his stomach coils tighter, and he hates that his heart still trips at the memory of Harry’s hands, Harry’s voice, the weight of the sheets still clinging to his skin.

“Are you, though?” Zayn asks, sharper now, eyes narrowing. “Because it’s getting old, Lou. You come home, you swear you’re over him, and then the next night out, you’re back in his bed.”

“It’s not that like that,” Louis snaps, jaw tight.

“It is, though,” Liam says. “It really is. You’re miserable after every single time. He’s not good for you. You’re not good for him. Why continue?”

Niall, still sprawled on the carpet, sighs heavily and sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s toxic for both of you, Lou. You both get stuck in it. The fights, the jealousy, the whatever that is between you two. You’re both still… hooked, and it’s not healthy.”

Louis’ throat tightens. He hates that it’s Niall saying this. Niall, who still grabs coffee with Harry sometimes, who has tried harder than anyone to stay neutral. Who knows them both too well.

“I know what I’m doing,” Louis says after a beat, voice low. “I know what it is.”

“Do you?” Liam presses. “Because we’re watching you go through the same loop over and over. And it’s hard, Louis. It’s hard to see you come back like this every time, pretending it didn’t mean something when it obviously does.”

Niall sighs deeply. “We’re not saying you can’t ever be friends with him again—if that’s even possible,” he adds, wrinkling his nose a little. “But you’re both stuck, and unless one of you actually lets go, you’re never going to move on. You deserve to move on.”

Louis clenches his jaw. “I said I know.”

“Then act like it,” Zayn says. “We see how this is affecting you, babe. It’s not healthy. I know Harry was your first love, and everyone thought it would be you two forever, but you have to let him go.”

The words hit harder than Louis expects. He swallows against the lump rising in his throat, his fingers tightening painfully around the mug in his hands. He sets it down too hard, the ceramic clinking sharply against the counter.

“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Point made. Loud and clear.”

Zayn takes a deep breath, rubbing his eyes like he’s about to say something more, but instead exhales heavily, frustration still etched on his face. He glances over at Liam, then Niall, before relenting. “Fine. But I hope you actually mean it this time.”

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Knowing his luck, Louis expected to see Harry everywhere—in a glimpse across campus, passing on the street, or tagged in someone’s story. But there’s been nothing. No sightings. No messages. Not even a cheeky late-night “Hey u up?”

Louis tells himself it’s for the best. That what happened was one and done. Or rather, one last time. He’s free of Harry Styles now, and he can finally focus on his own life again.

It’s easy enough to get through Louis’ boring business classes—a specialty he picked more out of obligation than interest, told it’d give him options, though none of them feel particularly appealing. Most days blur together between his internship, commuting back to the flat he now shares with Liam and Zayn, and forgetting to eat until it’s nearly midnight. He barely writes music anymore, and his guitar gathers dust in the corner, untouched except for the rare, restless night when he can’t sleep.

Still, music is the one thing that makes him feel remotely like himself, and he’s been trying to claw some of that back.

So when his old bandmates ask if he wants to do a set at their usual local pub where they do most of their gigs, he says yes before he can think too hard about it. It’s just one gig, a small one, but the idea of being back on stage, of playing something that’s his, makes something stir in his chest.

Maybe, for the first time in weeks, he’ll feel a little less lost.

“Late as always, Tommo,” his drummer, Brynn, calls out as Louis walks into the backroom.

“Sorry, sorry,” Louis says, dropping his bags. “Got held up by my flatmates.”

His bassist, Corey, sprawled across the couch, rolls his eyes. “Sounds like someone’s too busy for us. Got yourself a big boy job now?”

“You know it,” Louis says dryly, aiming for light-hearted, though the mention of his internship twists in his stomach. “Sorry for missing rehearsals. Trust me, I’d rather be here than working.”

“It’s fine,” Kavya chimes in from where she’s tuning her guitar. “A bit bummed there are fewer gigs, though. I’ve been missing the crowd.”

“More like you’ve been missing the girls,” Brynn teases, flicking a guitar pick at Kavya’s head.

Kavya grins, unbothered. “Guilty.”

Louis smiles, his chest warming. He really has missed this—his band, the banter, the rush before a show. God, he wishes he could do this more.

“I’ve missed it too,” he says honestly. “We’ve had a long break, but that doesn’t mean we should slack off tonight. I think we can still be solid with what we’ve got. I’ve been practicing, and you lot are always tight together. But let’s not get too daring.”

Corey sighs loudly. “So that means—”

“Yes, same setlist,” Louis says. He ignores the rest of the groans from his band. 

“What, no surprises?” Brynn asks. “You really don’t trust us to pull something new off?”

“We’ve been doing the same set since last term, mate,” Corey says, sitting up. “What about those songs you’ve been working on? Some of them are proper bangers.”

“I haven’t had time to write new songs lately,” Louis says, a little too sharply.

“But some were already finished,” Kavya presses, pulling out a few sheets of music. “We’ve been practicing them. Just give them a go.”

Louis eyes the pages—his own handwriting, his lyrics—and feels like he’s looking at open wounds. These were the songs he wrote in the thick of heartbreak. Every chord, every lyric feels like Harry. He stares blankly, wishing he could burn them out of existence.

“How about Too Young?” Brynn suggests. “Would be nice to add a slower song.”

“Nope,” Louis replies quickly, pushing the memory away before it can land.

“Always You?”

“No.”

Corey groans. “Louis, come on. These are really good. People would love them. And we’ve been playing the same stuff forever.”

“They still hit every time,” Louis protests weakly.

“And these will hit too, if you give them a chance,” Kavya says. She holds up two pages, the song titles scrawled in his handwriting. “How about we swap two of the old originals for two of your new ones? Keep the rest the same.”

Instead of rehearsing, the next thirty minutes spiral into a tense debate over the setlist. Louis keeps the real reason silent: the songs are fragments of his history with Harry, wounds he’s tried hard to heal but never fully has. Singing them feels like peeling back scabs, reopening memories he’s desperate to bury. Even scanning the lyrics sends him reeling into flashes of a past he’d rather forget.

Eventually, they settle on a compromise: one new original, one new cover.

They’ll slot them into the middle of the set—covering Mr. Brightside first, then flowing into his new song, Habit. That brings the set to eight songs total: three covers, five originals. A tight squeeze for a 30-minute slot, but the pub’s never been too strict about running over.

And at least this way, Louis only has to survive one memory brought to life.

Louis is on edge as the band tunes their instruments on stage, his eyes flicking over the slowly growing crowd. He could blame the nerves on any number of things: the pressure of debuting a new song, the rust from months away, but none of that compares to the hollow ache gnawing at him from within.

The absence of Harry.

Harry has always been his biggest supporter, his number one fan. They were both artists in their own right: Harry with his photography, Louis with his music. At every gig, Harry was there, listening to Louis’ worries, standing front and center, cheering him on, capturing every moment with his camera, and wrapping him in hugs and kisses afterward, telling him he did great.

But Harry can’t do that anymore.

“Jitters?” Kavya’s voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts. She squeezes his bicep with warm encouragement.

Louis drums his fingers against his palms, sweat slicking his skin. “Yeah.”

She smiles warmly. “Don’t worry, everyone’s going to love the song.”

Louis wants to say it’s not the music that’s making him nervous—it’s that the muse behind the music won’t be there tonight. But he just nods instead.

When they take the small stage barely raised above the floor, Louis is greeted by cheers from familiar faces: Niall, Liam, Zayn, classmates, and regulars from the pub. He closes his eyes, trying to shake off the jitters, ignoring the hollow spot where Harry’s support used to be.

He’s got this.

Playing the set with his band reminds Louis why he loves this.The energy, the way music lets him disappear, getting lost in something bigger than himself. With every song, every riff drawing the audience closer, Louis feels his confidence build, piece by piece.

Mr. Brightside is a hit. The moment Kavya nails that iconic opening riff, the crowd erupts. Louis grins wide as voices join him, the roar around him pulsing with heat and bass that rattle his bones. For a brief second, he remembers exactly why he’s so drawn to this life and curses himself for ever forgetting.

Then, as he dives back into the verse, his gaze scans the room and freezes.

Dark curls. Green eyes.

Harry.

But he’s not alone.

A striking Asian girl with straight black hair and a sharp face clings to him, mouthing every word, laughing as Harry pulls her closer, lips brushing her ear. They look effortless, happy together—something Louis hasn’t seen in a long time.

His stomach drops. His voice cracks just slightly. He pulls the mic away, trying to make it look intentional, but his eyes stay locked on them, on Harry, on the way he’s there, listening to Louis’ music.

Harry’s lips brush against the girl as he brings her in closer, and his lips brush against her ear. She laughs, white teeth showing, and hits him in the shoulder.

Something bitter coils inside Louis.

Why does Harry get to look so carefree, so alive? Why does he get to have that joy, while Louis stands here exposed and raw on stage? How dare he even show up?

Louis tightens his grip on the mic, curling in on himself. He closes his eyes, forcing himself through the final notes, trying desperately to block out the image burning behind his lids, because he knows the moment he opens them again, it’ll be waiting.

The sound of cheering snaps him back. The bright lights blur his vision enough to shield him from the scene in the back. 

But then, the weight of the next song settles in his chest. Habit.

The song about someone who’s like a habit he can’t break.

His throat tight, voice cracking as he clears it, Louis says, “Uh, I’ve got two more songs for you all—just because you’ve been such a great crowd. This one’s Fearless.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his bandmates exchange confused glances. There are actually three songs left on the setlist, and Louis just skipped Habit, his new song he was so hesitant on performing.

On autopilot, he pushes through Fearless, eyes fixed anywhere but the back where Harry’s probably pressing his lips to that girl’s forehead.

The ache in his chest tightens, and Louis fights to keep singing, to keep pretending he’s okay.

The rest of the set goes surprisingly well, even though his mind feels scrambled the entire time. They close out with one of Louis’ more popular originals—well known among the uni crowd—and for those few minutes, he lets himself get lost in the music and the connection with the audience, rather than fixating on the one person who’s been throwing him off.

As the last chord rings out, and Louis exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The adrenaline pulses through his veins, momentarily lifting the weight in his chest. The rush of performing is enough to distract him from everything else.

As they pack up their gear, Louis spots familiar faces weaving through the pub toward them. Niall’s bright smile cuts through the fog clouding his mind, Liam and Zayn following close behind. They approach with easy grins and friendly pats on the back, clearly impressed.

“That was solid,” Niall says, looping an arm around Louis’ shoulder. “You really owned that set, mate.”

Zayn nods. “It’s good to see you up there again. You looked like you belonged.”

Liam gives Louis’ bicep a quick squeeze. “Missed this side of you.”

Louis swallows hard, the compliment settling somewhere deep inside him. For a moment, he almost forgets about the knot twisting in his stomach, about the eyes in the crowd that kept pulling him back to the past.

“What about us?” Kavya says, hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow.

Liam laughs, grinning at the band. “Well done, you lot too. Made this one seem put together.”

“Oi!” Louis says, ducking his head.

“Mr. Brightside was a real hitter,” Niall adds. “You nailed it, Kav. You all did. That better be a permanent addition to the setlist.”

Brynn mutters under her breath, “There could’ve been another new hit, if someone hadn’t skipped the song.”

Louis glances up to see Corey crossing his arms, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, what was that about? You didn’t tell us you were skipping Habit.”

Niall raises his eyebrows, but Louis doesn’t acknowledge it. He just shrugs. “The crowd went nuts after Mr. Brightside, and we were running low on time. Sorry.”

“I’m bummed, though,” Brynn says, sighing loudly. “The crowd would’ve loved it.”

“Maybe next time,” Louis replies, brushing it off, though he can feel the weight of Zayn, Liam, and Niall’s gazes, each of them remembering what that song used to mean.

“Well, great performance either way,” Niall says, forcing some brightness into the moment. “You lot deserve a round—on Liam, obviously.”

“Why is it always on me?” Liam grumbles, but he follows the others toward the bar anyway.

Louis lingers, just a second too long. A strange prickle at the back of his neck makes him turn—and there he is. Harry. Standing near the restrooms, watching him. His eyes hold steady on Louis before he slips out of sight around the corner.

“You coming, Lou?” Zayn calls over his shoulder.

Louis hesitates. “Forgot something in the back. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Zayn shoots him an unamused look. His mouth parts like he’s about to deliver a lecture, but thinks better of it. Louis doesn’t give him the chance. Heart hammering in his chest, he turns and pushes through the crowd, heading in the direction he last saw Harry.

Turning the corner, he finds Harry standing in the dimmed hallway, head down while drumming his fingers against his jeans. He’s not even trying to be subtle, lingering near the backroom entrance, pretending to scroll through his phone. A surge of heat flashes through Louis, sharp and sudden. That image—Harry leaning close to the girl, laughing into her ear—rises uninvited.

Before he can think better of it, he grabs Harry by the elbow. He ignores the startled yelp from his ex, instead dragging him into the backroom and locking the door shut behind them.

“Ooh, sneaky,” Harry says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Shut it,” Louis snaps, giving him a shove. Harry stumbles back a step, and then Louis is on him, crashing their mouths together.

Maybe it’s his frustration acting, or maybe it’s the ache for Harry that still lingers. But whatever it is, Louis kisses like he’s proving something, like he’s trying to overwrite the image of Harry laughing with someone else. His fingers twist in Harry’s shirt, pulling him closer, harder, until there’s no space between them. He bites at Harry’s bottom lip, daring him to react.

And Harry does.

In a heartbeat, he takes control, hands gripping Louis’ hips with bruising certainty as he spins them around and pins him to the wall. The breath catches in Louis’ throat. Harry’s thigh slides between his, anchoring him, pressing in just right. His hands come up automatically, like maybe he’s going to shove him off, but instead he clutches Harry’s shoulders, fingernails digging in.

“You always do this,” Harry murmurs as he drags his lips against his throat, leaving heat in their wake. “Act like you’re the one in charge. But you never last long, do you?”

Louis tries to respond, but Harry grinds in again and it knocks the air out of him. His head tips back, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting with a soft gasp that betrays just how much he’s missed this. Missed him.

He wants to say something snide, wants to push back, but instead his body arches into Harry’s, giving in to the way Harry’s mouth moves over his like a promise, like a punishment. And Louis lets him.

Because he knows he wants to be undone by him.

“Already hard just from a bit of kissing?” Harry teases, slipping his hand down to squeeze him through his jeans.

Louis groans, hips stuttering forward. “Don’t be so smug,” he mutters, breath catching. “You’re just as hard.”

Harry laughs into the crook of his neck, the sound vibrating through Louis like a string pulled taut. He mouths at Louis’ jawline, sucking soft bruises while his hand works him slow and steady, the kind of rhythm that leaves Louis dizzy. His knees go weak, fingers curling into Harry’s biceps for support.

“God,” Harry gasps, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Louis’ arse as he mouths along his jaw. “I need to be in you.”

“I know you want it,” Louis moans, fingers scraping lightly down Harry’s biceps. He rocks against him, slow and deliberate. “Go ahead. Take what’s yours.”

Harry pauses, lifting his head to meet Louis’ gaze. His eyes are dark, lips kiss-bruised, curls hanging in his face. He swallows thickly. “I don’t have a condom.”

Louis could almost scream in frustration. “Seriously? You don’t have a condom on you?”

“Why the hell would I? Why don’t you have one?”

Louis bites back something sharp, and instead shifts their bodies, pressing Harry to the wall and dropping to his knees. His mouth hovers just shy of Harry’s crotch as he begins to unbuckle his belt with teasing slowness.

“That—that works too,” Harry stammers, breath hitching as Louis tugs his jeans down.

Harry’s cock hangs heavy, flushed red and slick with precome. Louis’ hands find his thighs, fingers curling into the firm muscle. He leans in close, exhaling warm breath over the skin, gaze flicking up through his lashes to meet Harry’s—dark, focused, watching his every move.

Louis dips his head, tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path along the underside from base to tip. When he reaches the head, he presses an open-mouthed kiss there, teasing instead of taking him in fully—just lapping lightly at the head, patient and unhurried.

“Don’t be a tease,” Harry snaps, fingers curling against his thighs, fists clenched like he’s holding himself back from reaching out. Louis can see the restraint in every line of his body, and he appreciates the effort, even if what he really wants is to be grabbed, manhandled, taken.

He lets his lips close around Harry instead, tongue flicking lightly at the slit before pulling back, only to repeat the motion. Harry’s curses and moans spur him on, low and rough with pleasure. Louis moves slowly, deliberately, wrapping his hand around what his mouth can’t reach. He lets his throat adjust, inch by inch, moaning around him to send vibrations through his core.

Each time Louis takes him deeper, Harry’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch. Louis can tell in the way his knuckles go white from the tension. He’s smug about it, knowing he’s got Harry so tightly wound, but a part of him aches to be guided, used. So with his free hand, Louis reaches up, takes Harry’s hand, and places it at the back of his head.

Harry flinches slightly, eyes flying open, searching Louis’ face for confirmation. Louis just nods, the movement adding another ripple of sensation.

“Fuck, baby,” Harry groans, threading his fingers through Louis’ hair. His head falls back. “Keep going. Let me see how much you can take.”

Louis presses his tongue to the underside of Harry’s cock, breathing heavily through his nose as he takes him deeper, the tip nudging the back of his throat. Spit drips down his chin as he bobs his head, every movement deliberate, determined to unravel him.

“Lou, I’m gonna come,” Harry warns, voice ragged.

Louis doesn’t move—if anything, he takes him further, hollowing his cheeks around Harry’s length to bring him over the edge. Harry’s grip in his hair tightens when he realizes Louis doesn’t intend to pull off. 

“You want that? You want me to come in your mouth?”

Louis hums in response, eyes lifting to meet Harry’s. He knows what he must look like—face flushed, mouth stretched wide and wet, eyes glassy with effort. That’s all it takes. Harry groans and jerks his hips as he comes, hot and thick, spilling down Louis’ throat. Louis swallows around him, not letting a drop go to waste.

When Harry finally slackens, breath coming in heavy gasps, Louis pulls back, but Harry immediately tugs him up and kisses him, filthy and open-mouthed. Louis whimpers into it, overwhelmed by the taste, the heat, the way Harry’s fingers wipe at the mess on his cheeks.

His cock aches between them, still hard, grinding against Harry’s skin for any kind of relief.

“Look at you,” Harry murmurs, pressing against Louis’ prick, making him shudder. “Got yourself so worked up sucking my cock you can’t help yourself, huh? Rutting against me like a teen.”

Louis’ face flushes, burying his face into Harry’s jaw.

“Go ahead,” Harry coaxes, voice low and rough. He shifts, sliding his leg between Louis’ thighs and pulling him close until his cock drags along bare skin. “Grind against me. Get yourself off.”

“I—”

“Come on,” Harry murmurs, breath hot against his ear. “Show me how bad you want it.”

Louis flushes, heat blooming bright red across his cheeks. But Harry’s lips are already tracing down his jaw, hands greedy and sure as they cup his arse, fingers dragging down both pants and briefs in one go. Louis’ cock falls heavy against his thigh, already hard, already aching. The moment their skin meets—Harry’s thigh, firm and warm under him—Louis moans, helpless to the friction as he rocks forward.

It should be humiliating, how easily he falls into this. How much he still wants Harry. But Louis can’t bring himself to care, not with Harry letting him grind against him, not with pleasure lighting up every nerve ending.

“That’s it, keep going,” Harry says, voice low and coaxing, one hand gripping Louis’ hip as he holds him steady. He doesn’t move, just lets Louis use him. “Look at the mess you’re making on me. Good boy.”

The praise punches the air from Louis’ lungs. His fingers curl tight around Harry’s shoulders as he buries his face in the curve of his neck, gasping shamelessly. He trusts Harry to give him what he needs—has always trusted him, even now, when they’re caught somewhere between past and present, exes and something else entirely. His body moves on instinct, desperate and eager, rutting against Harry’s thigh and chasing the pleasure without restraint.

“You make the prettiest little noises when you’re like this,” Harry says, kissing the shell of his ear. “And to think, you’ve been depriving yourself of this for so many weeks. But of course, you come back. I knew you would.”

Louis shudders, a sound somewhere between a sob and a moan catching in his throat. Harry’s hand finally wraps around him, stroking him just right. Louis’ hips stutter, rhythm faltering, but Harry holds him steady, grounding him.

“No one else touches you like I do,” Harry growls. “No one else makes you feel this good. Just me. I take care of you.”

“Please,” Louis gasps, nodding hard, losing himself. “It’s just you. Just—fuck, I’m so close.”

He’s frantic now, hips jerking helplessly as Harry strokes him faster. His whole body tightens with need, the edge right there. And then Harry’s finger brushes against his hole, light and teasing, and Louis chokes on a gasp.

“I know, baby,” Harry breathes against his mouth. “Come for me.”

It only takes another twist of his wrist, and Louis breaks. His mouth falls open around a cry as his orgasm hits, hot and sudden, his release spilling over Harry’s fingers. His body trembles with the force of it, legs gone useless as he collapses into Harry’s arms, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath ragged.

And for a second, Harry just holds him. Louis lets himself breathe, tries to ignore how humiliatingly fast he got himself off against his ex. He barely registers Harry clearing his throat, slipping out of the embrace, letting Louis slump against the wall.

“Mae’s a lesbian, by the way,” Harry says as he buttons his jeans. Louis is still panting, chest heaving, pants around knees, come cooling on his stomach. His mouth hangs open. Harry flashes a smug grin, dimples and all. “But it’s cute that you still get a little possessive.”

“You—” Louis starts, voice hoarse, lips dry.

Harry shrugs, zipping up. “I’d do it again. And I bet you would, too. You have my number. I know you didn’t block it.”

He winks and walks off, leaving Louis in the thick silence, the air warm and sharp with the smell of sex. Louis exhales slowly, refusing to breathe in, refusing to let it sink in any deeper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand down his face and resisting the urge to slam his head against the wall.

When he finally pulls himself together and manages to look vaguely like someone who didn’t just have sex in a backroom, he returns to the pub. The crowd greets him with cheers and congratulatory claps for his earlier set. Louis offers easy smiles, slipping back into his charm like muscle memory, even as every nerve in his body still hums.

Across the room, he spots Harry’s friend—Mae—leaning in close to Kavya, batting her lashes playfully. He nearly laughs, mostly at himself. Instinctively, his gaze sweeps the crowd, searching for a flash of dark green or a familiar mess of curls. Nothing. When his eyes land on Liam, Zayn, and Niall at the bar, they don’t wave or smile—just look back at him with the same tired, knowing expressions he’s been avoiding all night.

Louis turns to the classmate now chatting about his music. He nods along, lets his practiced grin slip back into place, and pretends that everything doesn’t still ache.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

For some reason, it seems like Louis cannot escape Harry anymore.

He sees him everywhere—on campus, in the background of Instagram stories, in all the places he used to love. Everything reminds him: inside jokes, old songs, the way his body still reacts at the thought of them tangled in bed.

Worse: Harry won’t stop texting him.

The messages are shamelessly casual. Wanna hang out? Miss your mouth. Louis knows he should be angry, knows it borders on harassment, but Harry never pushes, always leaves it at that. Polite, almost.

It’s absolutely infuriating.

Louis hasn’t blocked him. Maybe it’s petty—he likes the reminder that Harry still wants him. Or maybe, deep down, he doesn’t want to close the door completely. Just in case.

No. No. He will not go to those thoughts. Not only to prove it to his friends that he will finally cut Harry Styles out of his life, but also to himself.

So he throws himself into the day: his few remaining classes, his miserable internship, the flat he shares with Liam and Zayn—great friends, incompatible flatmates. When they tell him they’ll be out for the night, Louis lights up. Finally, a few hours alone. A chance to write. To reset. To breathe.

After work, he craves coffee. Not just any coffee, their coffee. The place he and Harry used to go after internships. He hasn’t been in months. Too loaded. But today… he just wants something familiar.

What are the odds Harry will actually be there?

His heart pounds as he pushes open the glass door. The café looks the same: warm wood counters, the smell of espresso and vanilla. Like nothing’s changed. Except Louis is here for one drink, not two.

He steps into line, jittery, scanning the room like he’s waiting for a jump scare. He just wants to get his drink and leave.

“Hi, I’ll have a double-shot latte,” he says once he gets to the counter. The order slips out on autopilot. “And with—”

“With a dab of milk,” an irritatingly familiar voice finishes, right against Louis’ back. “Two percent.”

Of course. Just his fucking luck.

He doesn’t turn around, but he hears Harry’s voice clearly as he steps up beside him, talking to the barista like this isn’t the worst possible scenario.

“A mocha latte with a shot of caramel for me, please,” Harry says, already pulling out his card. “Both on me.”

That snaps Louis out of his thoughts.

“There’s no need,” Louis cuts in, forcing his tone light, but the edge in it is unmistakable. He slaps his own card down on the counter and pushes Harry’s hand away without looking at him. He offers the barista a tight, rehearsed smile. “Separate, please.”

“Oh, but I insist,” Harry chirps, way too cheerful.

Louis elbows him—hard—in the stomach, and Harry lets out a quiet oof, more amused than hurt.

“I swear,” Louis mutters, narrowing his eyes at the barista, “if you charge him for my drink, I’ll pour it over his head and leave you to clean it up.”

The barista blinks, clearly overwhelmed. Harry, of course, just laughs, like Louis threatening him is some kind of inside joke, like it’s adorable.

Harry relents and draws his hand back, allowing the barista to take Louis’ card to pay for his own drink. Louis, seething, pointedly ignores Harry as he stalks over to the pick-up area, pretending to busy himself on his phone as he sees Harry approach him out of his peripheral vision.

“You’ve been ignoring me, sweetheart,” Harry says, leaning against the counter.

Louis exhales slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the row of unclaimed drinks in front of him. He briefly considers grabbing a random refresher just to get the hell out of there, but he draws the line at stealing.

“Take a hint, then?” Louis responds, his voice sharp.

Harry hums, completely unfazed. “You know your read receipts are on, right?” he says casually. “I can see that you read every single one of my texts.”

Louis knows that Harry’s trying to coax a reaction out of him, so he bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a snappy remark. He keeps his eyes trained on the counter, refusing to give Harry the satisfaction.

“And you’re not exactly subtle when you stare at me in public,” Harry adds. “And now? Showing up here of all places?”

Louis scoffs. “I didn’t come here looking for you. I just wanted coffee.”

“At the exact café I always come to?” Harry asks, voice incredulous. “The one I introduced you to?”

Louis finally turns to glare at him. “I didn’t realize you were granted ownership of the place in the divorce,” he says flatly.

Harry grins, obviously fueled by the reaction. “Ah, but you got the kids,” he says, not missing a beat. “Niall visits sometimes, but the other two chose their mum.”

“Why are you the dad?” Louis asks, eyebrow raised. “What if I wanted to be the dad.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, looking Louis up and down. “You’re definitely the mum.”

Louis shudders at that, feeling suddenly reminded of their position right now and why exactly Harry is being so insistent. It’s for the sex. Only for the sex. It always is.

“Whatever, Harry,” Louis mutters. 

Harry just smirks again, green eyes glittering under the café lights. He’s wearing a white button-down that makes him look infuriatingly good, with his curls falling messily over his forehead and his camera bag slung across his shoulder like a cliché.

“You know,” Harry starts, tone too casual, “I don’t think it’s a coincidence we keep running into each other. Call it destiny, call it fate—”

“Call it the universe punishing me.”

Harry gasps, placing a hand to his chest. “Baby, you’re breaking my heart.”

Louis scowls. “I told you to stop calling me baby.”

“And I will, just as soon as you stop pretending this is all some accident. Campus, here, the pub—”

Louis’ jaw drops, spluttering. “You knew I was performing at the pub that night!” he accuses. “I always perform there!”

“I didn’t realize you gained ownership of the pub during the divorce,” Harry responds, his dimples showing as he sends Louis a toothy grin.

Bastard.

“And you wonder why I ignore your insufferable arse,” Louis sighs.

“You seem to like my company just fine,” Harry points out, brows raised.

“Yeah, I like your company when you’re not talking,” Louis fires back. “And I’d be happy to keep it that way.”

“So you do admit you know we’re gonna hook up again.”

Louis pauses. Damn him. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“I could put something else in your mouth.”

Louis’ eyes go wide. He looks around wildly, praying no one heard that. Thankfully, the coffee machine is hissing, the music is loud, and no one seems to be paying attention, but if anyone were watching, they’d definitely clock the flushed cheeks and Harry’s goddamn smug smile.

“Do you ever think before you talk?” Louis hisses, swatting Harry’s arm.

“Contrary to what you believe, yes. You just think too much.”

Louis ignores him, shifting his weight and tapping his foot impatiently as he glares at the barista making his drink. “Of course today is the day they take ages.”

“What, got plans?” Harry asks. “I thought we were having a perfectly nice chat here, Lou.”

Louis shoots him a look. “Is that what you’re calling this? And don’t call me Lou.”

“Fine. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“Why do you care? Do you just want to know if I have time in my schedule to jot you down for a quick fuck at your place?”

Harry smirks, his dimples popping in. “Baby, if you really need to reserve time in your schedule for sex with me, then you should know that it’s gonna be more than just a quick fuck.”

Louis scrunches his nose. “Must you always be so vulgar?” 

“Must you always act like you don’t like it?”

“God, can they just hurry up?” Louis sighs, tapping his foot.

As if summoned by sheer force of will, the barista finally calls his name. Louis all but lunges for the drink, gripping the cup like it’s a lifeline. He’s halfway to the door when a hand wraps around his wrist.

It’s electric. That’s the only way to describe it. The contact jolts through him like a shock, and his breath catches. Harry looks just as startled, his fingers twitching like he hadn’t meant to reach for him. Their eyes lock.

For one suspended second, they just look at each other, eyes wide, momentarily stunned frozen by the sparks.

Then Harry clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, voice softer. “Let’s be civil. We can talk. Just… talk.”

“I’m not daft,” Louis says. “I know where you want that to lead.”

“Maybe I do want that,” Harry says, not even bothering to deny it. “But mostly, I just want to make you feel better.”

Louis flushes. “Wow. Do you think your magic cock is going to fix all my problems? You’re doing great at being civil, by the way,” he says sarcastically. “And also—maybe I have been ignoring you because I don’t like your company. And for your information, I do have plans—”

His phone buzzes. He nearly sighs in relief, yanking it out of his pocket just to escape Harry’s gaze for a second.

Liam
Change of plans Lou, we’re gonna be in the flat tn
So don’t bring over your hookup or whatever please and thank you :)

Louis stares at the screen, breath leaving him in a long, annoyed exhale. He reads it once. Twice. Then puts his phone away without saying a word.

“Change of plans?” Harry asks. His voice isn’t mocking. Which, somehow, feels worse.

Louis presses his lips together, trying not to let the irritation show. But the tight set of his jaw gives him away. He knows it’s not really fair to be this annoyed—it is Liam and Zayn’s place, after all. He’s lucky they even offered him a room when everything went to shit. But that doesn’t change the fact that he was so looking forward to having the flat to himself tonight. Just one night of peace to clear his head.

Lately, everything feels like it’s pressing in on him: classes, the internship, expectations. The future. He’s fraying at the edges, and he knows it.

Louis usually has three methods of dispelling stress: alone time, writing music, and… well…

Harry.

Speaking of, Harry, of course, can tell that Louis is spiraling. He always can. But like he’s frustratingly always able to do, he knows not to push. 

“You can come back to mine,” Harry says after a beat, offering tone light.

Louis considers it. Going with Harry means caving. It means eventually returning to Liam and Zayn’s flat with guilt dragging at his heels, pretending not to see their silent disappointment. It means dodging another round of “This is bad for you” and “You know it’s toxic” lectures that he’s too exhausted to deal with.

It also means waking up tomorrow morning with that sinking, too-familiar feeling. The one that says he’s being used. Or maybe he’s the one doing the using.

But, then again, saying yes would mean good sex. A great moment of undeniable bliss and want and feeling satisfied right after. And it’s Harry. As much as Louis claims to hate him, Harry understands him in a way that no one else has, on a sexual level and a personal level, too.

Louis shudders internally. It’s easy to pretend it’s just about the sex, to pretend the emotional part isn’t there. That there’s no weight behind the way Harry touches him, no meaning behind the way they look at each other when it’s over.

Something that he could easily avoid if he just declined, lie to Harry and say he’s busy or even just flat out say no, fuck off like Zayn, Liam, and Niall have begged him to do in the past.

But, to hell with it.

“Alright.”

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

The line between loathing and lust blurs.

Weeks pass into the semester, and Louis finds himself spending more and more time with Harry. Not always by plan, not always by choice, but somehow, it keeps happening. He knows Liam, Zayn, and Niall have noticed. He sees it in the way they glance at him when he comes home late, how they stop asking where he’s been, how their expressions shift when his phone lights up and he tenses like he’s hiding something.

Because they know that Louis and Harry are still a thing, even as exes. They know those notifications from his DO NOT ANSWER contact will lead to Louis pressed up against Harry’s desk, or riding him in his lap, or spread out on his bed with his legs around Harry’s waist, clutching the sheets and falling apart.

He’s not proud of it. But he’s also not sorry. Not when Harry still makes him feel this good.

It’s like an exchange. A business transaction, almost. They barely talk. Just sharp, lingering glances across a crowded room, tension simmering until it spills over in a heated argument behind closed doors. Then it’s Harry pressing Louis against a wall or the mattress, fucking him like it means something. Then it’s them falling asleep together, then waking up intertwined like how they used to when they were still together, and then Louis leaving without mentioning what just happened.

The cycle continues.

Louis tells himself he’s fine with their arrangement. But the truth is he isn’t sure if he wants to live a reality without Harry.

DO NOT ANSWER
Hey wyd

Louis
I am not letting you fuck me at noon on a friday

DO NOT ANSWER
Okay first of all, I didn’t even say anything
Second of all, yes you would
Third of all, answer the question

Louis
Nothing much
Why

DO NOT ANSWER
Wanna be my plus one to a concert tn?

Louis bites his lip, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

On one hand, whatever he and Harry have now is purely physical. They barely talk, just the occasional argument that turns into foreplay, that turns into Harry fucking him, rough and relentless. And he’s fine with that. It’s easier. Interacting with Harry beyond that would mean reopening wounds he’s convinced himself are long healed.

And going to a concert—sure, it might end with them in bed again, but it also means spending hours together without sex to hide behind. No barrier. No excuse.

But on the other hand, he’s bored and also aware he doesn’t always make the best decisions.

Louis
What the hell, sure
But only because I’m bored and I need to be free from this flat, not because I particularly enjoy your company

DO NOT ANSWER
That’s crazy because I don’t remember asking your reason why

Louis
Shut up dickhead
You’re the one who invited me

DO NOT ANSWER
Come to my place in an hour
And wear something warm it’s gonna be cold out

Louis
Don’t tell me what to do
And meet up outside of mine, I’m not walking over to your place in this weather

Harry reacts with a thumbs-up and leaves it at that.

Louis stares at the screen longer than necessary, trying not to feel too disappointed by the non-answer. It’s stupid—he should’ve expected it. Instead of dwelling on it any longer, he goes to Harry’s contact and changes the name. He knows he’s long past the point of no contact, but he’s still petty enough not to use Harry’s actual name.

Louis is not that forgiving.

He sighs loudly and tosses his phone onto the bed. Then he rolls off the mattress, dragging himself toward the closet. He stares blankly at his clothes, arms crossed. He’s good at dressing up for nights out, but this isn’t a real night out. It’s Harry and some strangers.

And yet… Louis finds himself second-guessing everything. He wants to look good. But not like he tried too hard. Not for Harry.

He pauses.

Why the fuck does he care that much?

Eventually, he pulls on a pair of jeans and a maroon top that clings in the right places, showing off his arms and just enough collarbone to be interesting. Then he stands in front of the mirror, fixing his hair and fussing with the little details, because if he’s going to spiral emotionally, he might as well do it while looking hot.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his door slamming open, and Zayn walking in like he owns the place.

“Thanks for knocking,” Louis says dryly.

“You’re welcome,” Zayn replies, flopping himself down on Louis’ bed. “I’m bored. Can we go out tonight?”

“I have plans,” Louis replies, continuing to fix his hair. 

Zayn furrows his brows. “You do?”

“What, you think I hole myself up here all day?”

“More like someone holes themself in you,” Zayn says under his breath.

Louis ignores him. “I’m going to a concert with a friend. Are you just gonna sit there and stare at me while I get ready?”

“Yes. Can I play music?”

“Yeah, use my phone though. You always forget to disconnect your Bluetooth.”

Zayn is good company, honestly. He doesn’t question the amount of time Louis spends on his appearance, unlike Liam or Niall, and he actually has decent music taste. The combination of background noise and idle conversation helps calm Louis’ nerves.

“You planning to pull tonight?” Zayn asks, head hanging upside-down off the bed as he scrolls through the playlist.

Louis glances down at his outfit. “No,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you look hot,” Zayn replies simply. “Maybe you’ll find some sexy guy to drag home. God knows you need it.”

“I’m not looking to find anyone tonight,” Louis says, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Then why are you going?” Zayn squints at him. “What concert is this anyway? And who are you going with?”

Louis waves a hand. “Just someone in passing. They had an extra ticket, figured why not. I’ll let you know if they’re any good.”

Zayn opens his mouth, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push. Instead, he sighs and turns back to the phone like it’s more interesting than Louis’ half-truths. Louis is quietly grateful for that.

“You know you’re not slick, right?” Zayn says a beat later, deadpan.

Louis freezes, eyes meeting Zayn’s through the mirror. “What do you mean?”

“Your Uber Driver texted.”

Louis’ head turns quickly, staring at his friend with wide eyes. “Zayn—!”

He lunges, but Zayn is already off the bed, phone in hand, scrolling as he strolls hurriedly toward the hallway. Louis crashes onto the mattress with a grunt, then scrambles up, cursing himself for ever telling Zayn his passcode.

“Can’t wait to have my hands all over you, baby,” Zayn reads, dragging out the words in a low, mocking drawl—definitely an impersonation of Harry. “God, I wish your lips were wrapped around me right now.”

Louis’ face ignites. He practically sprints after him, ignoring the way his shirt is riding up and his hair’s a mess. Heat coils low in his stomach, the words making his ears burn.

“Noticed you on campus today,” Zayn continues, snorting. “Glad to see you still can’t walk straight.”

Louis tackles him. They almost go down, but Zayn twists away at the last second, and Louis crashes onto the couch cushions instead. He groans, glaring up at Zayn, though his flushed face does little to back up his glare.

“You must have a really unprofessional relationship with your ‘Uber Driver,’” Zayn says, prodding Louis’ stomach with his foot to keep him down.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew exactly how you’d react,” Louis grunts.

“How’d you even meet this ‘Uber Driver’ anyway?” Zayn asks, voice dripping with sarcasm as he saunters toward the dining room. “Was it like the start of some trashy porno? Card declines, and you pay with a blowie?”

Louis shudders but pushes to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his side. “Give me my phone and I’ll tell you.”

Zayn raises an eyebrow, giving Louis a flat look. “Do you really expect me to believe these texts are with your Uber Driver?”

Louis ignores him, making another grab for his phone. Zayn dodges easily.

He jumps onto a dining chair, holding the phone overhead to keep out of Louis’ reach. “I can just imagine you right now, absolutely begging for it. That’s the reason why you’re still awake, huh? Can’t go a night without your daily dose of—oh God!” Zayn exclaims, nearly dropping Louis’ phone. 

Louis takes the opportunity to pull Zayn’s arm down, prying his phone out of his grip.

Zayn slaps a hand over his eyes, scrubbing hard like he’s trying to erase the image from his brain. “Gah! I need bleach!”

“That’s what you get for snooping.”

“Was that a dick pic?”

Louis scrolls down to the most recent messages—Zayn really did scroll far—and reads Harry’s texts.

Uber Driver
I’m outside
Or I could come inside
If you know what I mean ;) ;)

Louis’ face instantly begins to flush, starting at his neck and creeping up to his cheeks. He walks out of the dining room, ignoring Zayn’s exaggerated gagging behind him.

Louis
FUCK YOU

Uber Driver
Oh I would really like to fuck you

Louis
SHUT UP
STAY THERE
I’ll be down soon

“I’ll be back tonight!” Louis calls, grabbing his keys and grabbing his black jacket hanging from the hook. “Or maybe not.” Probably not, if they’re being honest.

“We’re going to talk about this!” Zayn shouts as Louis rushes out the door.

He knows he’s in for a stern lecture from Liam and Zayn, an inevitable intervention, but he pushes that thought down as he heads outside.

The cold hits immediately. Autumn always flips from tolerable to freezing overnight, and Louis, who’s always run cold, instantly regrets not grabbing a thicker coat. But going back inside would mean seeing Zayn again, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

Harry leans against the side of the building, curls tucked beneath a beanie, wrapped in a thick coat. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, but the moment his eyes meet Louis’, his dimples flash instinctively. Louis pushes down the pull of attraction, instead locking onto the smirk and raised eyebrows as Harry surveys his outfit. For a brief second, Harry’s gaze darkens as it lingers over Louis’ exposed collarbones, then narrows sharply when he takes in the thinness of the jacket Louis wears.

“Nice jacket, babe,” Harry says sarcastically, crossing his arms.

“Thanks. And don’t call me babe,” Louis responds, resisting the urge to tug the jacket tighter around himself.

Harry rolls his eyes and turns, already walking toward the tube without offering another glance. Louis bites back a groan. It’s always like this—one second Harry’s eyeing him like he wants to drag him into the nearest alley, and the next he’s acting like Louis is a mild inconvenience.

“So, what concert is this?” Louis asks, catching up to match Harry’s stride. “And how much do I owe you?”

“It’s some indie rock band I figured you’d like,” Harry answers. “And don’t worry about it. It’s free. I’m their photographer for the night.”

“Oh, so the freelance gigs are still going?” Louis says lightly, genuinely curious. He remembers how Harry always preferred concert shoots to things like proposals or baby showers. It was one of the few times he seemed truly in his element.

“Yeah. Just small ones here and there,” Harry says. “This band’s one of my regulars. Met them when they opened for a client I shot over the summer. They’re gaining traction—kind of your sound, actually. The lead singer, Viv, is really cool. I was thinking of introducing you. Connections and all that.”

Louis’ heart lurches. It’s stupid, but the thought that Harry still thinks of him in that way—supportive, thoughtful, looking out for his music—makes something tight and warm twist in his chest. It’s the Harry he used to know. The Harry who always showed up, who bragged about Louis’ voice to anyone who would listen. The one who felt like home.

But it also reminds Louis of how detached Harry is from his life now. How he doesn’t even know that he’s taking business more seriously over music.

“You don’t have to do that,” Louis says quietly. 

“If you spew some bullshit about charity—”

“No, it’s just—” Louis hesitates, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Music’s not really my main focus anymore.”

Harry’s steps don’t falter, but his expression does. He turns to Louis, confusion etched across his face, his lips parting slightly like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“But you were great at your last gig,” Harry says, brows knitting together.

“But it’s just the same songs as always,” Louis mutters, not mentioning the new ones he’d written and pointedly avoided performing.

“You’re not writing anymore?”

“Not really.” Louis shrugs. “Flat’s too small. Can’t exactly crash around on the guitar when Liam and Zayn are trying to study or sleep. I don’t want to be that guy.”

“But that never stopped you in the past.”

“Things change.” Louis says softly. “I’ve been busy with work anyway.” He tries not to let the sadness seep into his voice, but he knows it’s there.

There’s a pause, just a beat too long. Then Harry says, quieter, “You could always write at mine, you know. Mitch is rarely around. I always liked working while you played.”

Louis snorts. “Of course Mitch is never around,” he mutters. He still hasn’t met this so-called roommate, who conveniently vanishes every time Louis is over. “I doubt he’d be thrilled about some random guy hanging around all the time.”

“Mitch’s chill. He wouldn’t mind,” Harry says, shrugging. “I’m sure he’d be much happier to hear that you’re over to write music rather than to have sex with me.”

Louis pauses, mouth falling open slightly. “You told your flatmate about me?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Like your flatmates don’t know about me?” he retorts, emphasizing ‘flatmates’ in a way that makes Louis bristle.

“Don’t talk about Liam and Zayn like that. It’s different. They… they don’t know what we do.”

Harry scoffs. “Sure they don’t. I give it a week before they stage an intervention. The whole ‘this is for your own good’ spiel. And calling you out for your shitty lies.”

Louis opens his mouth to snap back, but stops. Because, annoyingly, Harry’s probably right. He’s spent so long painting Harry as the bad guy that he almost forgot the truth: Harry used to be part of their group. He knows Liam and Zayn better than most. And after everything ended, Niall was the only one Harry kept.

He knows he should feel smug about it. How after everything, Louis did kind of win this break-up. But he knows that neither of them really ‘won’.

So Louis drops it and shifts the conversation instead.

“I don’t think it’d be appropriate for me to write songs at your place,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know why,” Louis says, refusing to make eye contact with him.

They walk a few quiet steps, the chill in the air biting at Louis’ fingers even inside his pockets. Then Harry inhales sharply beside him, realization settling in.

“Oh. They’re about me?” Harry asks. It’s not teasing, just knowing, and slightly curious.

“Shut it,” Louis mutters, cheeks burning.

“No, no, I’m not judging or anything,” Harry says quickly. Louis glances over to see his own cheeks slightly flushed, either from the cold or something else entirely. “It’s cool. Everyone knew you were my muse when we were together.”

Louis’ heart stutters. His face burns even hotter, and for once, he’s grateful for the cold and the thinness of his jacket. At least it keeps the heat simmering under his skin from boiling over.

“I’ll think about it. That’s… nice of you,” Louis says, the words bitter on his tongue even if he means them.

Harry smirks. “Wow. Are you actually admitting I’m a nice person, Louis Tomlinson?”

“Don’t get used to it. Give me five minutes and I’ll remember how much I hate your ugly face.”

They fall into easy conversation as they walk, slipping into old rhythms like muscle memory. Louis lets himself get lost in it—the way talking to Harry feels like coming up for air, but deep down, the reminder simmers low in his gut. As nice as this all feels, it’s just the warm-up act. Foreplay before they end up tangled together in Harry’s sheets again.

At the station, a gust of wind cuts through him, raising goosebumps on his skin. Louis tries not to react, but Harry notices anyway.

“You’re cold,” Harry says. “Here, take my jacket.”

“There’s no need,” Louis insists, but Harry’s already shrugging it off and draping it over his shoulders.

“You run cold,” Harry says, matter-of-fact, his hands adjusting the collar around Louis. The familiar scent of Harry’s cologne—woodsy, warm—wraps around him. “And besides, I knew you’d be stubborn, so I dressed warmer on purpose.”

“I still feel bad,” Louis mumbles, tugging the jacket closer.

“Fine. You get the jacket, but I get to use your shoulder as a headrest,” Harry says. Louis nods. Reasonable enough. “And you have to be nice to me for the rest of the night.”

“Okay, now that’s too far,” Louis teases, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. Still, he threads his arms into the sleeves, trying not to dwell on the quiet comfort of it. On how, once, this was normal. Once, Harry’s jackets were always his to wear.

And for a second, it feels like they’ve slipped back into something they can’t quite name, something they might never fully get back.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

“Harry Styles,” Harry says, flashing a pass on a lanyard to the security guard at the venue entrance. He threads his fingers around Louis’, offering the man a charming grin. “And plus one.”

The security guard nods them through without a second glance, and Harry leads Louis down a long hallway that hums faintly with bass from the sound system. Posters of previous shows line the walls, some curling at the corners, others glossy and new. Louis takes it all in—the clatter of gear cases, the muffled sounds of a band running through soundcheck, the buzz of energy in the air. It’s chaotic, but it’s alive.

“Makes me feel special, back here,” Louis says, glancing around. “No line, VIP access, seeing all the behind-the-scenes shit. I’m starting to get why you prefer shooting concerts.”

Harry laughs under his breath, tugging him in a little closer. “You know, this could be your future.”

“What, following you around like a lost puppy?”

“No. Being back here for your own set.”

Louis tries not to react, but the warmth that blooms under his skin is hard to ignore. He wants that future. Or at least, he used to.

Before he can respond, a voice cuts through the room.

“Harry, it’s so good to see you!”

A guy with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a wiry frame bounds toward them, beaming. He’s holding a pair of drumsticks in one hand and radiates the jittery energy of someone who’s had too much coffee, or thrives off attention. Louis immediately doesn’t like him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Adrien,” Harry says politely, his grip on Louis’ hand slipping away.

Louis watches closely. Harry’s posture shifts—subtle, but telling. He’s slightly hunched, his shoulders tense. His smile is tight, controlled. He keeps his distance.

Adrien either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He steps into Harry’s space, eyes trailing over him like he’s sizing him up, and Louis wants to slap the look right off his face.

“I’m glad you could make it to this one,” Adrien says, tilting his head flirtatiously. “You’ve been so hard to catch lately. What, last time was… first Saturday of September? You bailed on us, didn’t you?”

Louis frowns, his jealousy giving way to confusion. That date sounds familiar.

Harry clears his throat, and a bit of color rushes to his cheeks. “Yeah, I had… another commitment.”

Louis’ stomach turns as it clicks into place. That was the night of his last gig. 

Adrien laughs a little too loudly. “Mmm, a mystery man,” he says, leaning a little closer. “You know, I always figured you had better things to do, but now I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve made myself your Friday night plan instead.”

The flare of annoyance in Louis’ chest spikes into something hotter. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until his hand curls firmly around Harry’s bicep. He feels Harry instinctively relax into the touch, like it’s muscle memory. That does something dangerous to Louis, but right now, it’s secondary to the sharp possessiveness rising in his chest.

“Harry’s not one to back out of commitments,” Louis says casually, his tone even. “He said he wanted to introduce me to the band.”

Adrien’s eyes narrow, flicking toward him for the first time since he arrived.

“Oh, sorry.” Harry finally steps in, gesturing between them. “Louis, this is Adrien, the drummer. Adrien, this is my… uh… Louis.”

There’s a tiny hitch in Harry’s voice before his name, like he’s still figuring out what to call him. Louis pretends not to notice. Or tries to.

“Oh,” Adrien says, his voice tight as he looks over Louis. “Good to meet you.”

“Same,” Louis replies with a tight smile. “It’s always a pleasure meeting Harry’s clients.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“So,” Louis continues, voice light but pointed, “where’s the rest of the band? Didn’t you say I should meet one of the members—Viv, right?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, a slow smile curving his lips. “Yeah. I was just about to ask about her too,” he says, turning to Adrien. “Is she around?”

Adrien’s lips purse like he’s just sucked on something sour. His eyes flick between them, clearly doing the math, reading the situation.

“I’ll go see where she is,” he mutters, turning on his heel with a sharp click of his boots.

Louis watches him retreat, smug satisfaction blooming in his chest. He lets out a long breath, tension easing from his shoulders. But before he can fully settle, a soft snicker sounds beside him.

“What?” Louis snaps.

“Were you jealous?” Harry asks, a smile playing on his lips.

“Why would I be jealous?” Louis scowls, but the pinched look on his face gives him away.

Harry lifts the arm Louis is still gripping like a lifeline and wiggles it. “Maybe because your nails are digging into my arms,” he says. “You nearly set Adrien on fire with your eyes. And your voice? High-pitched and fake. Don’t act like I can’t tell when you’re being possessive, baby.”

“You’re so annoying,” Louis mutters, turning his face away, even as his grip stays put.

Harry just beams, dimples deepening. “First Mae, now Adrien,” he teases. “Do you really think I’d hook up with any random person I know? Who do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a man with a type,” Louis retorts.

Aggravatingly, Harry doesn’t falter. If anything, he grins wider. He leans in closer, crowding into Louis’ space. “Not true. I’ve never really been into drummers,” he says, lips ghosting over Louis’ ear. “Singers have better breath control.”

Louis rolls his eyes, but his body betrays him—he shivers, heat curling down his spine. He hates how good Harry is at this. Hates it even more that it still works.

Before Louis can fire something snarky back, a voice cuts through the air.

“Harry!”

They both turn just as a girl with curly dark hair and a bright smile bounds toward them, eyes crinkling at the corners. She’s radiant, energy radiating off her like sunlight.

“Vivian!” Harry beams, pulling her into a hug. It’s instantly more natural than he’d been with Adrien—his shoulders relax, and he grins like he means it. He turns back to Louis, slipping a hand into his. “Louis, this is the lead singer of the band, Vivian. And Viv, this is Louis.”

“Louis, huh?” she says, offering a hand. “Nice to meet you. Harry’s said good things.”

“Has he?” Louis asks, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes at Harry, who only shrugs, far too pleased with himself.

“Harry says you’re into music?” Vivian asks.

“Kind of,” Louis replies, suddenly self-conscious. “I’ve posted a couple videos on Instagram, and some gigs, but that’s about it. Nothing serious.”

“He’s being modest,” Harry jumps in, nudging his shoulder. “He’s got a great voice. And he writes, too.”

Vivian’s eyes light up. “That’s amazing. Honestly, half the battle is just getting something out there. That’s how we started, actually. Back in school, we joined this Battle of the Bands on a whim. Total chaos—we barely practiced, but people could tell we cared. Sometimes heart matters more than polish.”

Louis chuckles. “Well, I’ve definitely got chaos. Not sure about heart.”

“You’ve got both,” Harry says simply, like it’s fact. “You just don’t let yourself believe it.”

Louis ducks his head, his ears burning. “Thanks. That’s… really nice of you. I’ll think about it.”

“You should,” Vivian says warmly, then glances between them, eyes twinkling. “You’re cute together, by the way.”

Louis opens his mouth to correct her, maybe instead playing it off that they’re just friends, but Harry pulls him in closer, squeezing his waist.

“Thanks,” Harry says, leaning into Louis.

Louis doesn’t correct him. Maybe he should, but he still doesn’t.

The show is better than Louis expected. Vivian’s voice is electric, the band tight and loud and alive. Harry was right. They do sound like him. Or like how he wants to be.

Harry’s busy for the first few songs, slipping between side angles, taking candid photos under the colorful lights. But not long after, he puts the camera away and finds his way back to Louis, standing beside him near the back of the room.

Harry’s hand lands lightly on the small of Louis’ back, firm but gentle, like a tether. And it doesn’t stop there—his touch slowly drifts lower, fingertips ghosting down until they rest at the curve of Louis’ arse, thumb grazing ever so slightly.

Louis’ breath stutters in his throat. He tries to focus on the stage, on anything but the heat curling low in his stomach, but it’s impossible with Harry’s hand on him like that, casual and bold and familiar.

“Wanna get out of here?” Harry murmurs, breath hot against Louis’ ear.

“Don’t you need to get post-show pictures of the band?” Louis asks.

Harry’s hands slide around his waist, large and steady, fingers playing at the hem of his shirt. They dip under the fabric, just enough to graze Louis’ skin—rough fingertips meeting soft flesh. Louis shivers. “Thinking of something else I need to do more.”

Louis is a weak man. He nods, swallowing the thickness in his throat. “Let’s get out of here.”

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

The second Harry unlocks the door to his flat, Louis is shoved up against the wall, Harry’s lips crashing into his. Louis’ head thuds lightly against the surface behind him as Harry’s arms wrap tight around his waist, pulling him closer, his tongue immediately sliding past Louis’ lips like he can’t wait another second.

“Wanted to tear these clothes off the second I saw you,” Harry growls, hands firmly gripping Louis’ arse. “God, you had to know what you were doing.”

“Maybe,” Louis says, breathless and smug. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Harry grins, eyes dark with mischief and desire, and before Louis can react, he’s being hoisted up, folded in half over Harry’s shoulder. He lets out a startled yelp, limbs flailing more for chaos than escape, just to be a little shit. Harry, unfazed, delivers a firm smack to his arse, and Louis quiets with a huff, grinning into Harry’s back.

Louis fully expects Harry to carry him straight to the bedroom, so he’s caught off guard when Harry stops short in front of the sofa and unceremoniously drops him onto the cushions.

“Here?” Louis asks, eyes wide.

“Mitch isn’t home,” Harry says casually, already yanking his shirt off.

Louis snorts. “Seems like Mitch is never home.”

He doesn’t protest further, not with the way Harry is undressing him with his eyes, and then literally. Louis lets himself sink into the cushions as Harry strips him quickly, his cock already heavy and leaking, eyes trailing possessively over Louis’ skin.

“Turn over,” Harry murmurs. Louis moves too slowly for Harry’s liking, apparently, because the next thing he knows, he’s flipped over, bare arse in the air.

He hears the cushions shift behind him—Harry settling in—and braces for slick fingers. Instead, what he gets is hot breath… and then a long, deliberate lick over his taint that has him gasping.

“Harry—oh God,” Louis groans, forehead dropping to his arm.

Harry’s always had a thing for eating him out, claiming Louis was built for it, and now, Louis remembers exactly why. It’s filthy and intimate and completely unhinges him. Each swipe of Harry’s tongue followed by a teasing press of his fingers has Louis a mess in minutes, rocking back against the touch, moaning shamelessly.

Harry continues to open him up with his tongue and fingers, motivated by Louis’ loud sounds. Each lick sends him deeper into bliss, but he’s still craving one thing.

“Harry,” he gasps, dizzy with pleasure.

“Hmm?”

“On with it.”

“On with what?” Harry replies innocently, and Louis almost growls in frustration.

Louis bites back the urge to growl in frustration. “You know what.”

Harry hums like he didn’t hear him, the vibrations of his mouth pulling at the rim of his hole.

“You’re such a—ah, fuck—fine!” Louis relents, almost close to tears. “Please, Harry. Please fuck me. I need you in me.”

Harry lets out a low, amused laugh as he tears open a condom packet. Louis isn’t sure when or how his trousers disappeared, or when Harry even grabbed the condom, but he’s certainly not about to question it. “You just had to ask, baby.”

Louis feels the blunt press of Harry’s cock at his entrance—thick and hot, but instead of pushing in, Harry teases him, sliding just the tip inside before pulling back out each time Louis groans. He’s seconds away from snapping at his ex to get on with it when Harry finally sinks in with one smooth thrust, knocking the breath from Louis’ lungs. There’s barely a moment to adjust before Harry sets a relentless pace, driving him into the cushions.

“Harry!” he cries out, holding on for dear life.

“You asked,” Harry replies, not faltering for a second. Louis doesn’t even have time to protest—he just rides the waves of pleasure, groaning and writhing as Harry splits him open again and again.

“Down, down,” Harry murmurs, pressing a steady hand between Louis’ shoulder blades.

With a roll of his eyes, Louis sinks to his elbows, chest dipping into the cushions. He arches his back deliberately, pushing back to grind against Harry’s cock. The angle shifts, Harry’s hips slotting flush against him, and they both groan at the deeper connection.

Louis braces himself, muscles flexing as he rocks back again and again, chasing that perfect spot inside him. He moves himself back and forth, uncaring of the pathetic position he’s in, just caring for the own pleasure he feels. But Harry groans in frustration, hands tightening around Louis’ hips to still him. He pushes him down by pressing on his back, keeping him flat, face buried in the cushions, and he takes control, thrusts rough and relentless.

“Look at you,” Harry pants, fucking him hard. “Ass up, taking it so easy. Tell me—does anyone else make you feel like this?”

Louis whines, shaking his head, the sound muffled in the cushions. He can’t even form words by the time Harry leans over him, chest slick against his back, breath hot against his ear.

“Tell me,” Harry growls.

“No, just—fuck!” Louis gasps, squirming as Harry hits his spot dead-on. “Just you, just you.”

Harry chuckles low in his throat. “I can tell. You’re squeezing me so tight, baby. Nothing feels better than this.”

Some part of Louis thinks it’s probably a lie, that Harry’s undoubtedly been with others since the breakup, but he doesn’t care. Even if it’s just dirty talk to push them over the edge, it’s working.

“Harry, Harry, please—” he begs, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto.

Louis’ protests fell on deaf ears. Harry is too far gone now, frantic and desperate. The obscene slap of skin on skin, the ragged breaths and breathy moans between them, fill the space around them. Louis chokes on broken noises as each thrust knocks the air from his lungs.

“Ah, ah, ah—”

Every thrust lands perfectly, pressure building deep in his belly. He reaches down, fingers wrapping around his leaking cock, stroking in time with Harry’s rhythm.

“So perfect, so good, so—fuck!” Harry groans, hands gripping Louis tighter as he comes, hips pressed flush to Louis’ ass.

Louis comes moments later, gasping as release spills across his hand and stomach, hot and messy against the couch. He lets out a soft whine when Harry pulls out, his hole fluttering at the sudden emptiness, the air heavy with sweat and sex.

Behind him, he hears the rustle of movement—Harry peeling off the condom and shifting slightly on the cushions. Louis glances down and snorts at the mess they’ve made.

“You should’ve grabbed a towel,” he mutters, eyeing the sticky spot on the cushion. “Bit of a mess, that.”

“Shit,” Harry groans, manhandling Louis by scooping him up by the armpits and setting him on his feet. Louis sways a little, body sore but satisfied, and watches as Harry crouches to examine the damage.

“Fucking brilliant,” Harry grumbles, grabbing Louis’ discarded shirt and trying—unsuccessfully—to clear the stain. “Ah, well. I bought the couch,” he says, shrugging. “Mitch’ll cope.”

“You’re a terrible flatmate. Thanks for using my shirt as a rag, by the way.” 

“You’re welcome. I’ll give you something to wear to bed.” 

“Bold of you to assume I’m staying the night,” Louis mutters under his breath, but he follows Harry to his room anyway. 

Harry tosses him a pair of boxers that hang low on his hips but are soft and worn and, annoyingly, feel like him. They shower together—just enough rinsing to wash off the sweat and stickiness, too lazy for round two—and brush their teeth side by side. Louis has a toothbrush here now. He tries not to think too hard about that.

Back in bed, there’s less space than usual between them. Louis expects Harry to curl up facing the wall like he sometimes does, leaving just enough distance to remind them both that this is casual. Instead, Harry tugs Louis in, face nuzzling into Louis’ hair like it’s muscle memory.

“You’ve been quiet during sex now,” Harry murmurs against Louis’ hair.

Louis snorts, the sound muffled by Harry’s chest. He knows damn well that his noises are what spurs Harry on. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Harry says softly. “I’ve noticed it for a while now.”

There’s something in his voice—uncertainty, maybe even a hint of self-doubt—that makes Louis pause. His brows furrow. Did he do something wrong?

“Harry,” Louis says, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Are you feeling a little insecure? I assure you, your sexual prowess has not faded post-breakup. You’re doing just fine.”

He expects Harry to laugh, maybe roll his eyes or pin Louis to the mattress to prove him wrong. But the teasing comeback never comes. Harry’s frown lingers, a small crease forming between his brows like he’s trying to put something into words and failing.

“No, it’s just—” Harry sighs, low and frustrated, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Hey.” Louis’ tone softens as he brushes a curl from Harry’s forehead. “Are we okay? I thought you liked it when I’m loud. You said it was fine—your flatmate’s not even home.”

Their eyes lock, blue meeting green in the soft darkness. Louis can barely make out the details of Harry’s face, but the silence between them is heavy with things neither of them can quite say.

“Yeah. We’re okay,” Harry murmurs after a beat. “I’m just being dumb.”

Louis huffs a quiet laugh. “We’re both dumb. Comes with the company.”

Harry smiles faintly, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he shifts, the sheets rustling as he turns and reaches behind himself. He grabs Louis’ hands and gently pulls them around his waist, tugging him close until Louis is spooning him, face buried in the mess of curls.

“Can you—?” Harry starts, but Louis is already adjusting, tucking his knees into the bend of Harry’s and curling closer. The warmth of bare skin against his own is grounding.

“So needy,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes. But there’s no bite in it. He tangles their legs together, and Harry lets out a soft, content sound that Louis pretends he doesn’t find painfully endearing.

And if Louis presses a few slow, barely-there kisses to the back of Harry’s neck as they drift off, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Louis drags himself through the door, mentally and physically drained, worn thin by work, classes, and life in general. He’s been pouring all of his time into staying busy: grinding through his work, studying late, and—most often—falling back into Harry’s bed.

He knows hooking up with his ex probably isn’t the healthiest outlet for his stress, but at this point, he doesn’t care. He knows Zayn, Liam, and Niall all see right through him, but they haven’t said anything yet, and Louis has been taking full advantage of their silence while it lasts.

Because he knows it’s going to run out.

And, of course, he’s right.

There, sitting on the sofa, is Zayn. He’s staring at the door, like a disappointed parent waiting to scold their rebellious teen for breaking curfew.

Louis knows this setup all too well.

“What is this?” Louis asks, dread creeping up his spine.

Zayn doesn’t blink. “An intervention.”

Louis turns sharply, heading for the door, but Liam appears in the doorway, blocking him in, with his arms crossed. 

“You’re not getting out of this, Lou,” Liam says firmly.

Louis pauses, eyeing the door, wondering if he can make a break for it, but with Liam’s deadpan stare locking him in place, he knows he’s trapped.

“Really? An intervention?” Louis scoffs, laughing nervously. “I’m not an addict, you know.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Maybe a sex addict,” he mutters, taking a step forward and guiding Louis back toward the couch. 

“Or an addict to Harry’s cock,” Zayn adds.

Louis stares at him, incredulous. “Are you slut-shaming me? Rude,” he says, trying to keep his tone light, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach is twisting tighter with every word.

“So you admit it!” Zayn exclaims.

“What?”

“You’ve been seeing Harry!”

Louis internally is screaming, but manages to keep his cool despite the panic bubbling up in his chest. “I haven’t.”

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose, like he’s arguing with a toddler. “Louis, you’ve barely been in the flat lately.”

“I’ve been busy with work and classes,” Louis protests, knowing the excuse is weak.

“I’ve literally seen Harry’s texts to you,” Zayn chimes in.

“How are you so sure it’s Harry?” Louis retorts. “Maybe I’ve been getting it from someone else. I know that you’ve been pushing me to see others and—”

“God, Louis, stop lying to us!” Liam exclaims, voice raising. Louis flinches, which makes Liam soften his voice a bit. “We’re looking out for you, yeah?”

“And that means we have to have this talk about you seeing Harry,” Zayn adds.

Louis stumbles over his words, panic bubbling up in his chest. “I have not! I swear on my life, I haven’t been—” He cuts himself off, the lie spilling out too quickly, too defensively. “I haven’t, okay? Really, I haven’t.”

Liam and Zayn exchange a glance. Liam sighs, rubbing his face. “Lou, we know you’ve been seeing him. And… uh, sleeping with him.”

Louis swallows hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been seeing him. I haven’t slept with him,” he says quickly, but the lie sticks in his throat. “And I definitely don’t want to get back with him. Not even close.” 

His voice wavers on the last part. Truth be told, that one’s a little more complicated.

“You’re so full of shit,” Liam mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Lou, we know you. You’re not as clever as you think. What you’ve got with Harry? It’s not healthy.”

Louis glares at him. “You’re both being ridiculous. I don’t need an intervention. I’m fine.”

Zayn scoffs. “Fine? Really? Because last time we checked, ‘fine’ wasn’t sneaking around behind everyone’s back like some kind of secret lover.”

Louis opens his mouth to argue but stops, realizing he’s got no good rebuttal.

“I don’t want to get back with him,” Louis says, though it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “Yes, maybe I’ve been messing around with Harry. But it’s casual. It’s just sex. No big deal.”

Liam leans forward, his eyes hard. “If it’s no big deal, why are you lying to us about it? Why do you keep making excuses?”

Louis’ blood boils, frustration bubbling up inside him. He doesn’t even know the answer to that question. And that’s what makes it so damn infuriating.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Louis snaps.

Zayn gives him a sympathetic look that only makes his anger grow. “You can’t keep pretending this is nothing, Lou. You and Harry? You’ve got a history. And it’s obvious you’re more tangled up in it than you want to admit.”

Louis’ voice cracks, but he forces the words out anyway, frustration sharpening his tone. “I’m not tangled up in it. I’m not doing anything wrong. I just—” He cuts himself off, realizing how unconvincing he sounds.

Because Liam and Zayn are right. It’s more than just sex—it’s the comfort of Harry, of his presence and of what they used to have. Harry broke his heart, sure, but he was Louis’ first actual, genuine love. Even playing with those past emotions is like playing with fire.

Liam sighs deeply. “It’s wrong and you know it. You’re hurting yourself, and you’re hurting Harry. You’re both too stubborn to admit it.”

Louis’ temper flares, and he stands up abruptly, brushing past them. “You don’t know anything about me or what I need.” His voice shakes with anger, and he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

His heart pounds in his chest, and his mind races. He can’t deal with this. Not now. Not when he’s already falling apart inside. He needs space. He needs to not think.

And of course, there’s only one person who can get his head out of his arse.

Louis
Hey are you busy
Hellooooo

Louis
Oh so your fingers worked when they were inside me last night but now they can’t text me back

Louis doesn’t know how he ends up at Harry’s flat. His feet just kind of carry him there, like a muscle memory he’s tried to ignore for months. He raises his hand to knock at the door, but a familiar voice from inside stops him cold.

“Listen, Harry, I’m not trying to attack you or anything… but I’m just, like, looking out for you here.” 

Niall’s voice is loud enough for Louis to hear through the door, but it’s not angry, just… concerned. As far as Louis knows, even though Niall and Harry were close friends before the breakup, Niall has only seen the other man in passing. Louis is a bit surprised to hear his voice.

“Oh, really?” Harry responds, sounding a bit tired.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s kind of obvious. I just don’t know if it’s the best idea—for you or for Louis. Playing with old feelings is like playing with fire. Someone, or both of you, will end up being hurt if you don’t address it.”

A long, low sigh comes in response. “I really don’t need to hear your judgment. Why should I—you’re his friend, not mine.”

The words come out of Harry’s mouth almost disdainfully, spat out like poison.

“I still care for you,” Niall says.

“Oh, you do? Because it sure doesn’t seem like it—especially not then.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know what Harry is talking about. After their breakup, Harry was the undisputed villain. Niall chose to support Louis, even though he and Harry used to be close, and though Harry is good at pretending he doesn’t care, he does.

“Then let me prove it to you now. I worry about both of you, equally. That’s why I came to check on you, and tell you that what you have going on is not healthy.”

“I’m fine, Niall. Honestly, I’m fine.” Harry’s voice comes next, but Louis can hear the crack in it, the slight hesitance. Louis hates how easily he was able to read it.

“No, you’re not,” Niall presses, his voice gentle but insistent. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s bad, mate. It’s just going to end up hurting both of you. You’ve got to stop pretending it’s okay—you’ve got to let go.”

The words cut through Louis like a blade. His chest tightens, and the knot in his stomach feels like it’s strangling him. It’s exactly what he’s been avoiding. Exactly what he’s been trying to ignore.

Louis doesn’t wait for Harry’s response. He walks away.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

There was never a good time to break up with your long term boyfriend, per se, but eventually there’s a point in which you had to do it, even though it would hurt.

Louis and Harry weren’t on the same wavelength anymore. Actually, it felt like they weren’t even in the same universe. Their conversations had turned clipped, their touches awkward. The possessiveness they used to find hot had curdled into something more ugly. Louis no longer felt at home in their flat; the air between them was tense, suffocating.

They had some talks about it, but nothing seemed to stick. So after months of trying and trying, Louis made the decision that neither of them wanted to come to.

He was going to break up with him.

He knew he had to do it. But actually doing it—looking Harry Styles in the eye and saying those words—felt impossible.

How do you break up with the person you thought was your forever?

Louis turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, only to stop short. The lights were dimmed, soft music played from the speakers—one of Harry’s favorite playlists—and the warm scent of garlic and herbs floated through the air.

“Hello?” he called, voice hesitant.

Harry appeared from the kitchen, dressed down in a cozy sweater and jeans, curls tumbling into his eyes. His lips were pink, his cheeks flushed, like he’d been nervously biting them for hours.

“Hey,” Harry said, a smile tugging at his lips.

Louis blinked, stunned. “Hey.”

Before he could say another word, Harry crossed the room, cupped his face and kissed him slow and sweet, like he was afraid it might be the last time.

The tightness in Louis’ chest cracked open. He sighed into the kiss, hands sliding instinctively to Harry’s shoulders, holding him close. God, it had been so long since they’d touched without it ending in an argument. He almost forgot what it felt like to just… be with Harry.

Harry pulled back, his hand gliding down Louis’ jaw, brushing at his pulse point. Louis let out a breath, already feeling the weight of the day slip from his shoulders.

“This is a nice surprise,” Louis murmured.

Harry’s blush deepened as he gestured toward the table, lit by soft candles and crowded with food. “I’ve been working on it for hours.”

Louis blinked slowly. He was honestly referring to the kiss, not even noticing the set-up Harry was working on. “You made this for me?” 

Harry ducked his head. “I know things have been… rough,” he admitted quietly. “I just… I wanted to do something nice. For us.”

Louis’ heart twisted painfully. He swallowed down the guilt, shoving away the reminder of what he’d planned to do tonight. Looking at Harry now—so soft, so sincere—he hated himself for even thinking of walking away without a fight.

“Thank you,” Louis whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

They ate. They talked awkwardly at first, then with ease. For the first time in ages, Louis laughed. Harry smiled that slow, sleepy smile that always made Louis’ chest ache.

By the time they cleared the plates, Louis had made his decision: he wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t going to break up with Harry. They could fix this. They could find their way back.

When Harry kissed him again, Louis let himself be pulled to the bedroom without resistance.

“Let me take care of you,” Harry murmured against his lips, tugging at the hem of Louis’ shirt. “Please.”

And Louis let him.

The sex wasn’t frantic, the way it sometimes got when they were trying to make up for fights. It was slow. Gentle. Reverent, almost. Harry mapped every inch of Louis’ body with his hands, his mouth, like he was trying to memorize him. After weeks of tension and even longer of awkwardness, it was the first night they were truly, actually on the same page.

When Harry finally pushed inside him, Louis’ breath caught, eyes fluttering shut. The world blurred around him. All he could hear was the soft creak of the mattress, the slap sounds of skin on skin, and Harry murmuring against his ear, breath warm.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, again and again, voice breaking between gasps. “I love you, Lou. God, I love you so much.”

Louis whimpered, arms and legs winding tighter around Harry’s body, tears pricking hot behind his eyes. For the first time in weeks, he believed they could make it.

Harry’s forehead was pressed to Louis’ temple. Louis gasped against his collarbone when Harry hit just the right spot, dissolving into breathless moans and soft, broken noises.

“I love you,” Harry choked as he came, voice wrecked and high. The words shattered something deep inside Louis, pulling his own release from him.

They stayed tangled, breath slowing, skin slick with sweat. Louis exhaled softly, his heart finally steady.

And then Harry pulled away.

Not in the lazy, sleepy way he usually did, eager to cuddle and talk in soft whispers. Harry pushed off the bed in jerky movements, eyes fixed downward, hands shaking as he grabbed for his clothes.

“Babe?” Louis asked, propping himself up on shaky elbows. His heart panged sharply in his chest. “What’s wrong?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just dressed himself with his head down. He wouldn’t even look at Louis before he left the room.

Louis’ stomach twisted violently. He threw on his clothes with trembling fingers and found Harry in the living room, standing by the window, staring into the dark.

“Harry,” Louis whispered, reaching out to draw him back. “Please. What’s going on?”

For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and Louis felt his breath leave his lungs. Harry’s eyes were distant, glassy, empty in a way Louis had never seen before.

“I don’t know if we should do this anymore,” Harry whispered, voice small and broken.

Louis’ heart stuttered violently. It felt like the world came to a halt. “What do you mean?”

Harry let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. “I don’t know if we work anymore,” he said. “I think… I think we should break up.”

The words felt like a stab to the chest. Louis reeled, breath catching painfully in his throat. 

“You—” His voice gave out. “Harry, you just said—”

“I know,” Harry interrupted. “I know. I mean it. I do love you. But we’re… we’re not good for each other anymore.”

Louis swallowed hard, the lump in his throat thick and suffocating. “We can fix it,” he whispered, desperate. “We can work through it. Just—just please talk to me.”

Harry’s expression hardened. “We don’t talk, Louis,” he said, his tone turning bitter. “That’s the problem. We just… pretend.”

Louis flinched. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t talk. We don’t talk. How are we supposed to be together when I don’t even know what you’re thinking?”

Louis felt a surge of anger curl low in his stomach, hot and sharp. He clenched his fingers, the numbness giving way to something sharper.

“Oh, so are you now the communication expert?” Louis said, voice raising. “It takes two people to make or break a relationship, Harry! You can’t just put all the blame on me, especially now that you’re the one who wants to end it without trying to fix us.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t have full intentions of breaking up with me when you walked in.” 

“Maybe I did!” Louis shouted back. The fight left in him tapered out as he looked at Harry—the love of his life, his Harry, looking at him with dead eyes. “Maybe I did,” he repeated, softer. “But I didn’t. I thought… I thought we could work it out.”

Harry’s face twisted. “Well, it seems like we can’t,” he said bitterly. “It’s over, Lou. It’s been over for a while. We’ve just been pretending it isn’t.”

The words hit him like a freight train, turning his blood cold. His throat felt clogged, almost, like his air was getting cut off.

“So what was this then?” Louis demanded, voice thick with disbelief, gesturing wildly toward the dining table and then toward the bedroom. “A last hurrah? A fucking farewell? Or was it just a final fuck before you kicked me to the curb like I’m nothing to you?”

Harry flinched like he was slapped, guilt written all over his face. “Bab—Louis,” he said, stepping closer, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out for him. “I’m really sorry—”

“Fuck you, Harry Styles,” Louis spat out, words stuck between his teeth as he tried desperately not to let tears fall. “Fuck you.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel, his vision blurring with tears he couldn’t stop.

As the door slammed shut behind him, he waited—prayed—for Harry to call after him.

But the silence was deafening.

He made it to the curb before his legs gave out, sinking down onto the cold concrete. His hands trembled as he ran them through his hair, tugging at the strands, his vision blurring with tears that wouldn’t stop falling. The first sob escaped before he could stop it—wet and ugly. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, his chest heaving as the panic set in.

With shaking hands, he called Zayn, trying to keep his composure.

The call continued to ring until it eventually reached voicemail. Louis didn’t hesitate to recall. Even though he knew Zayn hated getting woken up in the middle of night, Zayn would hate to not be there for Louis after he got his heart broken.

“Lou?” Zayn’s groggy voice said through the phone. “What’s wrong?”

Louis opened his mouth, but the sobs came instead. He slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hold it in, but it was no use. The sounds tore out of him anyway.

“Hey, hey,” Zayn said quickly, his voice sharpening as he sat up. Louis could hear the rustle of sheets in the background. “It’s okay, breathe. Breathe for me. You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Louis choked out between gasps. The tears streamed hot down his cheeks, soaking into the collar of his jacket. “I’m not okay.”

“Talk to me,” Zayn urged. “What happened?”

Louis squeezed his eyes shut, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. “I couldn’t do it,” he whispered. “I was going to. But I changed my mind, Zayn. I didn’t want to break up with him. But he broke up with me. He made me dinner, he—he fucked me, he told me he loved me,” Louis sobbed, his voice wet and hoarse, “and then he broke up with me while his come was still fucking dripping out of me.”

The last words fell from his lips on a whimper, his whole body folding in on itself. Nausea churned in his stomach. His cries came fast and broken, drowning out the night around him. He barely registered Zayn’s voice, promising he was on his way. All Louis could feel was the crushing weight of it all, his world splintering apart in real time.

Moments later, Zayn was there. He didn’t say a word. He just crouched down and gathered Louis into his arms, holding him tight against his chest. Louis buried his face in Zayn’s jacket, sobs wracking him as Zayn rocked them gently.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. All he knew was that Zayn didn’t let go.

Zayn was the one to hold him while he sobbed two weeks later, after the first time him and Harry fucked as exes and not as boyfriends.

The second time it happened, Liam and Zayn sat him down and told him it had to stop, that Harry was no good for him, that it would only break him all over again.

By the third time, Louis kept the wreckage entirely to himself.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

“I’m slightly convinced Mitch isn’t real.”

Harry’s lips twitch into a smile, dimples peeking through his cheeks. His eyes flicker from his screen to Louis, the glow of his laptop reflecting in his irises. “How so?”

Louis sets his guitar down beside him, leaning in. Harry had invited him over for dinner and a quick fuck, but it’s well past midnight now, and part two has yet to happen. Harry claimed he needed to finish editing some photos, while Louis had quietly been songwriting on the couch.

He’s been feeling rather inspired lately.

“First of all,” Louis begins, ticking points off with his fingers, “I’ve never actually seen him. Not once. I don’t even know what he looks like. And while I’ve allegedly heard him rummaging around the kitchen, that could be anyone.”

Harry humors him with a nod. “Go on.”

“Second—there’s no trace of him in this flat. No pictures, no belongings, just one mysteriously closed door that’s apparently his room. For all I know, it’s a broom cupboard.”

Harry laughs. “He has a mug with his name on it!”

“Maybe you bought that mug because it was on sale,” Louis shoots back, poking Harry with his bare foot. Harry bats him away, grinning. “And third, he’s never here. Who pays a fortune to live in a shitty little London flat just to not live in it?”

“Mitch is usually at his girlfriend’s,” Harry says. “And besides, I wouldn’t invite you over if he were home.”

“Possessive, much?”

“More like I don’t want to subject him to the sound of your screams,” Harry snorts, eyes back on his screen.

Louis watches him a beat too long, imagining what his glassy eyes would look like while he rides him into the mattress. Or delicate and tender when Louis kisses him, soft and sweet.

Focus, he tells himself. Focus.

He turns back to his guitar, fingers skimming across the strings as he tries to concentrate on the lyrics in front of him. It’s easier with Harry’s quiet presence beside him, that easy comfort between them. But in the silence, Liam and Zayn’s voices echo in his mind—their warning, their worry. How he’s toeing a line that shouldn’t be blurred.

“Liam and Zayn talked to me the other day,” Louis says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

“I’d hope so. You live with them.”

Louis nudges him in the shin. “Not like that, idiot. They confronted me. About… us.”

Harry glances up, brow raised. “I thought you said they didn’t know.”

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Louis replies. “They knew. They called me out.” He pauses. “Niall knows too.”

He looks up, searching Harry’s face, looking for a reaction. He hasn’t stopped thinking about what he overheard between Niall and Harry.

“He does?” Harry hums, barely reacting.

Louis frowns. Harry’s always been a good liar, but Louis can still read him. He knows Harry’s pretending not to care. Pretending not to know what this is turning into.

“Yeah,” Louis says after a beat. “They’ve all been on my arse about it. It’s nothing new, but… this time, it felt like something I should bring up.”

“About what?”

Louis opens his mouth, ready to say it—ready to repeat what the others told him. About how they’re slipping into old habits, into something dangerous. How they’re exes, but still orbiting each other too closely. Still playing with feelings that haven’t had the chance to settle, let alone heal.

But if Harry isn’t willing to say it, then what if Louis is the only one spiraling? What if Harry’s totally fine with this being casual, while Louis is the one trying to remind himself this is his ex?

“That when we’re together… it’s like nothing else exists.”

“My magic dick renders you that senseless?”

“Can you be serious for once?” Louis says, sighing, though he’s smiling despite himself. Harry snickers and shrugs, but stays quiet. “I mean it,” Louis continues. “We’re in this bubble—just the two of us. And it’s nice, sure, but it’s not smart. It feels like we’re ignoring everything else. Like we’re pretending none of it matters as long as we’re here. And it’s a secret. No one knows.”

“I wouldn’t say no one. Your friends know. Mitch knows.”

“I mean real people.”

“Mitch is real!”

“Mitch is a figment of your imagination,” Louis says, ignoring how Harry changed the subject with ease. “An imaginary flatmate you made up to hide the fact you paid for this flat yourself with all your fancy photography money.”

Harry snorts. “Money? And here I thought you were with me for my winning personality, not my fat wallet.”

“Your fat dick,” Louis corrects, ignoring Harry’s scoff of fake offense.

They lapse into a quiet stretch, something easy and familiar settling between them. Louis watches Harry refocus on his screen, his eyes flicking through edits. He looks so serious when he’s working. Focused. But still effortlessly attractive.

Something stirs in Louis’ chest—part admiration, part jealousy. This is Harry’s future, unfolding in real time. And Louis? He’s stuck. A struggling artist being told to stick to business classes and play it safe.

“But you’re having fun,” Louis says quietly, watching him.

“Of course,” Harry replies, not missing a beat. “I always have fun when I’m around you.”

Louis should roll his eyes. Should call him out on the obvious innuendo. But Harry’s tone is so soft, so sincere, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

He looks away, cheeks warm. “Not that,” Louis says. “I mean with your photography. The editing. All of it.”

Harry finally looks over. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “I am.”

Louis toys with the strings of his guitar, fingers pressing down just enough to feel the faint vibrations hum against his skin. He exhales.

“I don’t think I’m having fun.”

“With your songwriting?”

“No,” Louis murmurs, eyes downcast. “With my internship. With school. With… everything, really.”

He feels silly saying it out loud. There’s Harry, so grounded, so sure of his path, while Louis is stuck at a crossroads, caught between a secure life and a happy one. A future full of polished desks and steady paychecks, or one of chasing stages and maybe failing spectacularly. And Harry’s silence doesn’t help; it only makes the dread settle heavier in Louis’ chest, like it’s sinking into his bones.

He opens his mouth to change the subject, but Harry closes his laptop, slides it off his lap, and opens his arms.

“What are you doing?” Louis asks, brow raised. “Didn’t you say you had a deadline tonight?”

Harry shrugs, patting his lap. “I’ll finish it in the morning. Right now I want to cuddle.”

Louis tries to act reluctant, but his chest warms as he lets himself be pulled in. He sighs as he’s wrapped in Harry’s warm arms.

“You want to talk about it?”

Louis exhales again, shrugging. “It just feels like I haven’t had any time for music lately. Liam and Zayn are always around, and I’m constantly swamped with work and school. It’s like the universe is actively trying to keep me away from writing.” He pauses. “And the worst part is, my internship would probably offer me a full-time job after uni. Which sounds great, right? But it also feels like I’d be signing my soul away. I get this high from writing and performing, but I know being a musician is… a tough life. It doesn’t seem worth the risk.”

Harry threads their fingers together. “We’re still young, Lou. We’re allowed to be unsure. We’re allowed to fuck around a little before figuring it all out. You’ve got a solid foundation—you’re not throwing everything away by taking time to try.”

“But what if it’s a waste?” Louis asks. “What if I give up a stable, decent life for a pipe dream that leads nowhere?”

“If it’s really your dream, then it’s never a waste,” Harry says firmly. “You’re talented, Louis. You’ve got people rooting for you—friends, strangers, people who’ve never heard you yet. You can build something out of that.”

Louis hesitates. “Why is it…” he begins, then trails off as his mouth catches up to his thoughts. 

Why is it that, despite everything, I still feel like you’re the only one I can truly talk to?

“Why is it what?” Harry asks.

Louis shakes his head quickly. “Nothing.”

If Harry notices the dodge, he doesn’t press. Instead, he shifts down until Louis is lying fully on top of him, head tucked beneath his chin, heartbeat soft and steady beneath Louis’ cheek. Louis blames the warmth blooming in his chest on the layers between them.

“Wanna do something?”

“I’m not in the mood for you up my arse.”

“I meant a movie, you idiot,” Harry says, laughing. “Or TV. Whatever’s most mind-numbing.”

Louis pretends to think. “Movie. But no sappy rom-coms. I’m not in the mood.”

“You love my sappy rom-coms!”

“You love your sappy rom-coms,” Louis corrects, but he doesn’t move from Harry’s arms. Harry reaches for the remote with practiced ease, navigating the menus with one hand while the other stays looped around Louis’ waist. His bicep makes the perfect resting spot.

Louis settles in deeper, cheek pressed against Harry’s hoodie, breathing in that familiar scent. He’s pulled back to those early years of uni. The late nights, the lazy mornings, the comfort of shared silence. The closeness.

They didn’t have sex that night.

Honestly, they haven’t had sex the last few times either.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

“Harry’s coming tonight.”

Louis flinches so hard at the abrupt statement he nearly spills the drink he’s pouring, the one thing standing between him and ruining the outfit he’s spent hours fussing over. His head jerks up, eyes locking on Niall, who’s lounging in the kitchen doorway staring at Louis.

Niall’s flat is far less nicer than the one Louis shares with Liam and Zayn, but it’s undeniably one of the best places for a flat party. Louis swears their fridge has more alcohol than food, but he’s not complaining when it means free drinks. They’re at Niall’s now, drinking in advance of his flatmate Peter’s birthday, which will fill the flat once the rest of the attendees arrive. Louis had come early to keep Niall company, since Liam and Zayn are away for the weekend.

He isn’t even sure why he agreed. Niall dangled the prospect of meeting one of Peter’s hot friends, but Louis had waved it off—he has no interest in anyone, not with a certain ex still lingering. Still, he went. And the moment he walked in, Jackson, said hot friend of Peter, had zeroed in on him, making clumsy moves all evening. That’s why Louis is hiding out in the kitchen now, avoiding his advances and nursing his drink in peace.

So he shouldn’t be shocked when Niall casually drops Harry’s name. But it still knocks the air out of him.

Louis clears his throat, praying it doesn’t crack. “What?”

“I said Harry’s coming to the party,” Niall repeats slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

Niall’s watching for a reaction. Louis takes a long sip, hoping the rim hides his face.

“Okay,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice neutral. “Thanks for the warning. Now I can avoid any awkward run-ins, yeah?”

For half a second, he thinks he’s pulled it off. Then Niall just shakes his head and groans loudly and throws his hands up.

“I give up.”

Louis pulls a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re going to do something stupid tonight, and I’ll get the blame for the mess that follows.”

Louis scowls. “I’m a big boy, Niall. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Oh, it’s not you I’m worried about blaming me afterward,” Niall says.

“What, Liam and Zayn aren’t here tonight so now you’re on babysitting duty?” Louis rolls his eyes. “Harry and I aren’t going to kill each other. Promise.”

“It’s not killing each other I’m worried about,” Niall mutters, low enough Louis almost misses it.

Louis ignores him, brushing past toward the living room, but Niall’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around his elbow. Louis halts, meeting his eyes.

“Please,” Niall says, softer now, almost pleading. “Just… be careful tonight.”

When Louis steps back into the living room, his stomach sinks. The chair he’d claimed at the dining table is gone—now occupied by one of Jackson’s mates—leaving the only free spot right beside Jackson on the sofa. Jackson, who’s already watching him with that smug little smirk like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Louis exhales sharply through his nose and lowers himself into the seat.

“Didn’t think you’d leave me stranded,” Jackson says, leaning in close so Louis can hear him over the music and chatter. Their mouths are practically in the same space, and Louis knows it’s intentional. He resists the urge to recoil.

He forces a polite smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jackson grins. “So. What’s keeping you busy these days? Bet it’s something impressive.”

Louis shrugs lightly. “Nothing too exciting.”

“Really?” Jackson nudges his knee against Louis’, eyes lingering far too long. “That’s hard to believe.”

Louis brings the drink to his lips, keeping his expression neutral. “You’re overestimating me.”

Jackson leans closer, clearly taking his own words as an opening. “Someone like you? No way you’re single because of lack of interest. You’ve got to have something filling your time.” His tone drops, unmistakably suggestive.

Louis forces a small laugh, trying to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—else. “Oh, I’ve got an internship with a small business right now,” Louis answers vaguely, waving a hand, ignoring the pit of dread that always accompanies the topic. After a beat, he adds, softer, “But I’m also really into music.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, as if relieved Louis is finally giving him something to work with. “Yeah? Singing or playing?”

“Singing, writing, performing, all that. I pick up a couple gigs when I can.”

Jackson’s grin widens. He shifts, slinging his arm over the back of the couch in the oldest move in the book. One inch lower and it would be on Louis’ shoulders. Louis nearly rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Jackson says smoothly, “I’m into photography. Maybe I’ll come to one of your shows, shoot you while you perform.”

Of course he’s a concert photographer.

Louis almost laughs at the irony.

Thankfully, Jackson’s awkward attempts at flirting don’t last long. More people begin filing into the flat, voices overlapping with the thump of bass from a nearby speaker. Louis doesn’t know many people here, but at least the growing crowd gives him an excuse to slip away.

The party quickly hits its stride. Music blares, people laugh too loudly, and the air hums with conversation. It feels less like a birthday and more like the kind of chaotic flat party Niall’s flatmates are infamous for.

Despite Niall’s warning, Louis spends most of the night looking for one thing. One person.

Harry. 

And he finds him, standing near the kitchen. Louis moves towards him, but pauses. Harry’s not alone. He’s with Niall. 

Louis slows instinctively, eyes fixed on them. They’re talking, but something about the set of their mouths makes it look less like small talk and more like an argument. Niall’s face is tight with worry, hands moving in sharp gestures that scream pleading. The same look he had earlier when he told Louis to be careful. Harry, in contrast, looks tense, exasperated, like he wants to be anywhere else.

It ends quickly. Niall says something final and walks away, leaving Harry alone for half a second before he turns. Their eyes meet, green locked onto blue.

Louis lifts his hand, giving a small wave.

Harry’s face is unreadable. Completely flat. And then, without a flicker of acknowledgment, he turns and disappears into the crowd.

The rejection hits like a punch to the chest. Louis stands frozen for a beat, heart hammering off-rhythm, the sound of the party distant under the rush in his ears. No one else notices, but it feels like the floor tilted beneath him.

He starts moving again, weaving through bodies, drink in hand, trying to shake it off. He tells himself to get lost in the music, in the blur of voices, but his thoughts spiral, stubborn and sharp. What did Niall say for Harry to give Louis that reaction?

Across the room, a familiar face catches his eye: Kavya, leaning against the wall, scanning the crowd with the same quiet discomfort he feels. Relief washes over him, easing the ache in his chest just enough. He strides over, forcing a friendly look.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Louis says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Louis!” Kavya beams, pulling him into a quick hug. “God, I’m so glad to see someone I actually know.”

“Niall dragged me into this,” Louis explains. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

A faint blush creeps across Kavya’s cheeks as she glances down. “Well… someone brought me along, too.”

“Someone?” Louis echoes. “Come on, spill.”

“My girlfriend,” Kavya admits, eyes scanning the crowd. “She should be back any second, actually.”

Right on cue, another girl weaves through and joins them. Louis freezes for a split second, recognition slamming into him like a punch. Months peel away in his mind—back to that night when he’d felt an ugly twist of jealousy watching this girl chat with Harry during his gig.

Mae’s a lesbian, by the way, Harry had said smugly after Louis gave him a blowie after his performance. But it’s cute that you get all possessive.

“Oh, babe! You have to meet my bandmate,” Kavya says, her smile soft and glowing with affection.

“I’m Mae,” the girl says brightly, her hand slipping into Kavya’s with ease.

“Nice to meet you,” Louis replies smoothly, making sure his voice doesn’t give anything away. He flashes her an easy, genuine smile. “Louis.”

“Oh, I remember!” Mae beams. “I went to your gig. I loved your set, by the way.”

“I can tell,” Louis says, glancing between her and Kavya with a mischievous grin. He wiggles his eyebrows, just enough to make Kavya flush.

“Forgot to mention Louis is an arsehole,” Kavya mutters, rolling her eyes.

Mae just laughs. “He’s right though—I’ve been drawn to guitarists.” She throws Kavya a warm look. “I’m glad I went. My friend, Harry, practically begged me to go. Totally worth it when I got to meet Kav after.”

Louis tries not to let the smile slip.

“Harry?” Kavya cuts in, her brow arching as she flicks a quick look at Louis.

Louis goes rigid, because of course his entire band knows who Harry is. His Harry. The boy who never missed a gig, who sang along to every lyric, who snapped endless photos and told anyone who’d listen how proud he was of “his boy.” The one who always waited side-stage, arms open, ready to pull Louis in first after every show.

Harry probably met Mae after everything fell apart—meaning, she doesn’t know.

“Yeah, Harry, my friend,” Mae says, oblivious to the tense silence stretching around her. “He really wanted to go. And honestly, no wonder—you guys were amazing! I think he’s around here somewhere, actually.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—” Kavya interjects, wanting to save Louis.

But Louis just grins, crossing his arms. “Really? Well, I’d love to say hi.”

Kavya shoots him a confused look, but Louis just shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching toward a smug grin. He watches as Mae rises on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd for the familiar curls Louis knows better than his own reflection.

“Oh, Harry!” Mae calls, waving him over.

Louis turns just in time to see him—broad shoulders cutting through the throng, hair catching the dim light And when Harry finally steps up, Louis feels something sharp twist in his chest.

“Oh! Hi Mae,” Harry says warmly, pulling her into a quick hug. His eyes doesn’t stray from hers. Not once do they flick to Louis.

The deliberate ignorance makes Louis’ blood boil.

“I’ve got to introduce you,” Mae says, oblivious to the tension bleeding into the space between them. “Remember the gig you dragged me to a couple months ago? This is my girlfriend, Kavya.” Kavya crosses her arms, pinning Harry with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He actually looks like he shrinks under it. “And this is Louis.”

“Oh… hello,” Harry says, voice strained.

“Good to finally see you tonight!” Louis exclaims, a fake smile plastered on his face.

“You know each other?” Mae asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah,” Louis says before Harry can open his mouth. “In passing.”

“How’d you meet?” Mae presses. Beside her, Louis can practically feel Kavya vibrating with the urge to shatter the awkwardness, and he’d bet good money Harry feels the same.

But Louis is reveling in it. He shrugs casually. “We go back. Mutual friends, you could say.”

“Oh, like Mitch?” Mae asks.

“Who?” Louis tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth when a quiet, frustrated scoff slips from Harry.

“No, not Mitch,” Harry cuts in, voice clipped.

Harry’s gaze lands on him at last, sharp and assessing, like he’s trying to piece something together, or give a silent warning. 

Louis holds it without flinching, chin lifting just slightly. The heat in his chest flares—not anger, not exactly, but something tight. He’s spent the whole night being invisible, and now Harry is annoyed by a little attention? It feels almost like a game, and Louis is determined not to lose.

“Where’s Mitch, anyhow?” Mae asks. “Haven’t seen him around lately.”

“Oh, Mitch isn’t real,” Louis says.

“Mitch and Sarah went back home for the weekend,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He casts a side glance at Louis, eyes unreadable in the lighting. “Kind of lonely in the flat; I’ve got it all to myself.”

Louis swallows hard, a bitter retort clawing up his throat. What gives him the right to say something like that after ignoring him for hours?

Then it hits—cold and sharp, sliding down his spine. Maybe Harry isn’t saying it for him at all. Maybe it’s for someone else.

“Bummer,” Mae says with a small frown. “He’s a riot.”

“Yeah,” Harry replies flatly. “Well, it’s been great to see you, but I’m going to grab a drink. Go enjoy your night.”

“I’ll come with,” Louis blurts out, a bit too quickly and eagerly.

But before the words have even settled in the air, Harry’s gone. He doesn’t glance back, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t even pretend to wait. Like Louis isn’t worth the pause.

Heat floods Louis’ face, humiliation sharp as glass. He pushes through the crowd, chasing Harry until he catches him by the arm.

“Harry,” he says, breathless, fingers curling in before Harry jerks away as if burned. “Harry!”

“What, Louis?” Harry snaps, spinning around.

The sharpness slices through Louis, leaves him momentarily still. He drops his hand, inhales slowly, trying to cage the anger clawing at his ribs. “What the fuck is up with you?”

“Not here,” Harry mutters.

“No,” Louis says, stepping into his space. “You ignore me all night, won’t even look at me, and now you’re running off again? You don’t get to brush me off like that.”

Harry starts to speak, lips parting, but the words stall the moment their eyes lock. Something shifts, and instead of talking, he just exhales, a slow, heavy breath that feels like surrender. The room vibrates with loud music and chatter, but to Louis, it’s all muffled, drowned out by the weight of the silence pressing between them.

“Just… not now,” Harry says finally, voice tight. “Maybe later.”

He says that, but the sharp edge in his tone makes it clear he wants nothing more than to avoid Louis for the rest of the night. Louis stands frozen as Harry threads through the crowd, weaving past bodies, never sparing him so much as a glance.

Louis stays rooted for a beat too long, the sting sharp enough that he wishes he were drunker—drunk enough to blur the ache clawing at his chest, drunk enough to shrug this off and laugh and find someone else. But he’s not, and the weight of it aches heavily in his gut.

He forces himself through the motions anyway. Smiles at people. Nods through conversations he doesn’t care about. Makes small talk while his eyes keep darting—searching for those curls, for a familiar green gaze that never finds him back.

Each time he comes up empty, the pit in his stomach deepens. He thinks about Niall, the way he was talking to Harry earlier, hushed words and furrowed brows. 

By the time Louis finally spots Harry again, the ache has curdled into something sharp and sour. There he is, in the corner, leaning in toward some blonde with a polite laugh that makes his dimples show. It’s the kind of laugh that Louis’ always thought of as his.

Something ugly twists low in Louis’ gut, heat licking up his spine. He wants Harry’s attention. Wants it so badly it feels like humiliation pooling in his throat. 

And if Harry won’t give it freely, then Louis will drag it out of him.

His gaze sweeps the room, and then it hooks on someone else. Someone he knows well enough after being glued to his side for an hour earlier, flirting in that overeager, try-hard way.

Jackson.

Would it be cruel? Probably. But Louis can’t bring himself to care. Not when all he can taste is the bitter sting of being ignored. Not when Harry’s out there laughing like Louis doesn’t matter.

So Louis lets his morals drop and his jealousy take the wheel.

He’s not drunk—far from it, actually—but he knows the role he wants to play. The bubbly, reckless version of himself that comes out with multiple shots. He takes a breath, slides into the persona like a second skin, and saunters toward Jackson, who’s holding court with a cluster of mates, drink in hand.

“Hi, Jackson,” Louis drawls, layering his voice with a slur that isn’t really there. “Haven’t seen you all night.”

“Louis!” Jackson brightens, surprised and flustered. “Didn’t know you wanted to see me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Louis asks, tipping his head, lashes low. He drifts closer, fingers skimming Jackson’s arm. “I like talking to you. Wanna talk to me?”

Behind him, he can hear Jackson’s mates snicker behind their drinks, one of them clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll give you two some space,” one says before they peel off.

Jackson turns back, flashing Louis a smirk that doesn’t quite hide the flicker of nerves in his eyes. “Well… I wouldn’t mind that either.”

Perfect.

Louis makes a show of it. He presses closer so his chest brushes Jackson’s arm, leaning in like the music volume demands it. His laugh rings high and flirty, his lashes lowered just so. His fingers trail down Jackson’s sleeve, and he lets them linger. When Jackson reciprocates with a hand settling at his waist, Louis knows it’s obvious. Knows it looks like something.

That’s the point.

Even if every laugh feels forced, even if every compliment from Jackson lands flat, Louis plays his role. Because this isn’t about Jackson. It’s about Harry. 

He risks a glance as he throws his head to the side to laugh, and he briefly catches green eyes across the room. Harry’s no longer with the blonde. He’s staring. Directly at Louis. At Jackson’s hands on his waist.

And he looks murderous.

Louis smirks to himself. He decides to push it.

When Jackson starts another rambling story, Louis nods along, adding fake giggles for show. Then, slow and deliberate, he loops his arms around Jackson’s shoulders, pulling him close enough that their faces nearly brush. Jackson freezes, pupils blowing wide as his hands instinctively tighten on Louis’ hips.

Louis knows it won’t last long. Any second now—

“Oh, hey man,” Jackson says, eyes flicking past Louis.

Louis turns, already knowing who it is. Harry stands there, hovering right next to the two of them, a vein sharp in his neck, a dark look in his eyes.

Louis smirks inside and slips easily out of Jackson’s hold, more relieved than he’ll admit.

“We can ignore him, if you want,” Louis says lightly, his hand still resting on Jackson’s bicep. He doesn’t give Harry the satisfaction of eye contact or attention.

Jackson frowns. “You know him?”

“In passing,” Louis responds.

“Come on, Louis,” Harry grits out.

Louis tips his head, voice sweet with venom. “Oh, you want introductions? Sure.” He hooks his fingers around Jackson’s elbow and reels him in. “Harry, this is Jackson. Jackson, meet my friend, Harry.”

Louis knows it’s petty of him to place a large emphasis on the word friend, but it’s worth it to see Harry’s clenched jaw twitch.

“Nice to meet you,” Jackson says, extending a hand.

Harry doesn’t even react to the hand, keeping his arms firmly crossed. “So… when did you two meet?”

“Just today. He’s one of Peter’s mates,” Louis says, leaning into Jackson’s arm with a casual ease he doesn’t feel. “We were chatting about music, what we do, all that. He even said he might come shoot one of my gigs.”

“You do photography,” Harry says flatly, not even breaking into a friendly smile.

“Yeah, I do,” Jackson replies, awkward now as he wipes his unshaken hand on his jeans. A part of Louis feels bad for him.

“Interesting.”

Harry’s stare could cut glass, fixed on Jackson like he’s trying to burn a hole through him. Jackson flicks a glance at Louis, silently begging for backup. Louis sighs.

“I’m feeling a little parched,” Louis says, dragging his fingertips down Jackson’s arm. “Might grab a drink.”

“I can get one for you,” Jackson says quickly, eager to please.

“Would you?” Louis asks, giving his arm a squeeze. “You’re the best.”

Jackson, in return, gives Louis a beaming smile. Louis watches him go, deliberately softening his face into something wistful—just for effect. The kind of look he knows will make Harry’s blood boil.

“I know what you’re doing,” Harry says, eyes locked on Jackson’s retreating figure.

“He’s nice, isn’t he?” Louis says, ignoring him. 

“Yeah. Nice enough that he shouldn’t be anywhere near a devious little brat like you,” Harry shoots back, finally turning to him. His eyes are dark, stormy, jealousy curling through every shade of green.

Louis presses a hand to his chest, feigning a touched expression. “Aww, you always know what to say to make a boy blush.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting so fucking desperate.”

Louis gasps theatrically. “Me? Desperate? I’m just enjoying Jackson’s company. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d even notice me.”

“Is that seriously what this is about?” Harry runs a frustrated hand through his curls, exhaling hard. “I’m sorry, Louis, that I can’t give you my full attention all the time.”

“That’s funny—it seems like you’re fighting for my full attention now,” Louis replies, shrugging. “And who says I need your attention? Jackson is giving me plenty.”

Harry clenches his fist, eyes narrowing. “We both know that’s not what you want.”

Louis lifts his chin, meeting his stare evenly. “Why not?”

“A nice guy like him won’t know what to do with someone like you,” Harry says, stepping closer until the space between them feels suffocating. He looms over him now, and it takes everything in Louis not to buckle under the weight of that look. 

Harry tilts his head, mouth brushing the shell of Louis’ ear, his warm breath scorching down the side of his neck like a brand. “And I think you already know exactly what you need.”

Louis’ breath stutters. His fingers curl tight, nails carving half-moons into his palms as if that might steady him against the way Harry’s words slide through his skin.

Before Louis can respond, movement stops him. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jackson emerging from the kitchen, drink in hand. Louis forces himself to take a step back, slipping his flirty, tipsy mask back on, even as he savors the flash of raw fury on Harry’s face.

“Here, I got you this,” Jackson says, handing Louis a cup.

“Thanks, babe,” Louis purrs, letting his eyelashes sweep up at Jackson, voice light and sultry.

Next to him, he feels Harry tense up. Even though Louis cannot see Harry, he can basically feel the fiery anger radiate off of him. He hides a smirk behind the rim of his drink.

Jackson clears his throat, cheeks flushing. “No problem,” he says quickly. “I’ll let you finish, but—uh—want to dance after?”

“Who says drinking has to stop us?” Louis teases, leaning in, letting the glass hover between their lips. “Oh, you have to try some of this.”

Before he can even gauge Jackson’s reaction, a sharp jostle sends the drink tipping. Cold liquid splashes over Jackson, soaking his shirt, while a streak dribbles down Louis’ own chin. He freezes, startled, tasting the sharp whiskey mixed with the sticky warmth.

His eyes snap to Harry, who’s standing wide-eyed, feigning concern and guilt.

“Oh! Sorry, I was waving to someone I knew,” Harry says. To anyone else, it would sound genuine, but Louis knows his ex well enough to catch the lie. “My bad.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine—I’ll just grab a shirt from Peter’s room,” Jackson stammers, holding the wet fabric away from his skin. His eyes flicker at the drip sliding down Louis’ chin, and he swallows thickly. “Uh… do you need one too? I can grab—”

“That won’t be needed,” Harry interrupts, his grip firm on Louis’ elbow. “I’ll take care of it.”

Louis can’t suppress the smirk tugging at his lips as Harry hauls him across the flat toward the bathroom. He feels a twinge of guilt for Jackson, only left with a sticky shirt and a lot of confusion, but he doesn’t care. This was exactly what he wanted.

Once in the empty bathroom, Harry shoves Louis back against the wall, a little roughly. A soft gasp escapes when his back slams against the tiles, but he barely has time to register the sting before Harry dives in, capturing that gasp with his lips.

The kiss is messy, desperate, teeth and tongues colliding, a tangle of heat and hunger. Louis feels pliable under him, his body almost melting against Harry’s. Every inch of him is alive, responding before his brain can catch up.

The sharp sweetness of alcohol still coats Louis’ lips and chin, and Harry tastes it like he’s starving, lapping it up. Louis moans unabashedly, every touch sending jolts of fire through his body.

“Harry—” Louis chokes out as Harry nips at his bottom lip, pulling a soft whimper from him. “Air—need air—”

Harry ignores him, moving lower, teeth grazing his jaw before sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Louis’ head tips back against the tile with a dull thud, knees threatening to buckle, body aching for more.

“You think you’re so clever, huh?” Harry growls against his throat, hot breath spilling down Louis’ neck. His grip on Louis’ hips bruises, pinning him in place like he wants them fused together.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harry bites harshly at his neck, making Louis cry out, moaning openly as Harry licks over the mark, soothing it with wet, bruising sucks.

“There’s other ways to get my attention, you know,” Harry murmurs, voice rough.

Louis laughs breathlessly. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Harry freezes just long enough for Louis to catch the storm in his eyes—blown and raking over Louis’ face and body like he knows he’s his. Then he’s back, kissing harder, punishingly. Louis surrenders, letting it burn.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Harry pants between kisses, voice ragged.

Louis hums against him, limbs weak, mind a blur. “Got a little guess.”

Harry presses their foreheads together, lips hovering, heavy breaths mingling. He closes his eyes as if trying to calm himself before finally speaking. “Wanna head to mine?”

Louis hesitates, fingers curling in the fabric at Harry’s collar. “Mine’s closer.”

Harry pauses. Louis sees the flicker of surprise in his expression—because they never go to Louis’ place.

Almost as quickly as Louis lets the words slip from his mouth, panic claws at him. He wants to take it back, afraid he’s ruined the perfect edge of the moment. But before his thoughts can form, Harry’s lips are on his again, leaving no room for doubt. And Louis melts into him, letting it happen, all thought gone except for the feel of Harry against him.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Louis’ hands tremble as he fits the key into the lock, the metallic click sounding louder than it should in the stillness. The empty quiet presses down on him the moment they step inside. Their walk back had been silent, both of them acutely aware of how this could change everything.

Harry hesitates just past the threshold of Louis’ bedroom, lingering like a teenage boy after an awkward first date, waiting to seal the deal. The room is dim, lit only by the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the window and the glow of streetlamps outside. Louis doesn’t bother with the lights. Somehow, the darkness feels safer.

Louis clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious in a way he didn’t expect. The space feels hollow, stripped bare. Nothing like the room they once shared—alive, cluttered with guitars, pictures, stacks of records. It looked like love. 

This one looks like nothing at all. Just a bed and four walls. A place to sleep, not to live.

“I know it’s not much,” Louis murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know, I haven’t really… unpacked. Not like I’m in here much anyway, or planning to show it off to anyone—”

“Hey,” Harry says softly. His hands come up to cup Louis’ face, thumbs brushing slow across his cheekbones. “Don’t worry about it. None of that matters.”

Louis exhales, shaky, and lets his eyes fall shut. He melts into the warmth of Harry’s palms, trying to still the nervous flutter in his chest.

“Are you sure you want this?” Harry asks softly, uncertainty threading through his tone.

It’s been so long since Harry asked that question—since either of them had to. All the times past, they just knew. Wanting each other was the only truth that mattered.

Something tightens in his chest. Maybe he should think about this. But the thought of walking away now feels impossible.

“Yeah.” Louis nods. “I’m sure.”

Harry still looks like he might second-guess it, so Louis doesn’t give him the chance. He surges forward, pressing their mouths together with a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

Harry responds like he, too, feels too drawn by the spark that he doesn’t want to think. He kisses Louis deep, slow at first, and then harder, needier, until Louis’ back meets the edge of the mattress and they’re tumbling onto it in a tangle of limbs.

Clothes come off in rushed, uneven movements until Louis feels exposed in a way that goes deeper than being naked. His room suddenly feels too sharp, too small, like it wasn’t built for this. For a split second, he wants to retreat, but then Harry is there, warm and steady, pressing him down, kissing along his jaw, his throat. And God, the way Harry touches him, like he’s trying to memorize every inch, strips away the unease. Louis feels seen, claimed, cherished in a way that terrifies him and steadies him all at once.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy,” Harry groans, cock hot and heavy pressed against Louis’ thigh. “Want you so bad I can’t think.”

Louis shifts, straddling Harry, grinding down until his rim brushes Harry’s length, teasing. His voice is low, taunting. “Then stop thinking. Do something.”

Harry doesn’t need telling twice. His eyes track every movement as Louis reaches into his drawer, pulling out the still-sealed box of condoms. His hands tremble, the weight of the moment catching in his throat, but Harry doesn’t notice—too focused on tearing the foil, slicking his fingers until they shine with lube.

The first push inside makes Louis jolt, breath catching as Harry’s finger slides past the tight ring. He sinks it in slow, stretching him open while Louis squirms in his lap. Harry’s gaze is fixed low, mesmerized, as he slips in another.

“Christ, Lou,” he groans, his voice raw, trembling with restraint. “So fucking tight around me. Can’t wait to feel you choking on my cock like this.”

Louis whimpers into Harry’s shoulder, thighs shaking as he grinds shamelessly against his fingers. “Then stop teasing and fuck me already.”

Harry drags his lips along Louis’ jaw, a smirk curling against the skin. “Not yet. Tell me what you need.” His fist tangles in Louis’ hair, jerking his head back just enough to part his mouth, lips hovering dangerously close. “Say it.”

A third finger pushes in, curling deep, and Louis chokes on a gasp, body seizing with the sharp pleasure. His nails curl into Harry’s shoulders. 

“You,” he whispers, breathless, the word echoing raw in the quiet room.

For a moment Harry stills, struck, then his cock jerks against Louis’ ass, pulsing, desperate. He recovers with a low groan, fucking his fingers harder, scissoring him open, thumb grazing his rim. “Fuck—you’re dripping all over me. You love this, don’t you? Love me working you open, making you a sloppy mess for my cock.”

“Yeah,” Louis gasps, nodding dumbly. “Love when you work me open. All I can think about is your cock splitting me in two.”

Harry’s breath stutters, eyes blazing as he pumps his fingers faster, his other hand gripping Louis’ hair, yanking his head back. “Say it again.”

Louis cries out, shameless. “Your cock—fuck—I need it, Harry. Fill me up, make me yours, ruin me.”

Harry pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, sliding them up to Louis’ mouth. “Suck.”

Louis obeys instantly, lips closing around Harry’s slick fingers, moaning as he tastes himself.

“Good boy,” Harry growls, fumbling a condom onto his cock with one hand while keeping the other tangled in Louis’ hair. He lays back, chest rising hard, guiding Louis’ hips up over him. “Come on. Show me how bad you’ve been needing it.”

The blunt head of Harry’s cock nudges against Louis’ stretched hole, and Louis whimpers, sinking down inch by inch until Harry’s thick cock is buried inside him.

Louis grinds down, circling his hips in slow, deliberate figure-eights, adjusting to the thick stretch of Harry inside him. A shaky gasp leaves his lips, breath trembling at how full he feels. The silver glow of moonlight paints Harry’s skin in a way that makes him almost otherworldly, his curls haloed, his green eyes fixed upward with awe that cracks Louis’ chest open. 

It’s the look Harry used to give him when they were still them, still together.

“Fucking hell,” Harry groans, head falling back. “Look at you, stuffed full of me. You were made for this.”

Louis rocks slowly, the stretch burning. “Made for your cock, Haz. Always have been.”

“Come on, baby,” Harry murmurs, his fingers digging into the swell of Louis’ arse, teasing around his stretched rim. “Go ahead.”

Louis braces his palms against Harry’s chest, fingers curling into firm muscle, before lifting and dropping his hips. The slap of skin is obscene, sharp and lewd, punctuated by Louis’ wrecked moans. He rides harder, thighs straining, using Harry’s chest as leverage. His cock bounces untouched, smearing precome across Harry’s stomach in messy streaks. His noises spill unchecked—gasps, whines, broken moans that grow louder with every bounce.

Harry watches him with half-lidded eyes, lips parted, undone by the vision above him. His hips twitch upward as though he can’t help himself, wanting to take control but holding back. 

“Lou, baby—oh fuck—you feel so good,” he pants, veins standing out on his neck.

Louis whines, thighs trembling as the exertion starts to fog his head, his rhythm faltering. “Harry…”

“I know, I know,” Harry soothes, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of Louis’ thighs. “Tired? Want me to take care of you?”

Louis nods once weakly, and it’s all Harry needs. Strong hands grip his hips, rolling them easily until Louis is flat on his back, Harry still buried deep inside. The practiced move knocks the breath out of Louis, knocks the sanity out of him too, because he loves the way Harry skillfully takes over.

Harry looms above, eyes dark with hunger, spreading Louis’ legs wide to claim every inch of him. Then he’s pounding in, relentless, hips crashing against in a brutal rhythm that has Louis crying out. He clutches at the sheets, then at Harry’s shoulders—at anything to ground himself as pleasure claws through him.

“You’re perfect—fuck—squeezing my cock like you never want to let me go,” Harry growls against his lips, biting at the swollen curve of Louis’ bottom lip. Each thrust nails that spot deep inside, his body jolting helplessly. “Tell me how you feel. Tell me.”

“Harry, I—I—”

I love you.

White heat bursts between their bodies as Louis spills untouched, his release painting Harry’s stomach, his blunt nails raking down Harry’s back. He trembles through aftershocks, oversensitive, clinging desperately while Harry chases his own end, his balls slapping hard against Louis with every brutal thrust.

Louis lets his head fall back, eyes wet, chest heaving, thoughts spiraling into the words he can’t say out loud. Meanwhile Harry drives deeper, grunting, lost in the vice grip of Louis’ body, fucking him like he’ll never get the chance again.

I love you.

“Louis?”

He doesn’t even know where those words came from. Each push, each fire-lighting touch exposes the feelings he’s buried, feelings that weren’t gone during their breakup, just hidden deep inside.

Louis is grateful he didn’t say them aloud. But God, he almost did. What would Harry have said? How would it have changed whatever fragile thing they still shared as exes?

I love you.

“Hey, Lou?” Harry’s voice cuts through the fog. A hand runs through Louis’ hair. Blinking back to the present, he lifts his gaze. Harry’s still breathing hard, sweat gleaming at his temples. There’s a hint of concern in his eyes. “Was it too much?”

Louis realizes then that Harry had finished, tidied up the condom, and now is just holding him there. Usually, Louis gets lost in himself when Harry gets rough. But this time, he was lost in thought.

Harry looks at him, worried, unaware of the words Louis almost let slip—the ones that could have broken the delicate line they are teetering on.

“No,” Louis says at last, shaking his head. “It was… good.”

Harry cracks a smile, a little tentative. “I was a bit rough.”

“It’s alright,” Louis croaks, shuffling closer. “You know I liked it. Come cuddle, make it feel better?”

Harry climbs in without hesitation. As Louis settles against him, a quiet realization hits him: this is the first time they’ve had sex in his bed. Every restless night spent tossing and turning in this bed before wasn’t about the space; it was about the absence of Harry. The thought makes his chest tighten, but even with the echo of those three words in his head, he allows himself to sink into the moment.

“We should probably clean up, baby,” Harry whispers into Louis’ hair, but he still makes no move to get up, instead just holding him close.

“Can we just lie here for a bit?” Louis asks, fingers curling against Harry’s chest. “Just for a second, please.”

The sheets rustle around them, and Louis looks up to meet Harry’s gaze. His ex’s eyes are dark, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. Louis stares at his eyes, trying to study them and make sense of his reaction, but they’re unreadable.

“Okay,” Harry says, nodding slowly. “Just for a second.”

Louis sighs, his limbs exhausted and still breathing heavily from the exertion. He closes his eyes, burying his face in the curve of Harry’s neck, letting the rise and fall of steady breaths and the brush of skin against skin wash over him, pulling him into a fragile sense of safety that he instinctively associates with Harry.

He isn’t sure when exactly he falls asleep. All he knows is that he is content in Harry’s warmth.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Louis wakes up cold.

Sunlight trickles through the open window, momentarily blinding him. His lower back aches in a way that’s more satisfying than painful—a lingering reminder of what he and Harry did last night. He’s sore, but content. Or he would be.

If Harry were still here.

The bed is empty beside him. No firm arms wrapped around his waist. No curls brushing against his cheek. Just cold sheets and the eerie stillness of absence. The duvet has been pulled up neatly to the pillow, so perfectly arranged it’s like Harry was never there at all.

Louis sits up slowly, blinking blearily at the room. Harry’s clothes, the ones they tore off in a rush, are gone. His own are still scattered across the floor, carelessly tossed aside.

Panic creeps in as he reaches for his phone, checks the nightstand, searches for anything—something—that might explain why Harry’s gone. 

There’s nothing.

His eyes drift to the closed door, the one Harry slipped through without a word, and Louis tries not to crumble under the sudden weight pressing against his chest.

It’s the first time Harry’s left in the morning since they started sleeping together.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

At first, Louis makes excuses for Harry. Maybe he left because of an emergency. Maybe he forgot something. There hasn’t been a single day since they started hooking up that they haven’t texted, so this must be an exception, right? Harry wouldn’t just use him like that.

But then hours pass. And then a full day.

Louis could text first, but he doesn’t. Maybe if Harry makes the first move, it’ll prove that what happened meant something. That it wasn’t just sex.

But Harry never does.

All Louis has is the memory of falling asleep with Harry’s arm slung around his waist, their legs tangled, warm skin on warm skin. The reminder that the last time they slept together was in that bed—his bed—and the next morning, Harry was gone. No note. No message. Just Louis, waking up alone, staring at the imprint on the pillow beside him.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel mutually beneficial like it did all the times past.

He feels… used.

Dirty. Discarded.

Like how he felt the night Harry broke up with him.

Liam and Zayn know something’s wrong. They don’t say it outright, but they move around him like they’re tiptoeing across broken glass. Louis can feel himself unraveling, and for once, the silence from his friends almost pisses him off. A part of him wants them to say something, to call him out on how badly he’s falling apart. But the other part is grateful they haven’t.

They’re giving him time. Waiting for him to speak first.

And finally, he does.

“No protest this time?” Zayn asks quietly, placing a steady hand on Louis’ back.

Louis doesn’t answer right away. Just hugs a throw pillow tighter to his chest and stares blankly at the coffee table. “You can say it,” he mumbles. “’I told you so.’”

Liam offers a small, sad smile. “We’re not gonna say that, Lou.”

“I can tell you want to,” Louis replies, sighing loudly. He leans back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “After all, you told me so many times. I told myself so many times. So why am I so surprised that Harry Styles screwed me over, once again?”

Zayn shifts slightly beside him, still quiet, still present. Louis is aware that Liam and Zayn are probably exchanging a look above him, but he doesn’t look up.

“I was falling for him again,” Louis admits. His voice barely breaks the silence. “And I knew better. I fucking knew better.”

Neither of them says anything, so he keeps going. “When we—when we had sex… it was like I could lie to myself for a few hours. Pretend like we still cared. Because our bodies still understand each other. It was the one place that felt safe. Because we had something special, I swear it.”

Zayn’s brows draw together, a frown tugging at his mouth.

“But he used me,” Louis says, sharper now. “He used me to get off. Lured me in with green eyes and old memories and then fucked off the next morning like it meant nothing. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe I was just—” He cuts himself off, voice cracking. “—just something easy. Convenient. Familiar.”

“You’re not,” Liam says gently, like he’s said it before and knows it won’t land but says it anyway.

“I feel so fucking stupid,” Louis says. “I let him back in. Back into my room, back into my bed. And I thought…” He swallows. “I thought maybe that meant something. But it didn’t. It never did.”

He buries his face into the throw pillow, his tears soaking into the fabric. He breathes through his mouth, trying to calm the ache in his chest, but it doesn’t work. The heartbreak carves through him anyway, stealing his breath and forcing out tears. He swears he won’t sob over Harry Styles again, but the tears fall, stubborn and quiet.

Liam exhales through his nose, eyes flashing. “He doesn’t get to do this to you again. You hear me?”

“I should’ve seen it coming,” Louis says, his words choking out of his mouth. “Last time, he had sex with me minutes before he dumped me. That should’ve been enough to make me never touch him again.”

“He used you,” Zayn says. “That’s on him. Not you.”

Louis shakes his head, barely able to breathe through the sting in his throat. “But that’s not the worst part. I don’t—don’t think he meant to. I think some part of him still feels something for me. I know I still love him, but I think he still loves me, too. And I don’t want to let that go.”

Liam shifts closer, his voice gentle but firm. “But if he really loved you, Louis, he’d never make you feel like this.”

Louis swallows hard. He wants to believe that. God, he wants to believe it.

But he keeps replaying every second that Harry made him feel good outside the bedroom. How he supports his music and is a safe place for him to write. How he laughs at Louis’ dumbest jokes and makes Louis feel like he’s the funniest, most electric person in any room. Harry makes him happy—radiantly, stupidly happy.

Even as an ex, Harry is still in his life, and that should be enough. But it doesn’t.

Instead, it makes everything harder. Because Harry’s still around to shatter him, over and over again.

“Should I let him go?” Louis asks, voice small.

Zayn sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t ever want you to feel like this again.”

“And Harry’s the one who’s making me feel like this,” Louis whispers, salty tears spilling into the corners of his mouth. His chest caves with a sob, and he leans into Zayn without a second thought. Zayn pulls him in instantly, arms wrapping around him. “I think I should let him go.”

Saying it out loud doesn’t stop the ache. Louis clings to Zayn, head buried against his shoulder, wishing he could unlove someone with the same ease he fell for him. He still loves Harry. He always has. And some twisted part of him doesn’t want to let go—not because Harry’s been good to him, but because there’s still something sacred in the love itself. Something that makes Louis feel like himself.

He doesn’t know how to exist without it.

“I’ll get some ice cream,” Liam says softly. He runs a reassuring hand along Louis’ back before disappearing into the kitchen.

Louis cries harder. His sobs are quiet but deep, the kind that leave behind a rawness that’ll last for days. He cries like he did the night Harry broke up with him the first time, when he ended things without warning and Zayn was there to put together the pieces.

Louis remembers cursing Harry then, too. For the way he didn’t seem to care while he was ripping Louis’ heart out.

He’s cursing him now. He wants to hate Harry Styles with everything in him.

But he still loves him. That’s the part that ruins everything.

“Never again,” Louis says, the words muffled as they sink into Zayn’s shirt. His tears have soaked through it, leaving a dark, wet patch over Zayn’s chest, but Zayn doesn’t say a word. “Please never let me do it again.”

“I know, I know,” Zayn says softly. “I know, Lou. It’s over.”

It’s one thing implying it, but it’s another thing to hear it so explicitly said. That whatever was going on between him and Harry—the nights together, moments shared, unsaid feelings ignored—are a thing of the past, that Louis has to be free from it. That Louis has to navigate a life without Harry in it.

It’s almost too much. It scratches at every part of him, leaves splinters under his skin, bleeds his heart dry. But somewhere beneath the wreckage, a small part of him whispers that maybe it’s for the best.

“Yeah,” Louis hiccups, throat tight. “It’s over.”

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Louis is good at pretending he doesn’t care. He buries himself in work, classes, songwriting—not that anything inspired comes out lately. He hangs out with Zayn, Liam, and Niall, and pretends not to notice the worried glances they throw his way. Harry’s texts have started up again, but he ignores them. He shuts out every thought of him the second it starts to creep in.

It’s been a week since he’s seen Harry. And he’s fine. Really.

“Do you think the blue’s too harsh?” Zayn’s voice cuts through his daze, and Louis blinks himself back into the present. They’re in Zayn’s room, sprawled out across his bed while Zayn scrolls through mock-ups for a book cover he’s designing.

“Hm?” Louis says, head snapping up. He’s been zoning out more than usual lately.

Zayn gives him an unimpressed look. “The cover. Is blue on blue too much?”

“Oh.” Louis shrugs. “It’s fine. Suits the main character’s inner crisis or whatever.”

“You mean the depression?” Zayn snorts.

“More like the sexual frustration,” Louis mutters, rolling his eyes.

They fall into easy banter—Zayn chatting about work, Louis chiming in just enough to pass as present. He knows exactly what Zayn is doing, keeping him distracted so he doesn’t spiral. And Louis lets him. He’s grateful for the meaningless talk.

It works—until a muffled voice from the hall cuts through their conversation.

“You really have the audacity to show up here after everything you’ve done?” Liam hisses, voice low but sharp.

“Please. Just let me talk to him.”

Louis stills. He knows that voice.

Harry.

“Lou—” Zayn starts, reaching out, but Louis is already on his feet, moving like he’s in a trance.

Out in the hall, Liam stands tall, blocking the doorway, voice tight with restrained anger. Over his shoulder, Louis sees him. Harry.

He looks… wrecked. Eyes rimmed with exhaustion, shoulders slouched, curls a mess like he hasn’t stopped running his hands through them. Behind him, Niall lingers with a grimace, looking like he tried to stop this and failed.

“What the hell are you doing here,” Louis hisses.

Harry stares at him, mouth slightly open. As if he hadn’t expected to actually see Louis here, despite being the one who showed up at his door. As if the sight of Louis knocked all the air out of him, scattered the words he must’ve rehearsed.

“You’re ignoring me,” is all Harry says.

“And the sky is blue, and you’re a fucking bastard,” Louis shoots back. “What else is new?”

“I’d just like it on record,” Niall says, hands raised, “that I did try to stop him.”

Louis refocuses on Harry, who is still staring at Louis like he’s shocked. Louis knows that he doesn’t look great, with his tired posture and pale skin. He crosses his arms, trying to look strong.

Harry swallows thickly. “I think we need to talk.”

Louis scowls. “What makes you think I want to talk to you?”

“That’s what I told him,” Liam mutters. “But the stubborn bastard’s too cock-heavy to tell the difference between being wanted and being unwanted. As usual.”

Harry flinches, but his gaze doesn’t waver from Louis. “Louis, please,” he says softly, eyes searching.

Louis exhales sharply. “Fine. Five minutes.”

“Really?” Zayn blurts, looking at Louis like he’s lost his mind.

Louis shoots him a glare. Zayn goes quiet.

“If that’s what you want, Lou,” Liam says, clearly reluctant. His eyes narrow on Harry. “But I swear, Styles, if you make him even the tiniest bit uncomfortable—”

“Lads,” Louis warns, giving them a look.

Niall sighs and herds Liam and Zayn out of the hallway. Still, both give Harry matching, murderous looks before disappearing into the kitchen.

Left alone in the narrow space, Louis suddenly feels small in front of Harry. The silence is thick, and Harry just stands there, staring at him like he’s still reaching for words he thought he had.

“Did you just come here to stare at me?” Louis snaps, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He shifts under Harry’s gaze—not the usual hungry, heated one he’s used to, but something softer, confused and aching. It makes his skin crawl.

Harry blinks to snap himself out of it. “I—” He sighs, fingers raking through his already-messy curls. “I want to know why you’ve been ignoring me.”

Louis scoffs. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly why.”

Harry’s voice drops. “Is it because I left?”

Louis lets out a dry laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yes, it’s because you left. Without a note, without a text. Nothing. I let you back into my space, into my bed, and you disappeared like I was just some late-night mistake.” He swallows the burn rising in his throat. “I trusted you. And you fucked off like it meant nothing.”

Harry winces. “I know this thing between us is complicated. But I wasn’t trying to use you. I swear, Louis. I still… I still care about you. I just—I had to put myself first.”

“But what about me? Was that really more important than treating me like a human being instead of some one-night stand you regretted the second it was over?”

Harry doesn’t answer. His lips press into a line, his expression tight with guilt.

“Right. Alright, then.” Louis shakes his head and scoffs. “Could’ve saved myself the trouble and gone home with Jackson. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with the emotional fallout.”

It lands hard—he sees it in the way Harry flinches, the tick in his jaw. His hands flex at his sides as if he’s physically holding something back.

“I left because I do care,” Harry finally says, voice taut. “That’s what Niall told me at the party. That we were close to crossing a line, and that night we had proved that.”

A pang aches in Louis’ heart. It’s one thing to think he knew what was said, and another thing to have it confirmed. It doesn’t help the stir in his stomach—if anything, it makes it worse.

Louis clenches his fist. “Oh, that’s rich. Pro tip, Harry—caring doesn’t look like abandoning someone after sleeping with them.”

“You don’t understa—”

“Then tell me, what exactly don’t I understand? Wasn’t it you who kept chasing me? You pulled me back in after I spent months trying to get over you. You promised you could give me what I needed. And what I needed was not to be broken by you again.”

“God, will you just listen to me for a second?” Harry explodes, voice rising. Louis quiets. “I’m sorry, okay? But you can’t keep throwing accusations without giving me a chance to explain. That night felt different. You know it did. Don’t lie to me and say you didn’t feel it too.”

Louis looks away, jaw clenched, throat working to swallow around the knot in it.

“I crossed a line,” Harry continues, softer now. “We both crossed a line. Getting in your bed again—it wasn’t just about hooking up. Not for me. And I think… it wasn’t for you either.”

“So you regret it?”

Harry breathes out slowly. “I regret a lot of things when it comes to us, Lou. But not you. Never you.”

The words hit Louis square in the chest, and suddenly the weight of Harry’s gaze feels unbearable. The ache inside him twists deeper.

“I left because I felt myself falling again,” Harry says. “And yeah, maybe I was a coward. But you made it clear you didn’t want anything serious with me again. I thought leaving was the kindest thing I could do.”

Louis scoffs. “You call that kind?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Harry insists. “I didn’t want to hurt you—”

“You did hurt me!” Louis shouts. “You don’t get to say you care and then walk out like that. You don’t get to show up now and pretend it meant something if you were always going to run.”

“I do care. I’ve cared about you since the moment we met. Since we got together. And despite what you think—since we broke up too. You still mean everything to me, Louis. That’s why I can’t let go.”

“You’re the one who left me, Harry!” 

“Because I thought you were going to leave me!” Harry’s voice breaks, sharp and trembling. “I thought we were both done, Louis. You acted like it didn’t matter. But you meant—you mean the world to me.”

“Then why didn’t you fight for me?”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to!” Harry shouts. His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath, the sound echoing in the silence. His shoulders sag in defeat, but his eyes stay fixed on Louis like they’re his last chance. “I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

The words hang between them like a weight, thick with everything unsaid. The room feels too still, their breaths the only sound.

Louis’ jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides, a dull ache building in his chest, spreading like fire in his gut.

“Leave,” he says, voice low.

Harry steps forward instinctively, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out. “Louis, I—”

“I said leave!” Louis snaps, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to block out the tears threatening to spill.

He doesn’t look, but he hears the noise when the others return. A shuffle of feet, someone—probably Liam—guiding Harry backwards toward the door. There’s a flurry of whispered arguments, muffled protests. Louis can’t make sense of anything, still reeling.

When the door finally clicks shut, Louis drags his hands down his face. His palms and cheeks are dry.

“Louis—”

But he doesn’t respond. He turns on his heel, walks straight into his bedroom, and locks the door behind him.

Liam and Zayn murmur outside for a moment, low and cautious. Then, quiet. They leave him alone in the last place he and Harry had touched.

Louis doesn’t cry. He doesn’t rage.

He just feels hollow.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Louis stares blankly at his sheets, cocooned in his duvet, buried beneath a fortress of pillows. It’s been a day since he kicked Harry out of the flat, and all he feels is… nothing. Not even the sharp sting of loss, just the hollow ache of absence. It settles heavy in his chest, a weight that doesn’t budge.

He lets himself drift until the soft creak of his door jolts him back to the present. A thin line of light spills across the floor, casting two silhouettes in the doorway.

“On with it,’” Louis murmurs, not bothering to look up.

The mattress dips under a new weight, a warm hand curling gently around his calf, rubbing slow, steady circles.

“We just wanted to check in on you, Lou,” Liam says softly.

“I’m fine,” Louis snaps. “God forbid a guy wallows in self-pity for a bit.”

Zayn sucks in a quiet breath. “We haven’t seen you this bad since… well. Since he broke up with you.”

“You can say his name. It’s not like saying Harry three times will summon him.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you like that,” Zayn mutters under his breath.

Liam quickly swats Zayn in the arm. “Stop it,” he hisses. His voice takes on a softer tone. “You’re not okay, Lou. He really got to you this time.”

Louis shrugs, trying to ignore the burn that coils low in his stomach. “It’s not heartbreak. We agreed no strings attached. I should’ve known it was temporary.”

He says it like a joke, but it falls flat. He really should’ve seen it coming. But he wished he could’ve prepared—wished he wouldn’t have been blindsided by Harry Styles and his feelings yet again.

“You never really healed from the breakup,” Liam says, resting a hand on Louis’ back. “This? It’s just fresh heartbreak layered on top.”

Louis exhales, eyes falling shut. “I know. You were right. I never let go. I kept holding on, and now I’m here—surprised that it all caught up to me.”

Zayn’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Why do you think it’s so hard for both of you to let go?”

“Because we’re clinging to memories and feelings that don’t exist anymore?” Louis replies bitterly, the words falling out like muscle memory. He’s heard them before. From Zayn, from Liam, from Niall.

But Zayn shakes his head. “No. Because they still mean something.”

Louis finally looks up, brow furrowed. He studies their faces, waiting for some punchline or tease, but there’s only honesty. He sits up slowly, confusion settling in his chest.

“We haven’t exactly been Harry’s biggest fans since the breakup,” Liam admits. “But seeing him last night reminded us why he was our friend in the first place. He cares. Deeply. He’s passionate, stubborn, and he fights for what he loves.”

Louis exhales sharply. “Except he didn’t fight for me. He didn’t even try.”

Zayn shrugs. “People mess up. But that doesn’t mean he stopped caring. You’re not the only one who hasn’t moved on, Louis. He’s still caught up in it too. And when you two were together? It wasn’t just something—it was real. That kind of connection doesn’t just disappear.”

Louis runs a hand through his hair, the knot in his stomach tightening. “So what? I’m supposed to be the one crawling back?”

Liam snorts. “Please. You’ll both be crawling. It won’t be pathetic if it finally gets you somewhere.”

“How do you even know he feels the same way?”

“Because I know, for a fact, that Niall is having the exact same conversation with Harry right now,” Zayn says simply. Louis stares at him blankly. “What, did you really expect for us to not convene before we decided to try to get the parents back together?”

“We know it’s been hard on you as a single mum,” Liam adds, clapping him on the back. “Zayn and I are handfuls at time.”

Louis laughs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “You sure you won’t be mad?” he asks, voice small.

Zayn gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Since when do you care what we think?”

“Since you started being right.”

The three of them fall quiet. Louis looks between them—his two best friends who’ve been there through all the mess, all the fallouts, and are still sitting beside him, steady as ever.

“We’re not pretending this is simple,” Liam says, voice low but firm. “It’s not black and white. Harry’s not a villain. He’s just hurting just like you. But we trust you, Lou. We trust you to know what’s best for yourself.”

Zayn nods. “And more than anything, you deserve to find out what that is.”

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

Walking up to Harry’s flat feels like déjà vu.

He thinks back to earlier that year, just before term started—that night when he was out with friends and Harry was blowing up his phone, practically begging him to come over. Back then, whether it was for a shag or just to waste the night together, Louis would show up with a knot in his stomach, pretending he was fine. Pretending he wasn’t always wanting more.

Now, he doesn’t have to pretend. Now, he’s here to make it right.

He knocks once, twice, trying to steady the nerves buzzing in his veins. He takes a breath, ready for Harry—

But it’s not Harry.

A man with dark hair and tired eyes answers, eyeing Louis like he can’t quite figure out why anyone would come to their run-down flat. Louis knows him instantly.

“You’re real,” Louis blurts out before he can stop himself.

Mitch blinks. “What?”

“I thought you were—never mind. Is Harry home?”

Mitch narrows his eyes, suspicion written all over his face. “Don’t think so. And if you really want to see Harry, maybe talk to him yourself—”

Louis plants a hand on the door before it can close. “Please. I just need a second of his time.”

“Who’s at the door?” Harry’s voice drifts from inside, and in Mitch’s moment of distraction, Louis slips past him.

His pulse spikes when Harry steps out of the kitchen, barefoot, curls rumpled, eyes shadowed with fatigue—like Louis isn’t the only one who’s been wrecked by the past week. Harry freezes when he sees him, eyes widening.

For a beat, neither speaks.

“Harry,” Louis breathes.

Harry just stares, lips parting. “What are you doing here, Louis?”

“Oh,” Mitch says, eyebrows raising. “This is Louis? Damn, no wonder you’re still hung up on him.”

“Thanks?” 

Harry drags a hand over his face, sighing deeply, sounding already worn down. “Louis, I don’t know why you’re—”

“I need to talk to you,” Louis cuts in. “I know I shoved you out when you tried to talk to me, and I’m sorry for that. But I’ve done a lot of thinking. And there’s still so much I need to say—about us.” His gaze locks on Harry’s, then flicks over to Mitch, who is very clearly enjoying himself. “Alone, preferably.”

Harry glances at Mitch with a silent cue.

Mitch groans like they’ve just interrupted the best part of his show. “Fine, I’ll spend the night at Sarah’s.” He grabs his coat and bag, jabbing a finger at them as he heads for the door. “Work it out this time. And for the love of God, please don’t have sex on the couch again.”

The door clicks shut, leaving a hollow quiet in the flat.

Louis looks at Harry, who just stands there—tired, guarded, like he’s bracing for impact or already ready to surrender.

“I’m really hoping you’ll hear me out,” Louis says, clearing his throat.

Harry scoffs. “Funny. When I tried to do the same, you wouldn’t give me the chance.”

“I know.” The guilt feels heavy in Louis’ chest. His fingers twitch toward Harry but stop short. “I’ve thought it through, and I realized something: I still care about you. Deeply. And I don’t want to let this go.”

Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper. “You accused me of using you.”

Louis swallows thickly. “I was wrong. But we can talk about this now—really talk. About us, what went wrong. Maybe even fix it.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, Louis. That’s not going to work.”

“Why not? We both admitted we’re falling again. If we’re on the same page and willing to work, why not let ourselves feel it?”

“You’re confusing past feelings with present tense.” Harry’s face contorts like the words taste bitter. “Just because we loved each other—”

“I love you,” Louis blurts out. 

Harry freezes, mouth parted in shock.

“Present tense,” Louis presses, voice firm. “You left because you thought you were protecting me from caring about you. But it doesn’t matter—I still love you. I’ve loved you since the day we broke up.”

“No, you didn’t,” Harry says, shaking his head like he’s trying to convince himself.

“What do you mean, I didn’t?” Louis asks, stepping closer. “God, Harry, you were the world to me. You still are. That day when we broke up, it felt like my heart was being shattered. I still love you now.”

“But I didn’t know that,” Harry whispers, voice cracking. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” 

Louis’ mouth goes dry. “What?”

“I told you I loved you,” Harry says. “Over and over. When we were in bed—I said it when I was touching you, when I was inside you, almost every time I moved. I said it when I came. And you… didn’t say it back.”

Louis tries to think back on that night, which is difficult because he’s already tried so hard to lock it away. The memory resists, slippery and dim, drowned in the sound of his own ragged moans, the feel of Harry’s cock pounding him senseless. He remembers the heat, the sweat, the helplessness—but not his words. Maybe there hadn’t been any.

When he finally looks up, Harry’s gaze has dropped, as if the weight of Louis’ silence still crushes him. His green eyes are slightly wet with tears.

“I… I was overwhelmed,” Louis says, reaching for Harry’s hand. “It wasn’t intentional. I’m not always vocal during sex unless I’m shouting, so I didn’t realize I hadn’t said it. But if I’d known what it meant to you… I would have. Every single time.”

His chest feels tight as he watches Harry—sees the way his lashes lower, the way his throat works as he swallows hard. 

“I really fucked up,” Harry says, rubbing at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. His voice cracks on the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have broken up with you after… after using you like that. God, I shouldn’t have broken up with you at all. We should’ve talked it out. Worked it out.”

The guilt in Harry’s tone makes Louis’ own heart ache. There’s a rawness there, a confession that makes him want to wrap Harry up and never let go.

“We still can,” Louis says, cupping Harry’s cheek. “We both made mistakes. But I want to try again.”

Harry’s eyes search his, soft but wary. “Try us again?”

“Yes.” Louis nods, resolute. “I want to be with you, Harry. I promise we won’t hurt each other this time.”

Harry’s breath hitches, like the words have knocked the wind out of him. Louis’ heart pounds so hard it’s all he can hear.

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asks, voice unsure.

Louis just nods in response, closing his eyes and leaning it. The warmth of Harry’s lips against his feels like a coming home.

The kiss starts slow, like they’re reacquainting themselves with each other’s mouths. It’s nothing like the stolen, frantic kisses of the past months. This one is deliberate, every press of lips an apology and a promise. 

Harry’s hands cradle Louis’ face, tilting his head just enough to deepen the kiss without rushing it. But Louis still aches for more, fingers curling into Harry’s shirt, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I can almost hear your thoughts,” Harry murmurs against his mouth. “What’s going through your mind?”

Louis closes his eyes, letting the touch sink deep, settling in a place inside him that’s been empty for too long. For once, he’s allowed to let the touch linger without any hint of guilt or regret. Just the love that he knows is behind the gesture. 

“Take me to bed, Harry,” he whispers. “Show me how you love me.”

Harry’s eyes go wide, lips parting and closing again like he’s lost the ability to form words. “What?”

“I said,” Louis murmurs, tugging lightly at the curls at his nape, “I want you to take me to bed.”

“But won’t that make this more confusing?”

“It’s already confusing,” Louis says with a short, breathless laugh. “But I want this. I want you. I want to prove to you that this is real.”

Harry’s hand slides to the side of Louis’ throat, thumb brushing over his pulse. Louis leans into it instinctively, melting into the familiar, gentle hold.

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” Harry says softly.

“I know,” Louis whispers. “But I want to.”

Harry doesn’t answer right away—he just scoops Louis up, strong hands under his thighs, and starts toward the bedroom. Louis hooks his arms around Harry’s neck, holding him close. He’s carried Louis like this before—nights when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other; before the breakup, giddy with love, and after the breakup, pretending it meant nothing. 

Only this time, Louis knows it isn’t. This time, it’s everything.

Harry sets him on the bed as though he’s something fragile, precious. Then he’s there with him, bracketing Louis’ body without crushing him, hands moving with quiet certainty. Fingers trace over skin, coaxing clothes away piece by piece until Louis is bare beneath him, heat blooming everywhere Harry’s touch lingers. Louis meets his gaze through heavy lids, chest rising and falling, skin prickling under the weight of that look.

The kiss starts soft—unhurried, savoring—but it doesn’t stay that way. Hunger builds, mouths parting, breathing each other in. Even when Harry reaches to grab lube, it stays that way. It feels right.

Harry’s hand slips lower, between Louis’ thighs, opening him with a careful, deliberate rhythm that still thrums with need. Louis yields easily, hips tilting, every drag of Harry’s fingers pulling a soft sound from him. Harry’s breathing is uneven now, eyes locked on Louis like he’s committing every reaction to memory.

When Harry reaches for the bedside drawer, pulling out a condom, something twists in Louis’ chest. Louis catches his wrist.

“I haven’t been with anyone else since the breakup,” Louis says, biting his lip.

Harry’s mouth curves up, eyes sparkling. “I haven’t either.” 

Louis blinks. “You haven’t?”

“A bit hard to, when I’ve been desperately in love with you this entire time,” Harry says. “God, Lou… no one else even crossed my mind. It’s you. It’s only ever been you.”

A broken sound slips out of Louis, his chest loosening as relief floods through him. Dirty talk was one thing, but hearing it confirmed like this makes his ribs ache with how right it feels. He doesn’t even know why he let Harry go in the first place.

Harry presses in, slow and unrelenting, holding Louis’ gaze like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. Every inch burns, stretches, claims. Louis’ lips fall open on a gasp and Harry leans in, their foreheads touching, breaking him apart.

When Harry bottoms out, they both go still, breathing ragged against each other’s mouths. Louis feels him everywhere—inside, around, through him—so consuming it’s hard to think. He closes his eyes, letting the heat and weight of Harry bare inside him throb in time with his own pulse.

“Alright, baby?” Harry asks, his voice rough and low.

“I can feel you,” Louis gasps, guiding Harry’s hand down the heat of his stomach until it rests over the small, obscene swell where Harry’s cock fills him from the inside. “Right here.”

“God…” Harry’s eyes squeeze shut. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Break me apart,” Louis breathes, high and desperate, arms tightening around Harry’s neck. “Make me yours.”

Something darkens in Harry’s gaze, and then he moves. Slow at first, deep enough that Louis feels every ridge, every drag. Each forward snap pushes him higher up the mattress, pulls sighs from his throat. Louis hooks his ankles behind Harry’s back, chest pressed to chest, mouths brushing, the air between them humid with panting.

Gradually, pace builds. Harry’s hips slam forward and he groans against Louis’ ear. Louis rolls his hips in time with him, chasing every thrust, the slap of skin on skin sharp and intoxicating.

It feels perfect. It feels right.

“I love you,” Harry breathes, still moving, eyes locked to his. “I love you so much.”

Louis’ breath catches. “I love you, too,” he chokes out, tightening his hold around Harry’s neck, inhaling the salt of his skin, the heat of his sweat. Every thrust hammers into his prostate, pulling helpless cries from his mouth. “God, Harry, I love you, too.”

The words keep spilling, mindless and raw, even as Harry crushes their mouths together, their panting breaths mingling when kisses turn too clumsy to keep.

“God, baby, you’re perfect,” Harry groans, gaze glazed as he drives harder, faster, each broken sound Louis makes spurring him on. “Just for me.”

He shifts his hips, angling so the blunt head of his cock grinds against Louis’ prostate. Louis gasps, back arching, body molding tighter around him. Harry’s always known exactly how to ruin him, and he’s relentless, hitting that spot again and again until Louis is shaking, whimpering into his shoulder, nails dragging down his back.

“Harry,” Louis whines, voice breaking.

“I know, baby,” Harry grunts, never slowing. “I’ve got you.”

It should be impossible for Louis to come untouched, but with Harry it never is. A few more brutal thrusts and the knot in his gut snaps, pleasure ripping through him as he spills hot between them with a high, choked cry, eyes squeezing shut against the rush.

When he blinks them open, dazed, Harry’s looking down like Louis is something priceless—eyes dark, lips parted, breath unsteady. Louis’ chest aches with it.

“Come on,” Louis says, fingers tangling in his hair. “Fill me up.”

Harry lets out a strangled sound, hips snapping forward in sharp, desperate bursts. Louis is already trembling from his last orgasm, nerves overstimulated and buzzing, but he clings to Harry and lets him chase it. Then Harry’s spilling inside him with a cry of his name, hips stuttering as heat floods deep into Louis, warm and claiming.

“Was that okay?” Harry asks softly, voice almost unsure, arms locking around him like he might vanish.

Louis huffs a small scoff, eyes crinkling. “What do you think?” he responds with a bright laugh.

Harry’s mouth tips into something that’s more awe than smile. “God, I missed that.”

“Missed what?”

“Your laugh. Your smile.” His thumb brushes Louis’ damp fringe back from his forehead, the touch almost reverent. “You.”

Louis’ heart flutters, the weight of those words settling warm and heavy in his chest. He lets them close the space until their foreheads touch, breathing in the heat between them. Harry’s warmth radiates off him, steady and quiet, and Louis sighs into it.

“I love you,” Harry whispers, fingertips trailing light patterns up and down Louis’ arm. “I always have. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder for us.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Louis says, voice low but certain. “And I never stopped loving you. We can make it work.”

Harry’s eyes go glassy, lips parting to speak, but no words come. Instead, he cups Louis’ jaw and kisses him slow, deep—like an oath, like he’s trying to brand the promise into both of them. Louis feels it in every drag of their mouths, every press of Harry’s hands: he means it.

“Will you stay?” Harry asks after a long breath, fingers brushing down Louis’ bare sides, leaving sparks in their wake. His green eyes search Louis’ blue, soft and pleading. “Through the morning?”

Louis just looks at him, at the rawness in his expression, the flushed skin, the messy hair sticking to his temples, the quiet beauty of someone stripped bare in every way. His.

“I’ll stay with you as long as you want,” Louis whispers, meaning every word. If Harry said forever, he’d mean that too.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆

a few months later…

“Haz, love,” Louis says, playfully tugging Harry’s collar away, trying to detach Harry’s lips from his neck. “I’m going to be up soon. No marks.”

“My talented, gorgeous, sexy boyfriend made it to the final round of the Battle of the Bands,” Harry mumbles, kissing over the spot he just bit, soothing it with his tongue. “And it’s going to lead to so many great opportunities that he deserves.”

“Just a feature on the uni radio,” Louis says, shaking his head.

“Which anyone has access to hear,” Harry replies, pulling Louis in tighter. “Baby, you need to learn how to take a compliment. I’m proud of you. You deserve this. And besides—” he leans in, breath hot on Louis’ ear, “—you look absolutely fuckable in those jeans, and I haven’t even seen you under the stage lights yet.”

Louis sighs deeply, though his stomach still flutters. “You know just the things to say to kill the mood.”

Harry snorts. “Your little ‘I don’t care’ act is cute now, but I know you. You’re gonna be screaming for it later, begging for praise—”

“You’re insufferable,” Louis mutters, but he’s grinning, leaning in to kiss Harry once more.

A knock sounds on the door. “You two done defiling the supply closet?” Niall’s voice calls from the other side.

Louis rolls his eyes and groans. “Let’s get out of here before he comes in and ruins the mood even more.”

They step out, slightly flushed but composed—at least until they’re met with the knowing looks of Liam, Zayn, and Niall standing a few feet away, amused looks on their faces. Louis scowls, fixing the collar of his shirt and attempting to style his hair into something presentable.

“About time!” Niall exclaims. “I didn’t know it takes that long to take a call.”

Louis rolls his eyes in response, ignoring the knowing look his friends give him. Next to him, Harry just laughs, greeting the rest of the group standing there.

“Saved you a drink, H,” Liam says, handing Harry a beer.

Harry gasps dramatically, clasping a hand over his chest. “You’re a godsend, Li.”

It took a bit, but eventually, Liam and Zayn let Harry back into the fold. Louis had worried it would always be tense, always be awkward. But it wasn’t that bad. It took time, but Harry was integrated back into the group. Louis didn’t have to play middleman forever, and now, seeing Harry joke around with the whole friend group again almost feels like how it used to be.

Louis lets out an indignant noise. “What, not one for me?”

“You said no drinking before gigs,”  Zayn accuses, bumping Louis playfully in the shoulder. “Said it affects your voice and what-not.”

“I might need it tonight,” Louis mumbles, rubbing his arms. “I feel like I’m going to implode.”

Harry sends him a sympathetic look, squeezing his hand. Louis lets out a shaky sigh, eyes downcast.

“Well, that’s our cue to leave before we witness a full meltdown,” Zayn announces, pushing off the wall. “We’ll find a spot in the crowd. And save you one too, H.”

“Break a leg, Lou,” Liam says, squeezing Louis’ shoulder as they pass.

“Don’t fuck up,” Niall adds with a grin, earning a glare from Harry.

Once they’re gone, Louis exhales shakily. Harry gently tugs him by the belt loop, pulling him in.

“You’re going to do absolutely amazing, baby,” he says, soft and steady. “You’ve worked so hard for this. I know it’s scary, but you’re not alone. I’ll be right out there, and no matter what happens, I’m proud of you. You’ve already won.”

Louis looks up at him, eyes soft. “You think so?”

Harry leans in, their foreheads touching. “I know so.”

“Tommo, we’re up in five!” Corey calls from behind the curtain.

“I’ll be there in a sec!” Louis shouts back. He turns to Harry again, reaching up to card his fingers through Harry’s curls. “I’m just being dumb. I still get nervous.”

Harry smiles, brushing a hand down Louis’ back. “It means you care. Just remember why you’re doing this. For the music. For yourself. And maybe a little bit for me, too.”

Louis lets out a shaky laugh. “Maybe a lot for you.”

Because it’s true. Ever since they got back together, things have been different, for sure, but better. Harry didn’t fix everything, but he reminded Louis why he loved music in the first place. Gave him the push to chase after it, to write again, to care again.

Their relationship isn’t perfect. They still argue, still fumble through misunderstandings sometimes, but they’re better now. They talk through things. They listen. They’ve promised not to let silence or pride ruin them again.

Louis believes in himself now. He believes in them.

“Louis!” Brynn shouts, voice urgent.

“Gotta go, love,” Louis says, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s lips. “See you after?”

“You’ll see me in the crowd,” Harry mumbles, brushing his cheekbone. “Go kill ‘em up there.”

Louis leans in for one final kiss, the kind that melts through his chest and settles deep in his bones. Harry’s always been able to calm him like this, without even trying. It’s safe and perfect, and he lets himself get lost in it, feeling the nerves disappear from his bones.

“Louis!”

“Coming, coming!”

Louis turns back one last time. Harry mouths, I love you.

His heart fluttering rapidly, Louis mouths back, I love you, too, and with that, he disappears through the curtain.

The crowd is buzzing. The lights are warm. His bandmates are tuning up beside him. The nerves are still there, but this time, they don’t drown him. Because for the first time in a long time, Louis believes in himself. He believes in the songs he’s written. He believes in second chances.

And with Harry in the crowd—his muse, his chaos, his soft place to land—he’s ready to be heard.

⋆ 𖤐˚｡⋆